Gisele Vs. Guitar Hero

I roll over and face Diesel, who’s awake and staring back at me. I smile in surprise and his face lights up. “Just wondering how long I can creepily stare at you before you wake up,” he admits cheerfully.

I laugh.

“Listen, I just want to say,” I take a deep breath for courage, “that…I really like you. And I’m not just saying that because you got me drunk off my ass. I like you more than I ever expected to like a guy, and…well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m done kidding around about you needing to be an outlaw before I’ll want to fuck you. You can get tats and have the valet bring your bike around all you want, but you can drop the story about the Black Fist MC. I really don’t need that, I promise.”

“Drop it…? Lisa, I’m telling the truth. There’s nothing to drop.”

I sit up in bed, pushing the covers off me. “C’mon,” I say, my voice tinged with irritation. “You know and I know that there is no MC gang called the Black Fist.”

“No, I don’t know that.” His voice matches mine. He’s getting irritated too. Good. If he’s going to piss me off, then I’m going to piss him off.

“This really isn’t funny anymore,” I say, climbing out of bed. I spot new clothes laid out for me over the back of the damask-covered couch, and eagerly begin pulling them on. Now this is a nice surprise to wake up to. The lacy Victoria's Secret bra fits perfectly, and I have to wonder if Diesel has been sneaking a peak at my underwear to get this right.

“Yeah, I know. It’s not funny. Lisa, look at me.”

He stops talking, forcing me to look at him to get him to continue.

“It’s never been a joke. I really was in the Black Fist for a long time; I really was the president. I’m not anymore. But they’re still my friends. I didn’t just borrow that Harley from a friend or something; that’s my Harley.”

I pull on my stilettos and grab my Coach purse.

“Diesel, I get it in the beginning. It was a joke. It was a joke that’s gone too fucking far. If you can’t be honest because you think I need this lie to—” I stop myself from saying love, “fuck you, then you really do have a pretty damn low opinion of me. For the longest time, I did think I wanted an outlaw. I did think I wanted a man’s man. But you…you’re what I want. The real you. The honest version of you. And if you can’t do that, then there’s really not much else we have to talk about.”

I storm out of the hotel room, slamming the door behind me as hard as I can, which, for fuck’s sakes, isn’t hard at all because they have some whisper quiet door closing system on their doors that keep me from slamming them.

And that just makes me cry as I walk down the hallway and ride down the elevator. Well, that and the guy I’ve fallen in love with is a serial liar.

So, you know, two things.

72

Lisa

I stare into my gin and tonic, swirling it around and around in my glass, which is eerily reminiscent of the scene a week ago, right before Diesel saved my life on the subway platform. Except this time, instead of listening to Ashley and Christine blather on about how amazing the men in their lives are, I am listening to Becca complain about work. Again. She works at the New York Daily Journal and her boss is a real bastard.

Becca has no reluctance about telling the world that fact.

And especially telling me that fact.

“Lisa!”

Becca’s voice finally cuts through my thoughts and I realize, in a distant part of my brain, that she’d been saying my name for quite some time now. Whoops.

Way to pretend that you’re really listening, Lisa.

I look up and give Becca a weak smile. “Sorry, lost in my own thoughts. What were you saying?”

“What gives? I've never seen you like this before. Ev. Er. I’ve seen those dogs with the flappy ears that drag on the ground—”

“Hound dogs?”

“Yeah, hound dogs that look happier than you do right now.”

Ouch.

But, probably true.

Dammit, I really am in sorry shape.