“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.