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The hotel room is massive, with vaulted ceilings and a New York City Skyline view. I did my interview at a polished oak wooden desk that looked like it would chastise me for putting my feet on it. The bed is soft, with floral-scented downy pillows. I can’t wait to stay here for another night, but I also hope Lyndsey will be with me.
We’ve been on the road for six weeks, and this is our first day off.
I change into a pair of track shorts and a t-shirt, mentally thumbing through my options for the day. I knock on Lyndsey’s door and see if she wants to go for a run in Central Park.
Her rooms down the hall; when I knock, she answers, wearing yoga pants that accentuate her curves and a sports bra.
“I was gonna see if you wanted to go for a run?”
“In Central Park?” she replies. “I was just going to see if you wanted to join me.”
“Well fuck, we’re fully telepathic now,” I say.
We walk to the park, and I slip my fingers through hers. For a moment, we feel normal. We’re just another couple going for a run. Then, a paparazzi appears like a whack-a-mole.
“Vince! Vince! Who’s this? What are you doing?”
“This is Lyndsey, and we’re going for a run, you shithead!” I growl. I know everyone needs to work for a living, but I’m significantly less sympathetic to people who pay their rent by selling other people’s details to tabloids. I’m a person, too.
Violet hates loud noises and flashing lights. When I first brought her home, she hid under my bed for a week. I can deal with people being assholes, but when they come for my dog and the people who are important to me, I fight back.
“Lyndsey! Who are you?” the paparazzi continue.
“I’m his tour manager!” she yells back, shooting him a steely glare.
“You look pretty cozy for a manager,” the paparazzi taunts.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I grab his cyclops-eye of a camera with my free hand and smash it onto the ground. I stomp on it with my running shoe. The glass crunches under my feet.
“Fuck off,” I snarl.
“Hey, man! I needed that!”
“Well, get a fucking new one, and stop badgering people with your invasive bullshit questions,” I reply.
The paparazzi scramble around on the ground for his broken camera, and Lyndsey and I take the chance to run for it.
“Sorry,” I say when we’re finally out of his earshot.
“No worries. I mean, it comes with the territory, right?” Lyndsey asks, trying to be sympathetic.
“Yeah, but it shouldn’t have to. No one wants to know when their dentist sees someone new,” I say.
Lyndsey shrugs. “I mean, Dr. Heimann at Pasadena Dentistry’s a catch, but I know what you mean. There’s a lot less mythology surrounding other professions,” Lyndsey says. I laugh humorlessly and feel a wave of relief as I see the green expanse of Central Park in the distance.
“But let’s not let those assholes ruin our day,” Lyndsey says. We walk into the entrance of the park and start stretching. I watch Lyndsey’s body, all sensuous lines and curves, as she stretches. She’s beautiful.
But she takes advantage of my distraction, “Race you!” she calls before darting off onto the trail. I follow her, but by the time I catch up, I’m panting.
“Unfair!” I say.
Lyndsey laughs. “You need to realize that you can stare at my ass after we work out,” she teases.
“Were you trying to teach me a lesson?” I ask.
“Maybe. Did it work?”
“No.” I slap her ass and take off in a sprint, leaving Lyndsey in the dust. We spend the rest of the morning jogging and observing a coterie of New Yorkers.
