12 Inches: A Secret Baby Dark Romance

by Alexis Angel

  I don't want a polite businessman in a suit, no matter how expensive that suit is.

  I pull out my iPhone and check the time. Dammit, I better hurry! I have a pedicure across town, like, now!

  “Listen you two, sorry I have to run but I’m going to be late.” I throw some cash down on the table and give Ashley and Christine air kisses. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

  I hurry out of the Boathouse and across Central Park, shoving the idea of a future Perfectly Unperfect Just For Me fantasy out of my head. I have a manicure, dammit! If I make it over to the 81st Street subway station, I might still make it on time. My fingernails are getting ragged, and there's just no way I can make it till tomorrow to have them fixed. Plus, Chaz would punish me for a week for standing him up.

  I hurry down the stairs and into the subway. It's a little grimy but I do my best to ignore that. I only take trains under extreme circumstances, but even I know they won't actually kill me. I'll just have to scrub underneath my fingernails extra carefully today.

  Waiting for Train 6, I pull out my iPhone again, and instantly double tap the Instagram pic of the three of us that Ashley just posted. I may roll my eyes every time I hear them sigh about how happy they are, but seriously, they are some of my closest friends. I do want them to be happy. I just don't want them to be obnoxiously happy. That’s possible, right? I flip over to Facebook to check to see if—

  Someone runs into me. A small someone. My phone fumbles in my hands as I'm looking down to see a small boy running down the platform and my phone is going sideways and I'm going sideways, trying to catch it and then, I'm falling, falling...

  Wham!

  The breath is knocked out of me and I'm staring up at the concrete ceiling, trying to figure out what just happened. Where...

  I scramble to my feet, moving awkwardly because I hurt so bad but I didn't seem to have anything broken, so that was a good sign, right?

  Except...as I shove my phone back into my Coach purse, I realize—I'm on the fucking train tracks. And the platform is, like, waaayyyy tall. If I stand on my tiptoes, I can just barely see over the edge and onto the platform. A few jumps, a few times of grasping the edge of the platform and pulling, and…

  I've got nothing. I never knew that pull-ups would be the difference between life and death.

  So here I am, trapped, all because I hate doing pull-ups at the gym.

  Oh fuck.

  I can hear a train coming.

  Which is when the screams begin.

  68

  Diesel

  So there I am, walking through the subway, and I look over to see a lady just disappear. Flash – she's just gone. A little kid is running off, down the platform, but no one else is there.

  The top of her head appears and then disappears, then up to her chin and back down again and I realize that she's trying to jump her way out of the train tracks.

  I react then. There's no thinking, no contemplating the consequences, I'm just going. Fuck the turnstiles; I jump them with ease and I'm running, heart pumping, as I sprint across the platform and throw myself down into the train track area, the landing sending shooting pains up my legs.

  God, that hurt, but I didn't have time to worry about that. I pick up the blonde and throw her over my shoulder and then from there, throw her up onto the platform above us. I can hear a train coming, barreling down on us, and I'm motherfucking high-jumping my way out of this because if I don't, I'm going to die and the train is honking and screeching on its breaks and I throw myself up, up and away, and I'm rolling across the platform, through the dirt and the grime and the train is still screeching but goddamn, I'm alive.

  I lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, staring up at the ceiling, when the lady's face comes into view.

  “Tha—”

  “Oh god, Diesel, I have to take you in again?” a voice broke in and I looked over to see Sgt. Whitaker standing there, his hand on his nightstick. “The alarms for the turnstiles just went off. You just can't help from breaking the law, can you?”

  I push myself to get up and start wiping off the dirt, then put out my hand for the blonde to help her up. As she's standing and brushing herself off, I look her up and down, my dick instantly springing to attention. Yeah, she had a bit of dirt in her hair and her skirt is torn to shit, but daaammmnnnn, she has some nice legs on her.

  “C'mon, Diesel,” Sgt Whitaker says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Turn around.”

  He flips me around, facing straight at the lady, who protests. “Hold on!” she says. “Why is he being arrested?”

  I just shrug as the cold rings snap around my wrist. “'Cause I'm an outlaw,” I say with a naughty grin.

  My lawyer will tear this case into shreds the moment we get into the courtroom, so I'm not worried about being arrested. I'll be out soon enough and hell, sometimes, you just have to make the cops feel good, like they're doing their job, you know? Everyone wants to feel like they're making a difference in the world, and good ol' Sgt. Whitaker thinks that catching turnstile jumpers is just the ticket to make that happen.

  The lovely lady looks me up and down, inspecting my dirtied Polo shirt and Brooks Brothers khaki slacks. "Yeah, a real outlaw," she snickers.

  69

  Lisa

  I pace back and forth in front of the courthouse, a latte in hand. There’s a park bench for me to sit on while I wait, but…have you seen that thing? Pigeons have made it their home for the past ten years, at least, based on the shit quantity piled up there.

  “Why are you bailing this guy out?” Ashley asks, standing still as I pace in front of her. Notice, she isn’t sitting on the park bench either.

  “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!

  70

  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.

  71

  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 confidently.

  “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-e
nd 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.