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“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!
61
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.
