by Alexis Angel
“He saved my life, I’m telling you! There was a train coming and there I was, on the subway tracks and I’m about to die and then, he’s next to me and throwing me out of the tracks; it was amazing!”
“But they arrested him,” Ashley points out. “He’s got to be some kind of a criminal. Or bad guy. Or something.”
I shrug. “He said he was an outlaw, but c’mon, he was wearing fucking Polo when this happened. No outlaw wears Polo.”
It would be awesome if he actually were an outlaw—finally, someone exciting to date! But I don’t share this observation with Ashley. She just doesn’t get it, her and her CEO fiancé.
God, save me from suits.
“But anyway, they arrested him for jumping the turnstile. I mean, what if he’d followed the law? I’d be dead right now. Dead! If this goes to trial, I’m going to testify for him. It’s the least I can do. I could be dead!”
Ashley looks at me skeptically and I can tell she thinks she isn’t getting the whole story, but before she can argue with me further, the front door of the courthouse opens and here comes Mr. Polo Outlaw himself.
Okay, I know I said that I don’t want a suit, but one quick up-and-down look confirmed that I did want a man in Brooks Brothers slacks. God, he was sexy. It really is too bad he isn’t an outlaw.
A tribal tattoo is showing beneath the edge of his sleeve and I find myself wondering how far up the tat goes. Across his pecs? Over his back? Do I get to watch him lift weights and admire the tattoo dancing across his skin when he does?
I find myself salivating for more than just the salad I just ate for lunch.
“Well, look at the time!” Ashley says, ostensibly looking at her watch. “I better run!” And then she’s heading down the street, back to her Maserati.
Mr. Outlaw looks back at me and grins. “She’s subtle.”
“As subtle as a fireworks display,” I agree drily.
And then we’re just standing there, looking at each other and I’m a little thrown off because I realize that I don’t really know what to say to him. “Thank you” didn’t seem to be enough.
“It’s a nice day today and I’ve been cooped up for a bit. Want to walk with me?”
Walk with this sex god? Yes, please!
84
Diesel
“So what’s your name?” I ask as we wander down the street and around the corner. This part of Manhattan isn’t the prettiest to look at, but whatever. The girl walking next to me is all the scenery I need.
“Lisa Boltiador,” she says. “And thank you. Thank you so much for saving me. I've never been so terrified in all my life and I’m sorry you got in trouble over it. I’ll pay for your legal fees and testify at your trial and—”
“No need,” I tell her. God, my father would laugh himself into a coma if he heard someone offering to pay for my legal fees. Since when did Midas need help paying a bill? “It’s all taken care of. My lawyer already came in and convinced the cops that saving a beautiful woman’s life isn't a crime.”
She looks at me, blushing, and I nod to myself. Yup, just like putty. I’ll have her panting and begging for more in minutes. Women love flattery—every last one of them. Lisa Boltiador is no exception.
“So what’s your name?” she asks. “I have to know the name of the person who saved my life.”
“Diesel.”
“What?” She comes to a full stop and stares at me. “That's not your name.”
“Sure it is!” I say. Not only is Lisa sexy as fuck, she’s also fun to tease. What a sweet combo.
“Let me see your driver’s license,” she demands, holding out her hand.
Fuck. I reach into my back pocket and pull it out of my wallet.
“I told you,” she crowed, staring at my god-awful driver’s license. I’ve never met anyone who looks good in those mug shots they insist on taking. “It’s Carlton Caldwell. Oh my god, I've never heard such a white boy name in all my life!” She’s laughing as she hands the license back to me.
I liked it better when she was oohhhiiinng and awwwwiiinnggg over my compliments.
I shove the license back into my wallet. “Well, obviously, no one actually names their kid ‘Diesel,’” I told her as we started to walk again.
“According to my Kindle, a lot of parents name their kid Diesel,” she countered.
“Are you trying to tell me that you read those naughty bad boy novels on Amazon?” I’m shocked she’s admitting this. Most girls liked to pretend that their friends did, but not them.
“Oh hell yeah,” she says with a grin. “And I’m waiting for my own Diesel to arrive. A real Diesel.”
“So other than changing my legal name to Diesel, what would make me into a ‘real’ outlaw?” I ask as we cross another street. This walk has gone on WAY longer than I’d intended, but I don't care. It’s fun to banter with Lisa. Not usually something I care about with the women I fuck. Long legs? Check. Big tits? Check. Humor? Never really mattered to me much. Laughing in bed isn’t really my thing.
But with Lisa? She’s intriguing me with her quick mind and her even quicker mouth and I’m not ready for this walk to end. Yet.
“Well, first off, where do you live?”
“Upper East Side.”
“Condo?”
“Yeah.” I’m not really liking where this is going, but I can’t lie to her ‘cause with any luck, she’ll be joining me in the bedroom of that Upper East Side condo real soon.
“Your name is Carlton Caldwell, you live on the Upper East Side in a condo, and you wear Polo shirts,” she ticks off on her fingers. “Ever heard the saying, ‘Three strikes, you’re out?’ I’m pretty damn sure you’re no outlaw.”
“But are you sure?” I ask her, taunting her. “You won’t know for sure unless you have dinner with me. Just think, your chance to go on a date with your very own real-life Diesel. Three days from now. I’ve got some shit I have to take care of, and then I’ll be back in town. Will you be here?”
We’ve circled back around and are in front of the courthouse again. Hesitating for a moment, Lisa finally nods. I pull out a business card that simply has an embossed phone number on it. “Text your address to this phone number,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at 8:00.”
My driver, Antoine, opens the door to the Rolls Royce at the curb and I slide in, rolling down the window as I close the door. She leans on the windowsill. “No outlaw has a business card,” she points out. “Or a Rolls. Or a driver.”
Antoine starts the car and it purrs as he waits for me. “Actually, I’m pretty sure all outlaws have drivers,” I point out. “After all, who’s going to drive the getaway car?”
And I left her standing there on the curb, staring after me, mouth hanging open, and fuck, I love getting the last word in. With Lisa, I have the distinct feeling I shouldn’t expect to always be able to, but I’m going to enjoy every time I manage it.
“To the clubhouse,” I tell my driver and then settle back into my seat. I have some shit I need to clear off the table.
85
Lisa
I wipe the sweat off my brow. God, that was an amazing workout. How is it that the CrossFit people always know which buttons to push, to make me just absolutely sweat my ass off? Becca and Ashley come up beside me and we walk out the front doors and into the fading evening light.
“So,” Becca asks as we stand on the curb, waiting for our Uber to show up, “have you heard from Mr. Sexy Outlaw lately?”
“No. We’re supposed to go on that date on Wednesday night, but I haven’t heard anything from him since yesterday.”
Not, of course that I have been checking my phone obsessively all day long to see if he’d called or texted me. I’m not desperate.
I have, however, checked occasionally…as long as the definition of “occasionally” is every five minutes. That, I’ve done.
I pull out my phone and check again. Nothing.
“He said he was going out of town for three days, so that’s probably why,” I say confid
ently.
“And wherever he’s going, they don’t have cell service?” Ashley asks with a cocked eyebrow.
I ignore that question. It was the same one that had been haunting me all day and quite frankly, I didn’t like the implications, so straight into the ignore category it went.
“God, the Uber is taking forever to get here,” Becca complains, looking up and down the busy street as if that’d magically summon the vehicle to us. She always was impatient.
Unlike you? a voice inside my head asks.
I ignore that question too.
“Have you Facebook stalked him?” Ashley asks, apparently also onboard with the Ignore Becca’s Impatience plan.
“No,” I say wonderingly, “I haven’t. Let’s do that right now!” I dig back into my purse, my heart racing with excitement again. I cannot believe I didn’t think to do that before now. Leave it to Ashley to think of these sorts of things.
“Okay,” I say, hitting the search button to bring up the search screen, “let’s see what Facebook has to say on the topic.”
I type in Carlton Caldwell and even, I’ll admit, Diesel Caldwell. Do outlaws have last names?
But, nothing.
How is that even possible?? Who doesn’t have a Facebook page? I scrunch up my nose, suddenly unsure about Diesel the Outlaw. What the fuck could we have in common if he didn’t even bother to have a Facebook page? I bet he doesn’t even have an Instagram account. I pull up the Instagram app and check.
Nope.
Wow. It’s like he’s from the 1980s or something.
“You should google him,” Becca suggests, still staring up and down the street of vehicles whizzing by, car horns honking…and not an Uber in sight. “He has to be on Google.”
“Oh, I like that,” I say, switching apps. “C’moooonnnnn Google. What do you have?”
I start thumbing down the list of results, scanning as I go. “Caldwell Corporation,” I mumble to myself. “God, what a boring name.”
Becca waits for the Uber, staring at her screen willing it the car to come faster while Ashley and I stare at my screen, reading through the articles.
“He’s a real estate guy?” I ask, disappointed. I want a caveman. I want a Viking. I want a man. I don’t want some guy who makes real estate deals while sipping high-end Scotch with a bunch of old white guys.
Like, ugh.
“Oh my god, the Caldwell family?” Ashley asks and starts laughing. “They vacay with the Kennedys, for fuck’s sakes. Every time those two families go to Martha’s Vineyard together, it hits all the tabloids. That’s your outlaw?”
I swear to god, if she’s starts crying with laughter, I’m gonna punch her in the nose. Or at least order decaf the next time I buy her coffee. She did that once to me, and I almost died that day.
She’s still laughing.
And…wiping away tears.
Oh yeah, definitely decaf revenge time.
“Oh Lisa,” she finally says, getting her breath back enough to talk, “Diesel isn’t an outlaw any more than you are!”
The Uber pulls up then – finally – and we slide inside, giving directions to my place. We can clean up there and then go out somewhere to eat. I’m starving.
Becca, who’s missed like all of our conversation while fighting the Uber overlords, says, “So, is Diesel the real deal?”
Ashley shakes her head. “Not even close,” she says.
“Hold on, hold on,” I interrupt, holding up my hand as the car swerves in and out of traffic. Good thing I don’t get car sick. I’d be throwing up right about now. “I don’t know that we can say that for sure. Yet. Maybe, he’s like that one superhero dude who pretends one thing during the day and then does something else at night!”
“You mean Superman?” Becca asks dryly.
So I’m not a geek over comic books. Sue me.
“Yeah, him. So, how can we know for sure if Diesel the Outlaw really is tough and, you know, an outlaw?”
We sit back against the seat, swaying to the left and then to the right in unison as the Uber weaves down the road and around corners. Like a carnival ride, Uber style. I have to wonder if Becca threatened them with a lawsuit if they didn’t get us home in time or something.
“Dick pics!” Ashley announces.
“What?!” Becca and I squeal in unison. I promise, we didn’t practice that. It just sorta happened.
“Yeah. If he’s swinging a big dick, we’ll know he’s at least a man. Plus, then we all get to admire the package he’s packing.”
“Ooohhhhh…I like how you think,” I say, wide-eyed at her brilliance. “God, I’m glad you’re my friend, not my enemy. That level of conniving is genius.”
We screech to a stop outside of my apartment building and as Becca swipes her credit card through the reader – it’s her turn to pay – we all pile out and head to the elevator. Becca squeezes in and as we start the ascent, I begin texting Carlton. God, I hate that name.
I begin texting Diesel.
Much better.
“There,” I say, pressing send. “Now let’s see if he responds. Hopefully, where he’s at really does have phone service.”
The doors open just as my phone vibrates in response.
As you wish.
And then...
“Oh…” Ashley breathes, jostling up against me.
“My…” Becca echoes, squishing in from the other side.
“God,” I finish because someone had to and I promise, we didn’t practice that one either. But the sight of this magnificent cock was literally swoon worthy. I felt a little faint as I stared at the thick, veiny, purple headed cock on my screen.
I hand the phone over to Ashley with a stern, “Don’t drop this and for fuck’s sakes, don’t close that pic!” as I shove my key in the door. Once we’ve made it in the door, we all gather around my phone for some more oogling time.
“I think it’s almost as big as Apollo’s dick,” Ashley finally says, and I just glare at her. There is no way Apollo, a suit, has a dick this big. She shrugs at my glare. “I’ll have to have him do a dick pic sometime so I can show you guys.”
I turn back to the photo in my hand. Apollo is fine and whatever, but he isn’t Diesel. Ashley’s welcome to her boyfriend.
“So, now that we at least know that he’s hung,” Ashley says, “how else can we know that he’s an outlaw?”
We begin cleaning up in the bathroom. Thank god it’s big with double sinks so we can spread out.
“What do all outlaws ride?” Ashley asks, excitement in her voice.
“Horses?” Becca asks, deadpan.
“Outlaws in this century,” Ashley shoots back.
“Motorcycles…” I say slowly. “Ash, you’re a genius!” I drop my hairbrush and begin texting Diesel again. “If you are a real outlaw,” I mutter out loud as I type, “you’ll pick me up on your motorcycle and take me somewhere dangerous on our date. There!” I say, pressing send. “Let’s see what he has to say about that.”
Before I can even put the phone down, it vibrates.
Deal.
“I wonder where he’s going to take you!” Becky squeals, as my phone vibrates again.
Fair’s fair - I showed you mine…
“Oh god, Lisa!” Ashley squeals in my ear. She snuck a peek over my shoulder. “Are you going to? Are you?”
“What?” Becca asks, crowding in on the other side of me. She lifts her gaze and all three of us stare at each other in the mirror over the bathroom counter. There’s nothing but the sound of my heartbeat.
“Are you?” Becca asks breathlessly.
“Do it, do it, do it!” Ashley chants, and Becca joins in. I start laughing. I cannot believe them!
I cannot believe I’m considering this!
With a big inhalation for courage, I slip into my bedroom, lay down on the bed, pull my panties to the side, and click!
Like a selfie, except, you know, not my face.
After a couple more tries to get it just right
, I send it off, hardly breathing when I do. This isn’t me. I don’t do shit like this! But there’s something about Diesel that makes me want to...
Nice. The text message is almost instantaneous. Now I’ll have something to stare at tonight when I go to sleep.
You better take me somewhere amazing, and dangerous, for our date.
You’ll just have to wait and see.
He’s killing me, absolutely killing me.
86
Lisa
The driver of the Rolls Royce pulls up to a smooth stop. “We’re here, ma’am,” he says in a thick French accent and I have to wonder if Diesel actually hired this guy from France just to drive his car or if he’s just pretending to be French. It isn’t like I’d be able to tell the difference.
I slide out of the backseat with the help of the driver and look up at the...
“Is he fucking kidding me?” I say out loud.
“Excuse me?” the driver says, closing the door behind me.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
With a nod, he walks around to the driver’s side and drives away, leaving me in front of…the Clover Club.
Before you say, “But Lisa, the Clover Club is this amazing place with live jazz music and these cocktails to die for,” yeah, I know. I’ve been here before. The boring suits like to take their dates to places like this.
This does not qualify as a dangerous place. I stalk up to the front door, letting the doorman open the door for me before I sweep inside. This really is ridic. The dark woods and exposed brick lend a sophisticated air to the place, as does the tie on the maître d’.
If this is living dangerously...
Just as the maître d’ opens his mouth to ask me if I have reservations, Diesel slides his arm around me. “George, she’s mine,” he tells the man, and leads me back to a private table in the back. Sure enough, a man playing the alto sax is serenading the restaurant, and I stare at Diesel.
“You think this is some place dangerous?” I ask him. “This is the Clover Club!”