Which is when the screams begin.
68
Diesel
So there I am, walking through the subway, and I look over to see a lady just disappear. Flash – she's just gone. A little kid is running off, down the platform, but no one else is there.
The top of her head appears and then disappears, then up to her chin and back down again and I realize that she's trying to jump her way out of the train tracks.
I react then. There's no thinking, no contemplating the consequences, I'm just going. Fuck the turnstiles; I jump them with ease and I'm running, heart pumping, as I sprint across the platform and throw myself down into the train track area, the landing sending shooting pains up my legs.
God, that hurt, but I didn't have time to worry about that. I pick up the blonde and throw her over my shoulder and then from there, throw her up onto the platform above us. I can hear a train coming, barreling down on us, and I'm motherfucking high-jumping my way out of this because if I don't, I'm going to die and the train is honking and screeching on its breaks and I throw myself up, up and away, and I'm rolling across the platform, through the dirt and the grime and the train is still screeching but goddamn, I'm alive.
I lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, staring up at the ceiling, when the lady's face comes into view.
“Tha—”
“Oh god, Diesel, I have to take you in again?” a voice broke in and I looked over to see Sgt. Whitaker standing there, his hand on his nightstick. “The alarms for the turnstiles just went off. You just can't help from breaking the law, can you?”
I push myself to get up and start wiping off the dirt, then put out my hand for the blonde to help her up. As she's standing and brushing herself off, I look her up and down, my dick instantly springing to attention. Yeah, she had a bit of dirt in her hair and her skirt is torn to shit, but daaammmnnnn, she has some nice legs on her.
“C'mon, Diesel,” Sgt Whitaker says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Turn around.”
He flips me around, facing straight at the lady, who protests. “Hold on!” she says. “Why is he being arrested?”
I just shrug as the cold rings snap around my wrist. “'Cause I'm an outlaw,” I say with a naughty grin.
My lawyer will tear this case into shreds the moment we get into the courtroom, so I'm not worried about being arrested. I'll be out soon enough and hell, sometimes, you just have to make the cops feel good, like they're doing their job, you know? Everyone wants to feel like they're making a difference in the world, and good ol' Sgt. Whitaker thinks that catching turnstile jumpers is just the ticket to make that happen.
The lovely lady looks me up and down, inspecting my dirtied Polo shirt and Brooks Brothers khaki slacks. "Yeah, a real outlaw," she snickers.
69
Lisa
I pace back and forth in front of the courthouse, a latte in hand. There’s a park bench for me to sit on while I wait, but…have you seen that thing? Pigeons have made it their home for the past ten years, at least, based on the shit quantity piled up there.
“Why are you bailing this guy out?” Ashley asks, standing still as I pace in front of her. Notice, she isn’t sitting on the park bench either.
“He saved my life, I’m telling you! There was a train coming and there I was, on the subway tracks and I’m about to die and then, he’s next to me and throwing me out of the tracks; it was amazing!”
“But they arrested him,” Ashley points out. “He’s got to be some kind of a criminal. Or bad guy. Or something.”
I shrug. “He said he was an outlaw, but c’mon, he was wearing fucking Polo when this happened. No outlaw wears Polo.”
It would be awesome if he actually were an outlaw—finally, someone exciting to date! But I don’t share this observation with Ashley. She just doesn’t get it, her and her CEO fiancé.
God, save me from suits.
“But anyway, they arrested him for jumping the turnstile. I mean, what if he’d followed the law? I’d be dead right now. Dead! If this goes to trial, I’m going to testify for him. It’s the least I can do. I could be dead!”
Ashley looks at me skeptically and I can tell she thinks she isn’t getting the whole story, but before she can argue with me further, the front door of the courthouse opens and here comes Mr. Polo Outlaw himself.
Okay, I know I said that I don’t want a suit, but one quick up-and-down look confirmed that I did want a man in Brooks Brothers slacks. God, he was sexy. It really is too bad he isn’t an outlaw.
A tribal tattoo is showing beneath the edge of his sleeve and I find myself wondering how far up the tat goes. Across his pecs? Over his back? Do I get to watch him lift weights and admire the tattoo dancing across his skin when he does?
I find myself salivating for more than just the salad I just ate for lunch.