Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  “And you don’t think that’s bizarre? That he’d pass up on a night of no-strings-attached sex?”

  “You’re overthinking this. He asked you out for another date. Obviously he wants to see you again.”

  “Maybe he just panicked and said that in order to get away from me,” I said darkly.

  “Yeah, because guys always do that. They ask out women they’re not interested in, just to avoid an awkward moment.”

  I decided to change the subject. “I take it your date last night went well.” When I’d gone into the kitchen to make coffee that morning, I’d run into Ian foraging for cornflakes. He’d had that cheerful, rumpled air that spoke all too clearly about how he and Hayden had spent their postdate night. Obviously Hayden hadn’t been foisted off with a cheek kiss and plans for a future dinner.

  “Mm-hmm,” Hayden murmured. “I like Ian. He’s a lot of fun.”

  “Did you two end up going to the casino?”

  “Yes. And I was on a lucky streak. I won five hundred dollars playing blackjack.”

  “Wow!” I said admiringly. “That’s amazing. I’ve never won anything in my life.”

  Hayden pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head and stared at me in disbelief. “You mean other than a multimillion-dollar jackpot?”

  I blushed. “Oh, right. I keep forgetting about that,” I mumbled.

  “Lucky you,” Hayden said, laughing, as she resettled the sunglasses on her nose.

  Over the next few days I felt, in turns, apprehensive and annoyed every time the phone rang and it wasn’t Drew. I tried to put him out of my mind, remembering that the new Lucy wasn’t supposed to care about such things. And in the meantime Hayden and I settled down into lives of leisure, a well-honed pastime in Palm Beach.

  We spent most mornings lounging by the pool, sipping iced coffees and taking lazy swims. Then we’d shower and head out for a late lunch at Ta-boó or the Palm Beach Grill. After lunch we’d shop at the boutiques on Worth Avenue, go to a matinee, or head back for more poolside time, depending on how ambitious we were feeling. Then, at around seven or so, we’d doll ourselves up and head out on the town. We’d have dinner at one of the many fantastic restaurants on the island—Cucina Dell’Arte, Trevini Ristorante, 264 The Grill. Then we’d usually end up at the Drum Roll so Hayden could see Ian. They were ridiculously cute together. And although I wondered if she was a bit too worried about the age difference—she’d even taken to wearing her hair in two low pigtails, like the young twentysomething hippie chicks—she did seem genuinely happy. Ian was equally smitten with her. Creatures of habit that we were, Hayden and I always sat at the same two stools at the end of the bar, and whenever there was a lull, Ian would hang out with us, leaning forward on the polished bar, gazing devotedly down at Hayden.

  “It’s not going anywhere, of course,” Hayden said, when Ian went off to fill a drink order. She popped an olive into her mouth. “But it’s fun to be with someone who likes me so much.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll call. Your date isn’t until tomorrow night. He still has time.”

  “I hate being in this position,” I grumbled. “I don’t like waiting around for a man to call me. It makes me feel pathetic, which I swore I wouldn’t do anymore.”

  “You’re not waiting around. You’re out at the hottest bar on the island,” Hayden corrected me. “You just need someone cute to flirt with.” She glanced around, looking for contenders. “Look, there’s Mal. You can flirt with him.”

  It annoyed me that I felt compelled to look. But, yes, there he was again, looking scruffily sexy and surrounded by a bevy of very young, very pretty girls skimpily attired in halter tops and miniskirts. Hayden had met Mal a few nights earlier at an after-hours party she’d gone to with Ian. I’d begged off going with them—after all those years of keeping teacher’s hours, parties that began at two in the morning were just too late for me—and instead escaped home to bed.

  “Yeah, he’s just my type,” I said sarcastically.

  “I didn’t say you had to marry him. But I bet he could get your mind off Drew. Have you seen his thighs? They’re gorgeous, all tan and muscular,” Hayden said dreamily.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I said, which was not strictly true.

  The night passed pleasantly enough. Hayden and Ian filled me in on their casino trip the night before.

  “Hayden is the Golden Goddess of Blackjack,” Ian said. “She’s amazing, a total natural.”

  “A natural card shark,” I said, grinning at Hayden. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Hayden rolled her eyes but smiled. “I think Lucy’s luck must have rubbed off on me.”

  I froze, while Ian looked at us, puzzled. Hayden had promised me she wouldn’t tell Ian—or anyone else—about my lottery winnings. She instantly realized her mistake and hurried to fix it.

  “Lucy’s always been lucky,” she lied blithely. “She’s just one of those people who was born under a lucky star.”

  Ian grinned at me, buying the lie. “Well, the next time we head down to the casino, you should come with us.”

  I smiled back at him but shook my head. “Not my scene,” I said.

  “Then you’ll have to let me rub your belly for luck before I go,” Ian said.

  “Like a Buddha statue,” Hayden said, delighted with the idea.

  “Wow, how flattering,” I said sarcastically. “A fat Buddha statue. Just what I’ve always wanted to be compared to.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hayden assured me. “The only stomach Ian will be rubbing is mine.”

  I pantomimed gagging, but Ian and Hayden were too busy exchanging smoldering looks to pay me any attention. I sighed and ate some peanuts. Nothing like being a third wheel.

  “Hi.”

  I turned in the direction the voice had come from, and found myself face-to-face with Mal.

  “I thought that if we’re going to keep bumping into each other, it was probably time we officially met,” he said. He smiled a lazy, lopsided grin. “I’m Mal.”

  “I know,” I said irritably.

  His sudden appearance beside me, when I hadn’t even noticed that he’d crossed the bar, annoyed me. I knew it was irrational, but I couldn’t help it—I instinctively didn’t like the guy. Not only was he a player, which was bad enough, but he was also too damned pleased with himself, which was in my eyes an even greater failing. I didn’t like cocky guys, didn’t care for their swagger, their conviction that they were God’s gift to the world.

  Mal whistled. “Tough crowd,” he said. His eyes were a very pale shade of blue. Unusually pale, in fact. Almost gray.

  “Really? They seem easy enough,” I said, nodding over to the group of hippie chicks I’d last seen him with. They were looking back at us, swinging their hair and pouting glossed lips.

  “No kidding,” Mal said. His smile widened. “I prefer more of a challenge.”

  “Try a nunnery,” I suggested.

  “That might be too much of a challenge. Plus, I have a rule about never dating women who bring up religion when you first meet them. Not that I have anything against religion per se, but it’s pretty clear that if it’s a top priority in your life, I’m probably not the man you’re looking for,” Mal said.

  “Really,” I said. “What do you think about Jesus? Quite an extraordinary guy, all things considered. Water into wine, and all that.”

  Mal ignored my naked attempt to get rid of him. “I also stay away from women who bring up marriage, children, and puppies right away,” Mal said. “For the same reason.”

  “What do you have against puppies?”

  “When a woman starts gushing about how much she wants a puppy, what she’s really saying is that she wants a baby. It’s chick code.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re like a stereotype of yourself,” I said.

  This seemed to interest Mal. “Is that possible? Can you be a stereotype of yourself? If a stereotype is defined as a simplified and standardized conce
ption or image invested with special meaning and held in common by members of a group, that is.”

  “I supposed what I meant was that you’re the absolute stereotype of a player,” I said crossly.

  This made Mal laugh. “Why? Because I don’t date religious women?”

  “Because,” I said, “every time I see you, you’re with a different girl.”

  “Woman,” he corrected me. “Calling grown women girls is misogynistic and condescending.”

  “You know what? I think I officially hate you,” I said.

  “Really? Huh. Women usually like me,” Mal said.

  “So I gather.”

  “Aren’t you going to at least tell me your name?”

  “Her name is Lucy,” Hayden said, leaning over me to join our conversation. “Hi, Mal.”

  “Hayden,” I said, turning to face my friend, “I’m going to head back to the house.”

  “Come on, Lulu. The night’s still young.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Hayden compromised. “And then I’ll go with you.”

  “Okay,” I said, checking my watch so I could hold her to it. Ian appeared and set a bottle of Amstel down in front of Mal and fresh vodka tonics for Hayden and me.

  “Not for me, thanks,” I said, pushing my drink away.

  But Ian, who’d been caught in Hayden’s force field and was gazing down at her with a familiar love-struck grin, ignored me.

  “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Mal said. “We could try small talk.”

  “Or I could just sit here quietly by myself,” I retorted.

  “What do you do when you’re not playing the girl about town?”

  “I thought you just said calling women girls was misogynistic,” I said.

  Mal grinned so mischievously, it was hard not to smile back at him. I compromised by frowning severely.

  “So I did,” he said. “I’m sure you meant to ask me what I do.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said.

  “I’m a tennis pro.”

  “You are?” I asked.

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “I just…I don’t know,” I said. In truth, it made all the sense in the world. What better job for a gigolo to have? It was the perfect way to find rich women to take advantage of. A few sets of tennis, a steam bath, a quick rendezvous in the clubhouse…

  “What’s it like to be a multimillion-dollar-lottery winner?” Mal suddenly asked.

  I let out an involuntary gasp and my entire body went cold with fear. I could feel the fine hairs on my arms and neck stand up on end.

  “What did you say?” I asked in a strangled whisper.

  “I recognized you from TV,” Mal said. “Although your hair is different.” He narrowed his gray eyes critically. “To be honest, I liked it better before, when it was all long and curly. It suited you more.”

  “But…but…” I looked around wildly, half-expecting to see the phalanx of press suddenly appear in the bar.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else recognizes you,” Mal said. Thankfully he was keeping his voice low. “You do look different.”

  “You did!” I hissed.

  “I have an eye for faces. And I remembered your eyes.”

  “What about them?”

  “I liked them,” Mal said simply. “They’re pretty. And honest. Not a combination I see a lot of.”

  “They’re just ordinary eyes,” I protested. But, despite my shock at being outed and my fear that this meant I’d have to find a new town to hide in, just when I was starting to get used to it here, deep down I couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pleasure that Mal thought my eyes were pretty. And I got the feeling that he meant it too, that it wasn’t just a line….

  Oh, good God, get a grip, I told myself sternly. Of course it doesn’t sound like a line. The best lines are the ones that don’t sound like lines. This guy is a pro. He’s exactly what Peter Graham warned me about.

  “Look, I have to get out of here,” I said, and started to push away from the bar, ready to slide off my stool. The sudden weight of a hand on my wrist stopped me—Mal’s hand, gentle but insistent.

  “Don’t go,” he said softly. “I didn’t meant to freak you out. Really, no one else knows who you are. And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “Why should I believe that?” I asked, my voice shrill. “I don’t even know you.”

  “You didn’t have to know me before you decided to hate me. So why do you need to know me before trusting me with your deepest, darkest secret?”

  I frowned at him. “Are you insane? It’s not the same thing at all!”

  But Mal was laughing now, and my lips curved up into a reluctant smile.

  “Ha-ha,” I said. “And it isn’t a dark secret—just a deep one.”

  “I think you’re smart to stay undercover. This town is full of opportunists.”

  “And you’d know all about that, huh?” I snapped.

  Mal grinned at me. It was an appealing grin, I had to admit. I could see why the girls—women, I corrected myself—flocked to him. He might be a player, but he wasn’t cheesy about it: no stupid lines, no heavy-lidded stares, no clumsy lunges. But I had to make it clear to him right here and now that I wasn’t going to fall for his act.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not interested. No offense. I’m sure you’re a really fun guy, and obviously you’re very popular around here even if you are unbelievably cocky, and you seem to have…” I tried to think of something nice to say. “Well…good hygiene, I guess. But I’m not into boy toys. It’s just not my thing.”

  Mal leaned back on his stool, looked at me for a long moment, and then, to my astonishment, he started to laugh. It wasn’t a chuckle but a full-out, belly-deep laugh. He was even wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Boy toy?” he repeated.

  And then he laughed some more.

  Perplexed, I stared at him under furrowed brows. I had no idea what he thought was so funny. People around us were looking over at him, many of them smiling at the sight of his hilarity, even if they had no idea what had caused it.

  “Good hygiene?” he finally asked, when he’d stopped laughing enough to speak. “That was the best you could come up with? Good hygiene?”

  I couldn’t help smiling at this, even though I did so rather sheepishly. “Well, I don’t know you very well. But you smell nice enough. Or, at least, you don’t smell bad.”

  And then we were both laughing.

  “Talk about damning with faint praise,” Mal said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. I was just trying to…well, to make it clear that I’m not interested in you. Not in that way. Although we can be friends, if you want.”

  “Lucky me,” Mal said, still grinning. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”

  “I’m not?” I asked, surprised.

  “And you call me cocky?” Mal asked, raising one eyebrow.

  I blushed, realizing that I had sounded arrogant. And I couldn’t exactly ask him why he wasn’t interested in romancing me for my money. That would be even more insulting than telling him he had good hygiene. “It’s just…you came over here to talk to me,” I tried to explain.

  “No, I didn’t. I came over here to get a beer. And then stayed for the insults.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll try not to insult you anymore.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be a struggle for you.” Mal laughed. “Anyway, as illuminating as this conversation has been, I’ve probably neglected Melissa for long enough.”

  “Melissa?” I asked.

  “The redhead in the green T-shirt,” Mal said, nodding toward the back of the bar.

  The redhead, I noted, was gorgeous. She had long, luxurious hair the color of copper and a golden tan, and what Mal had called a T-shirt was a very skimpy—and probably very expensive—silk sleeveless blouse in a gorgeous shade of jade green. I also noticed that she looked extreme
ly pissed off.

  “I think Melissa is bit peeved at you,” I said.

  “Melinda,” Mal corrected me.

  “You just said her name was Melissa.”

  “I did? Damn. Which one is it? Melissa or Melinda?”

  “How should I know?” I laughed, and Mal shot me a dirty look.

  “You’re a lot of help,” he said as he turned to leave.

  “Hey, wait a second.” Mal turned back to face me, his eyebrows cocked. “What is Mal short for?”

  “Malcolm.”

  “Really?” For some reason, this surprised me. “You don’t look like a Malcolm.”

  “Maybe that’s because I’m not a seventy-year-old Scotsman.”

  I laughed. “Maybe so.”

  “I should get back to my date.”

  “Whatever her name is.”

  Mal looked uneasily over at Melissa/Melinda. “Right.” But then he nodded genially at me and extended a hand, which I shook. “Lucy, it’s been a pleasure. Sort of.”

  I watched Mal make his way through the crowd at the bar to rejoin the hippie chicks. The redhead—whatever her name was—made a big show of pouting, but then one of her friends seized the opportunity to start flirting with Mal. The redhead quickly took his arm possessively in hers and curved her body against his.

  Hayden poked me in the side. “Are you ready to go? Ian’s getting off soon, and he said he’ll meet me back at the house. I want to take a shower before he gets there. I reek of smoke,” Hayden said, wrinkling her nose. She stabbed out her Marlboro Light.

  “Yes, I’m ready. Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  Thirteen

  DREW PHONED THE NEXT DAY.

  “I’m calling to see if we’re still on for tonight,” Drew said. He sounded a bit distracted and was talking faster than usual. “I’m sorry; I meant to call you yesterday to confirm, but I was in meetings all day and didn’t get the chance.”