“You know what? I’m kind of offended at myself too. What is wrong with me?” I clear my throat and place my hand over my heart in exaggerated shame. “How is Mr. Darcy, and do you have any pictures of him today?”
“Maybe,” she says coyly, and whips out her phone. She scrolls through a copious amount of sunbathing pooch poses.
“He could be a dog model.”
She slugs my arm playfully. “Thank you. Also, nice save making up for forgetting to ask about him.”
“Whew. Okay. He’s a stunner,” I add as she tucks the phone into her purse. “But back to Magic Mike. Cultural institution, right up there with Rembrandt and Vonnegut. And honestly? It’s kind of a good movie,” I say as we round the corner.
“Shockingly good, and not just because my friends and I wanted to throw dollar bills at the screen,” she says, almost like a whispered confession, before continuing. “So, for the routine, I’m envisioning this: Magic Mike, but instead of the oiled-up, half-naked men, we have tastefully clothed, confident women. Instead of the hip-grinding gyrations, it’s more effortless fluidity. And in place of that brutish sexuality, we have more nuanced, playful sensuality.”
“Okay.” I draw out the word out as I track her train of thought, or try to. “So, nothing like Magic Mike.”
“Except . . . good dancing,” she points out.
“True. Gotta give Channing and the crew props for those moves. I sort of hate to admit it, but I’ve seen the movie a couple of times.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Look at you, Mr. Magic Mike fan.”
I raise my hands in surrender, one of them still holding the cone. “Look, I . . .” I’m about to say my ex loved the movie and insisted on watching it. But I don’t feel like talking about Tracy, so I let the sentence die.
But somehow London reads into my silence, and softly, in a kind voice, she says, “Let me guess. You had an ex who liked the movie?”
“Yes.” I sigh, but I’m relieved that she figured it out quickly. That I don’t have to be the one to bring up the ex. “I was involved with someone for a long time. She actually really loved the flick and wanted to watch it a lot.”
London shakes her spoon in my face. “We’ve cracked this open. We’re going to have the ex conversation,” she says, and she’s so open about career, life, love, and un-love. That’s a refreshing change from the norm.
Plus, I’m the guy I am now partly because of all the shit that went wrong with Tracy. The problems we had helped me see what I don’t want and what I do. “I went out with this woman for about three years. It ended badly, as things with exes sometimes do. She cheated on me with the dog walker.”
I say it clinically, not wanting to give this too much weight. Tracy doesn’t deserve the air space. “Everything was tangled up, though, because I worked for her father. That’s one of the main reasons I’m trying to be careful about getting involved with anyone who’s close to my job.”
London shoots me a smile, a soft, sympathetic one. But it’s not an I feel sorry for you smile—more like an I get it, and you were dealt a shitty hand smile. I appreciate the difference—that she sees the difference.
“That sucks. I’m sorry you went through that. It’s terrible when people lie to each other and deceive each other. So what if she liked the dog walker? She should have just left to be with him.”
Yes! I want to shout it, exclamation point and all.
“Exactly! Sure, I cared about her and I loved her, but if she was done with the relationship, she could have just left it. Don’t cheat. Get out of it and live your life, and don’t be a liar. And don’t make a liar out of me and the life we had together,” I say.
London spoons another bite of ice cream and nods several times. “I completely agree. My situation isn’t exactly like that, but I dated someone in college, and we stayed together much longer than we should have. I think we were both afraid to end it, and we expended a lot of energy to try to make it work. And it didn’t. He was a great guy, and I really liked him, but we didn’t have that spark. That was a while ago though. I’ve been single for a long time.”
Her reflection on past relationships makes me think she’d be a considerate girlfriend, and that . . . that sounds terrific.
For someone else.
Not for me.
“Spark is pretty damn important,” I say, keeping my response broad. “Spark is definitely powerful, and it matters.”
Her eyes gleam with excitement and maybe understanding as they lock with mine while we walk. “It does. Spark is real. We have to listen to the spark. Well, sometimes,” she adds under her breath.
Perhaps that’s her reminder that we can’t act on this electricity between us.
My mind latches on to a comment she made last night. “Is he the reason you said things were complicated in Vegas?”
“Yes. He’s exactly why I said that. He moved there with me, and it didn’t work out. When we ended things, I started putting me first. Been married to my career ever since.”
Which raises an interesting point—one I’m damn curious about. “What’s the endgame for you? You know it’s not deejaying at a part-time all-male revue for me—what is it for you?”
We cross another block, and it’s hard to walk and watch her smile with anticipation and pride. “There’s this really fantastic producer that I want to work with, André Davies. I was telling my girlfriends about him the other night. He travels a ton, but he’s based out of LA. He’s incredibly innovative and cutting edge, with thought-provoking music videos plus these flash-mob-type TikTok videos. They’re so unexpected, and the dancing always looks familiar but new somehow.” Her voice is absolutely musical with excitement as she tells me more. “I’m assembling a portfolio of clips I’m calling The Unexpected. Hopefully once he sees it, he’ll know he needs to have someone with my vision on his team.”
“Well, then,” I say, finishing my cone as she tosses her cup and spoon into a recycling can. “Let’s create the unexpected.”
“And that starts with the music. Though, if it were entirely up to me, my life would be told to a soundtrack of Sam Smith,” she says, dipping her chin like she’s admitted something secret.
“Nothing wrong with Sam Smith. That dude is a seriously soulful crooner. But his songs are more like the soundtrack of those TV shows where people are constantly breaking up.”
A laugh bursts from her, and I love that sound, love how easily it comes. “True. But I like to dance to him, so he works for me. Who do you want to craft your background music?”
“I’m taking the deejay exemption. I won’t play favorites. I need all the music to soundtrack my life.”
“So greedy.”
“I’m musically gluttonous, and I’m owning it.”
“Very clever, pulling that deejay exemption card. You’ve got a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.” She playfully musses my hair, and goose bumps jump down my spine. Did she just call me pretty? I’m into that, but it’s best not to let on how much, so I get back to why we’re hanging out today. “So, are you going to use the dance you choreograph for Edge as an in with this Davies guy?”
“Yes. That’s the plan. I’ll shoot a video of the routine so I can include it with my portfolio. Shay Sloan, the woman I worked with in Vegas, is also keeping her eye open for opportunities for me, so I’ll send the video to her too. I need to find that perfect combination of my moves set to the right beat that gives that playful, fun, out-on-the-town vibe with a touch of the iconic. Millennial chic meets hipster fleek.”
“Do people still say ‘fleek’? I don’t think that’s a thing anymore,” I chide. Despite the jokes, this conversation underlines that going to Monopoly jail doesn’t protect only my career aspirations. London has goals too that extend beyond the club. They tap into her natural creativity, and I want to be able to help her.
There’s more at stake here than whether I want a third or fourth date with her, than whether I want to take her home, strip her down to nothing,
and kiss her all over. Than whether I want to learn if she likes it when I lick the hollow of her throat, the valley of her breasts, her belly, and if she likes to be undressed slowly or quickly, and . . . FUUUUCKK.
I am getting off topic right now.
“I can give you some suggestions or play some tracks for you,” I say, reorienting my thoughts as best I can. “But it might help if I saw these moves in action. To give me a better sense of what you’re going for.”
Might give me a better sense of how sexy she is too, but I don’t say that out loud.
A wicked glint flashes in her eyes. “Follow me.” She wiggles her fingers. She jogs halfway down the block, points to a door, punches a combo on a keypad, then disappears into the entrance of the Theatre at Ace Hotel, a former movie house that’s been renovated into a live performance venue.
When I catch up, she’s holding the door open for me, and naturally, I have no choice but to follow her.
11
I’m damn curious how she finagled her way into this theater. “Hey, magician. How did you just walk into the Ace like that?”
“I know the house manager,” she says, looking all manic-pixie-dream-girl for a hot second. “Texted him earlier. He told me we could have the stage to ourselves for an hour. It’s all ours.”
She runs through the ornate lobby, then past a set of double doors that lead down the aisle past the seats. When she reaches the stage, she hops up onto it, tucks her glasses into her purse, and drops it on the side of the stage. I trail behind, taking in the grandeur of the empty Gothic theater.
My eyes eventually land on London where she stands, hands on hips, right in the middle of the stage.
I take a seat in the front row, and this is definitely the best front-row seat I’ve ever had. The stage is washed in a soft blue light, and London sets up the routine. “I imagine this is a synchronized set with maybe four or five women. They sashay to center stage as the lights come up and the amazing music that you’re going to help me choose begins. Hold for four.” London freezes, reminding me of a statue of Aphrodite. “Then five, six, seven, eight . . .”
She slides into that classic stripper move where she drops her head, jams both hands into her hair, flips her head back, and pumps out her hips.
That move works fantastically well on London’s body—and on mine, judging from the wood I’m now sporting.
Thanks, dick. Really fucking helpful.
With a snap of her hips, the energy of the dance shifts. It’s raw, sexy, with familiar moves, like the sway of her body and the slide of her hands traveling down between her breasts.
As the choreography teeters on the brink of red-hot sexuality, her movements morph into something fun and playful, like at any moment she might raise her hands, whoop, and holler, which is exactly what the crowd wants to do sometimes.
A few beats later, the dance turns quieter, softer, more sensual, more erotic.
I am transfixed. I can’t look away. She’s done everything she said she would do. She’s created something completely unexpected.
The creative part of my brain is offering an encouraging yes.
The dirty part of my brain is shouting, Holy hell, get over here. Get off the stage and get on top of me and ride me so fucking hard in the middle of this theater.
And the rational, logical part of my brain agrees, saying, Well, that would be an excellent idea, and you should absolutely do that.
Then there’s that voice, the dude-bro in me, rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and telling me, You’re such a fucking dumbass.
But the one thing all my gray matter has in common? Every part of me is Into. This. Woman.
I swallow the words stuck in my throat as her body stops moving and she asks, “What did you think?”
What did I think?
I think I’m like every guy in every movie, when the gorgeous friend he’s falling for tries on a bunch of outfits and prances around the dressing room and comes out with silly hats and gigantic sunglasses and makes pouty faces, and everybody laughs, and it’s all fun and games.
Until that moment at the end, when she emerges wearing a beautiful, stunning, perfect dress and she looks incredible, and says, “What do you think?”
In that moment, his eyes widen and all his wishes flicker across them.
What do I think?
I think this—that it’s been a couple days since I met her, but already I’m feeling like the way we talk, the way we connect, the way she is so easy to get along with is making it so much harder for me to stay in Monopoly jail.
Her question echoes in my head while I replay every euphoric moment of that performance. Then in a low, strangled voice, I say, “Nirvana.”
She moves to the lip of the stage. “What? I didn’t hear you.”
As the haze lifts and the buzzing in my body slows, I’m answering so many questions at once.
What do I think of that passionate, ethereal, seductive dance?
How do I feel spending time with this incredible goddess?
What kind of music should they dance to?
“Nirvana,” I repeat. “That dance should start with Nirvana.”
12
Note to self: should have had the ice cream after London danced for me, not before.
Maybe I can find a bucket of ice in this theater.
Or possibly a cold shower. I’ll pop in, cool off, and no one will be any the wiser that I’m on fucking fire.
When London hops off the stage, her purse over her shoulder, she grabs my arm, grinning wildly. “Nirvana is brilliant. Is there any chance I can convince you to spend another hour with me and discuss all things grunge rock, you evil genius who’s not evil but still a genius?”
Humor. Teasing. Yes, that’ll work almost as well as buckets of ice water. “I don’t need to be at the radio station for my show till eight, and since it’s only four, I could possibly be convinced. But it might require more food at this point,” I say, since food will also help distract me from the way she cranked the dial to high on my lust for her.
She lowers her voice to a clandestine whisper. “Word on the street is you can be bribed with a nominal amount of tacos. And I just happen to know a guy.”
“A taco dealer? In LA? You’ve got your ears to the ground,” I say, playing along with her.
“Work with me, Teddy.”
“I thought that was what we were doing. But you don’t have to skimp. A full order works too.” We head up the aisle toward the exit.
“Then you shall get a full order,” she says, reaching into her purse for her glasses.
“How well can you see without those?” I ask.
She bumps into a chair then laughs. “Just kidding. I can see fine without them, but better with them.”
“Good thing you have them, then.”
Once outside we grab some carne asada at a truck down the street, and even though it’s my second round of tacos today, I do indeed love them that much. We devour our food as we walk and talk, discussing music and dance and friends we depend on.
She tells me about her Woman Power Trio, as she calls them. “Olive bartends in Venice and is obsessed with sexy audiobooks. She’s my age but married already. She’s bold, brash, and the one person I can call at any hour of the day with a crisis.” She stops to take a bite of her taco, and a dab of sauce mars her lip. But before the temptation to wipe it away becomes too strong, she takes care of it for me—with that tongue. That sweet pink tongue.
“Then there’s Emery. She’s a whip-smart junior TV producer who’s been burned by love but keeps on trying. An attitude that has served her well in business too, since she’s the fiercest, most determined person I know. She’d give me a kidney, and I’d do the same for her.”
“That’s pretty much the highest compliment you can give anyone,” I say, then I tell her about Sam, and how the guy has come through for me every time I’ve needed him, even when I didn’t know I needed anyone.
Soon, time starts to unwind, the cloc
k ticking closer to evening as we near the market.
Closer to the time when this feels inevitably more like a date. Exactly what it can’t be.
I check the time on my phone, wishing the hour wasn’t mocking me. But there it is—close to five. A reminder that we’re sliding into a dangerous time zone, where night makes it easier to slip up. “I have my radio show tonight. I should go,” I say with obvious reluctance.
“Same. But thanks for spending so much time with me,” she says as we near a subway entrance. An idea hits me—because why end this yet?—and I gesture to it. “Do you want to Uber together, or take the train?”
Her brown eyes twinkle with mischief, like public transportation is the height of fun. “Confession: I’ve never taken the train in LA.”
My eyes go wide. My jaw drops. “You’re a train virgin?”
She gives me a coquettish grin. “I am. Want to deflower me?”
I’m both turned on and amused. I drop an arm around her shoulders. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of flirty and goofy at the same time? Also, this is a friendly limb,” I say, nodding to the arm I have wrapped around her. “I’m just stating that for the record.”
She pats my elbow. “I had an inkling it was an amiable arm. But thanks for the clarification. Also, maybe you bring out my flirty side. And my goofy side. I should stop though. Flirting, that is. Should I stop?”
It’s a genuine question, but I can hear the underlying plea—say no.
“Nah. What’s the harm in flirting?”
I know the answer—plenty—but ignore it because flirting is too damn fun.
While we wait for the train, we discuss her routine, debating tracks that’ll flow from Nirvana to give her routine the poppy, sexy beat she wants. Everything about this day screams date, except for the fact that it’s not.
“So, about my brother—”
The train screeches into the station, cutting off the rest of her sentence with a deafening squeal.
But those words are enough to underscore the barrier between us. The reason why the train deflowering and the ice cream and the dancing are all we can allow.
How To Get Lucky Page 7