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“Diesel,” I sigh. “I mean, Carlton. No one names their child Diesel, except for Kindle authors, apparently.”
She’s just staring at me, so I plunge on.
“Anyway, the problem is, I’m in love with a liar. A man who literally cannot tell the difference between a lie and the truth. It was funny when he called himself an outlaw when we first met. I mean, that’s just a pick-up line, right? And then, after that, he pretends to be one because he knows I’m attracted to that and he wants to please me.
“But what I really want is to date someone who isn’t insane.”
“You’re in love with him?” Becca breathes excitedly.
My hand fina-fuckingly stops twirling my glass in my hand and I set it down with a thump.
Oh.
My.
God.
“I am,” I say, staring back at her, happiness welling in my chest. “Becca, I really, really am. I love him!” My excitement pops like a soap bubble and I wail, “I’m in love with a compulsive liar!”
Becca scoots her chair around the table so she can put her arm around me and pat me on the back comfortingly as I cry into my gin and tonic.
I never was a pretty drunk.
“Well, if the Kindle authors are to be believed,” she says authoritatively, “these kinds of shenanigans are usually wrapped up in about three weeks or so. So, you only have to make it through the next three weeks as a single woman, and then Diesel—Carlton—will pull his head out of his a
ss, start telling the truth, and declare his love for you.”
“You think so?” I sniff.
Indelicately.
Have I mentioned that I’m a sorry-ass drunk?
“When have Kindle authors ever let us down?” Becca asks brightly.
“Well, they say that people regularly name their children Diesel,” I remind her.
“Maybe they do and we just haven’t met them yet.”
Huh. Good point. It’s not like I’ve met all of humanity or something.
I toss back the rest of my gin and tonic because if I make a sorry drunk, well, I might as well be really good at being a sorry drunk. Goals and all that.
“The next three weeks better pass by real quick.” I signal the waiter for another drink.
I’m going to get really, really good at being a sorry drunk.
73
Diesel
The past three weeks have been … fucking awful.
Mostly because I haven’t been fucking Lisa.
I stare into my now-warm beer on the bar top in front of me, like it’s going to give me useful answers or something. Instead, the head on the beer just slowly dissipates until there’s nothing but golden brown staring back up at me.
Crankshaft, the Black Fist president, comes up and smacks me on the shoulder. “Damn, Diesel, I ain’t seen you like this before. What gives? Did some chick get all up in your head or something?”
