12 Inches (A Secret Baby Dark Romance)(181)

“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.”#p#分页标题#e#

“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 ass, 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.





82





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?”

Yeah. Or something. My head, my heart, my dick…all the important parts of the body, anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Lisa wrapped up in my appendix.

“Just a lot on my mind,” I say, because what kind of an outlaw tells another outlaw that he’s mooning over a girl? They’d probably take my patch away for that. I may not be an active member of the Black Fist anymore, but they still let me come to the clubhouse, and in times of trouble, they still have my back. I can’t start acting like a pussy in front of them now.

“Well, if it is a girl, you gotta be willing to go after her.”

I look at him, shocked to hear him say that. Crankshaft just shrugs a little.

“If she’s worth it, she’s worth it. Don’t let nothin' stand in your way.”

He walks away, leaving the words reverberating in my brain.

If she’s worth it…

Is she worth it?

I think back over the past three weeks and how goddamn miserable I’ve been.

All because I've missed her. I wanted to wake up next to her in the morning. I wanted to fuck her all night. I wanted to spar with her verbally and see if I could come out on top. I wanted to bathe her in bubbles and champagne.#p#分页标题#e#

I wanted to be with her.

I want to be with her.

What the fuck am I doing, just sitting around, feeling sorry for myself? God, I’m a pansy. I should turn in my patch right now, just because I’ve been a pansy.

But, I’m not going to. I have more money than God. It’s about time I start using it to get what I want.





83





Lisa





I smile politely as I chat with Kim and Cody at their garden party in the Hamptons. My heels are sinking into the ground (whoever thought that wearing stilettos to a garden party was a good idea should be shot on sight) and my face is so tired from smiling politely, I feel like I should take a week-long nap just to recover from it.

Like a marathon, but for cheek muscles.

Kim and Cody are all over each other, cooing and kissing and my upchuck reflex is on high alert. I mean, if I were the one doing all of the cooing and kissing, that’d be one thing, but…well, I’m not.