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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.
