Gisele Vs. Guitar Hero

by Mona Cox

  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.

  62

  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-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. Ashl
ey’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.

  63

  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!”

  “I noticed,” he said with a chuckle. “Let’s order, shall we?”

  The waiter, in a black suit and tie, came up to the table, and I let Diesel order for me, since he seemed to know the menu here from memory. After the waiter disappears to retrieve a bottle of red wine, I just stare at Diesel, eyebrow cocked, total imitation of Ashley. Hey, it works on me; it can work on him!

  “Brooklyn is dangerous,” Diesel says. “Did you know that there is this really long history of killings that have happened in Park Slope?”

  The waiter smoothly slides our wine glasses between us and then disappears again.

  “Down by the Atlantic Pacific Avenue,” he insists, when I continue to just stare at him disbelievingly. “They’ve been going on for years. I have to protect you from all of that.” The jazz musician continues to wail on his saxophone and I tilt my head toward him.

  “Going to protect me from the evil musician who might blow his sax a little too loud in my ear?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Deafness isn’t something to joke about,” Diesel said, mock seriously. “I could always save you from him.”

  “By asking him to go into the other room?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Don’t bother. I think my eardrums will survive the night. But I appreciate your willingness to battle for me.”

  “Anytime,” he says with a swagger in his voice and I laugh and I know I shouldn’t be encouraging him but I can’t help myself. He really is full of shit, but since he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, I forgive him for it.

  After eating a sumptuous four-course meal that includes escargot—because that’s something only outlaws eat—we finally head outside, the maître d’ bowing as we leave. “Put it on my tab, will you?” Diesel asks as we pass by. He nods his head in acknowledgment, and then we’re outside, the evening air rushing over us.

  “Well, it’s really too bad you didn’t come here on a motorcycle,” I tell him with a teasing grin. “I would’ve gone home with you and fucked if only you’d lived up to your bad boy promises. I already told you, outlaws don’t ride in Rolls—”

  A Harley pulls up to the curb, the engine idling loudly and then the valet cuts the engine and puts down the kickstand. The sudden silence is almost as deafening as the engine had been. He hands the keys to Diesel.

  “Here you go, sir,” he says, a little wide-eyed with excitement, but trying to pretend that he rides Harleys every day. He isn’t fooling me. He pulls down on his jacket as he heads back inside, smoothing back his hair casually.

  Diesel smiles a naughty grin at me. “You were saying?” he asks, swinging his leg over the seat.

  I stare at him for a moment. Oh god, I really talked myself into that corner, didn’t I?

  With a groan that is part panic, part pure excitement, I swing my leg over behind him, hitching up my skirt so I can straddle his body with mine. My crotch is pushed up against his hips and the vibrations of the motorcycle; I might just orgasm from this ride alone.

  Ducking my head and snuggling my face against his back, I close my eyes as we take off into the evening air.

  Maybe Diesel is an outlaw after all. Or, at the very least, owns a cool bike.

  64

  Lisa

  “You really have to be kidding me. Is this your outlaw pad?” I ask him, rolling my eyes. He’s standing by the doorway, his lips cocked into a smile as he bows.

  “My humble apartment,” he says with flair, allowing me to enter his apartment before he does. Like a true outlaw. Yeah, right.

  His pad is everything but humble; let’s just start by saying that no self-respecting outlaw would own an apartment in the Upper East Side. And when he flicks the light switch by the door, turning on the lights, I can’t help but gasp: he’s definitely pulling some kind of prank on me.

  The living room is like something out of a magazine, the furniture perfectly laid out as if he spent weeks getting the right angle just for the couch. The walls are a clear white, contrasting with the dark high-end furniture, and the room is so large it almost becomes uncomfortable. I look around, trying to find something personal—a family picture, or maybe one of him and some ex-girlfrien
d—but all my eyes find on the walls are paintings. The canvases are huge, and the artwork seems so abstract I don’t even know what I’m looking at.

  “I didn’t know outlaws hired interior designers,” I tease him, turning around to face him.

  “Maybe it was a criminal interior designer,” he shoots back, placing his keys and wallet on the mantelpiece. Even the fireplace seems like it was made to order.

  “Yeah, of course it was --” I start to say, but he just closes the distance between us and places his hands on my waist. His mouth is so close to mine that my eyes are drawn to his lips.

  “I remember something you said… What was it?” He runs his tongue between his lips, trying to look as if he’s lost in thought, and then continues. “Oh, yeah. Something about a motorcycle and fucking.”

  Blood runs through my cheeks, and I know I must look like a cherry tomato right now. But my face isn’t the only place where boiling blood is running to; my insides are warming up, and my pussy becomes even wetter than it was on the ride here. It’s going to happen, isn’t it? We’re really going to fuck.

  Sure, he might not be a real bad boy, an outlaw, but there’s something about him… There’s an edge to his eyes, and his grin sometimes looks dangerous as well. And, well, he does have a bike. No, I’m not futile enough to fuck a guy just because he has a bike, but I gotta tell you… Riding his bike, my crotch against his hips as he swerved in and out of traffic, it was something surreal. My arms were lacing his torso the whole time, feeling his strong frame, and I couldn’t help but imagine how he looks under his shirt. I guess it’s time to find out.

  “Well, I don’t break promises,” I purr, my eyes still locked on his lips. He’s smiling now and, God, I’ve never seen lips as delicious as his. His mouth was designed for kissing and perhaps for something more. Just thinking of that is enough to send a shiver up my spine, and I bite on my lower lip as I imagine all the things he might do with his mouth…