How to Get Lucky
Page 13
Olive: Yeah, because earbuds were invented for men with deep, sexy voices to whisper sweet, dirty nothings into. Prove me wrong. Also, since you’ve heard Dax Long giving it good, then you understand why I go on and on about him.
* * *
Emery: After that kitten, let’s have a threesome clip, yes. Yes, we do. But wait. What’s his other name? He goes by the Ostrich, right? Or is it the Rooster? Wait. No. It’s the Lizard King!
* * *
Olive: *rolls eyes* It’s Pegasus. He’s the Pegasus.
* * *
London: Pegasus, as in the mythical Greek creature?
* * *
Olive: He is a man of legend.
* * *
London: Hello? Can we discuss real men and real orgasms?
* * *
Olive: The Pegasus has given me lots of real orgasms when my hot hubs isn’t around. Solo Os are real. Don’t be so judgy, you dirty girl. But feel free to make up for it by telling us everything.
* * *
London: Let me just say . . . le sigh. Le big happy, dirty cloud nine sigh.
* * *
Olive: Yay! More, more. Give us more.
* * *
Emery: Was it sheet-grabbing, bone-rattling, back-arching good?
* * *
London: Let me put it this way. I felt like I had an out-of-body experience when he went down on me.
* * *
Olive: So he is kind of a Pegasus.
* * *
London: It felt quite fantastical. So yes, let’s call it a Pegasus-level O. But . . .
* * *
Emery: Uh-oh.
* * *
Olive: Did he do butt stuff to you, London? Please say yes. Please say yes.
* * *
London: There was no butt stuff, you pig!
* * *
Olive: Oink, oink. So what’s the catch?
* * *
London: The catch is I like him so much. And I’m pretty sure he really likes me too.
* * *
Emery: Liking a man can be hazardous to your health.
* * *
London: I know. Trust me, I know.
* * *
Emery: What do you like about him?
* * *
London: He’s funny, clever, kind, and thoughtful. And he listens. He actually listens. So, obviously . . . he’s too good to be true.
* * *
Olive: Kind and thoughtful? He does sound like a book hero. Do you think if your story is made into a romance novel, we could have the Pegasus voice him?
* * *
London: Well, he is quite magical with his tongue.
* * *
Emery: Should we call him the Lizard King, then? And does he have any new tricks we should know about? Not asking for a friend.
* * *
London: The trick is this—he was just super into it and so was I.
* * *
Emery: *swoons*
* * *
Olive: *breaks out emergency nightstand BOB*
* * *
Emery: Olive, can you not start diddling yourself while we’re texting?
* * *
Olive: What made you think I just started?
* * *
Emery: You’re such a pervert.
* * *
Olive: Takes one to know one. And speaking of perverts, I want to hear from pervy London. Tell us more about the Lizard King’s magic tongue.
* * *
London: Honestly, I think he just wanted me to feel really good. That was the magic.
* * *
Olive: You are so far gone. Also, that’s kind of how it should be. But you’ve probably forgotten because it’s been such a long time. I think you might be suffering from sex amnesia.
* * *
London: That comes after the sex drought, right?
* * *
Emery: But it ends with the sex feast. Are you having a sex feast?
* * *
London: I would like to be. I kind of can’t stop thinking about him. What the hell am I supposed to do?
* * *
Emery: Only one thing to do. Emergency meeting to discuss. Because it sounds like it’s way more than just sex.
* * *
London: I think it’s been more than just sex from the first day I met him. He never seemed like a “just sex” guy. Is that good or bad?
* * *
Olive: Let me be serious for one hot second. It’s good. It’s also dangerous.
* * *
London: Ugh. That’s my worry. He’s made it kind of clear that he’s not really interested in anything more. Because of working for my brother and all that.
* * *
Emery: Your brother is hot.
* * *
London: Wow. On that note, my lady boner is gone.
* * *
Olive: Mine’s not. Archer is a babe.
* * *
London: You’re married!
* * *
Olive: Married. Not dead.
* * *
Emery: But on a more serious note, are you going to say something to Archer?
* * *
London: Not yet. But if something came of it? Yeah, I would. I don’t like lying to him.
* * *
Olive: Sweets, you’re not lying to him. You’re just not telling him till there is something to tell.
* * *
London: True. I guess we will see if anything happens.
* * *
Olive: I bet it does. And in the meantime, if the Pegasus plays the Lizard King with the magic tongue in the audiobook of your love life, here’s a great primer on dirty talk. I listened to this the other night, and then texted Hawke to be good and ready when he got home. I’m going to send you a snippet of All Night with the Inked Biker Next Door, read by Dax Long, aka the Pegasus.
* * *
“I’m going to give it to you and give it to you hard. That’s the only thing I want on earth. To make you feel so fucking good.”
* * *
London: Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was busy with my BOB.
* * *
Olive: Knew it. Called it.
23
As I finish up a long walk with Bowie, a text message pings on my phone.
Like a trained circus monkey, my dick stands at attention.
Hopeful fucker.
But not without cause—the message is from London.
London: I did as promised.
* * *
Teddy: Told your friends?
* * *
London: Yes.
* * *
Teddy: And?
* * *
London: Olive sent me a naughty audiobook full of dirty talk, and I . . . well, did I mention you give good dirty talk?
* * *
Teddy: Is this another good-guy hurdle?
* * *
London: It is. Also, I just learned I really like dirty talk. Can I order up some more for the next time I see you?
* * *
Teddy: Your order will be served HOT.
* * *
London: Teddy?
* * *
Teddy: London?
* * *
London: I know you said that this can’t really be anything, and I get that. I respect that. But I really want to see you again.
* * *
Teddy: Same. I want the same.
* * *
London: Are we still on for the radio station?
* * *
Teddy: On like Donkey Kong.
* * *
Bowie and I bound up the steps to my condo and head inside. He laps some water in the kitchen as I flop down on the couch in a text message haze, happy and dizzy. My phone pings again.
With a dopey smile, I slide my thumb across the screen.
And freeze.
* * *
Archer: How’s everything going with the dance routines? The partners are excited to see what you and London are working on.
* *
*
Guilt wraps its prickly fingers around me. Digs into my chest. Winds down my spine. Talk about the worst timing ever.
* * *
Teddy: I’m going to see her tonight at the radio station. We’ll work hard on that set list.
* * *
Archer: Working hard. That’s what I like to hear.
* * *
I wince.
Why did I say work hard?
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing away the guilt, trying to kick it under the table.
A little later, I call Sam, and we hit the tennis courts for a game. I focus entirely on beating the fuck out of him in straight sets so that I don’t think at all about how I’m lying to my boss.
But the truth is, all I can focus on is London the woman.
Only the woman.
Apparently, that means I can’t annihilate Sam, since the fucker pulls off a rare victory.
“I rule!” He thrusts his arms in the air when he finishes me off, racket in one hand.
“Good game,” I say.
“Epic.” He hands me a towel as we walk over to our bags. “But you were out of your element, bro. I can read your energy, and it’s all out of whack.”
“That’s your official diagnosis? Out of whack?”
“That’s as official as it gets from Yogi Sam, Assessor of Energy. What’s the story? Was the wedding gig full of bad mojo?”
I scoff, because that’s the furthest thing from the truth. “The wedding was great. London was there.”
“And?” he asks, waiting for me to fill in the gap.
“And she came home with me.” I offer it like the confession it is.
“Ohhhhh.” The drawn-out syllable sounds like a warning. “So what’s next?” he asks as we reach my car. “How are you going to deal with that?”
By seeing her again.
Only, that’s not the right answer.
But it’s the choice I’m making.
“I’m seeing her tonight.”
He lets out a low whistle then claps my shoulder. “I’m not going to tell you what to do or what not to do. All I will say is this—be careful, bro. Can’t always see the riptides until it’s too late.”
It’s great advice, but I’m not sure I’m going to follow it. When it comes to London, I’m already swimming out way too far.
24
My father whacks another softball to the end of the batting cage.
“You go, stud.”
That’s my mom, encouraging her man. It’s awesome. Not weird, just awesome.
Well, I could do without the stud bit.
“Impressed, son?” my dad asks, glancing my way.
“I’m always impressed with your softball prowess.”
He digs in at the plate, eyeing the red pitching machine. “You should come to my games, then. Cheer me on.”
My jaw drops. “I was there the other week. Did you not recognize your only son at the game, yelling from the bleachers?”
He slams the ball. “Oh, that’s right—that was you. Didn’t realize you were there, since you yell like an ant.”
“An ant?” I shoot back, puzzled, as he cracks another ball all the way to the fencing.
My mother tsks me. “Yes, sweetheart, don’t you know? You have to cheer incredibly loud for your father. He needs a lot of praise at his age.”
My dad gives her a smile. “I’ve needed a lot of praise at every age.”
“Duly noted,” I say. “So we’ve reached the stage in our relationship where I’m now the parent and you’re the millennials yearning for participation trophies?”
My dad seems to consider this, then nods. “Sounds about right.”
Another ball arcs toward Dad, but this time he overswings and it’s a rare miss. We both laugh, and he takes a deep breath and settles back into the box.
After a few more cuts, we finish and pack up, heading to the café next to the cages, my parents holding hands as we walk. We order lunch, then my mom sets her hands on the table. “How was the wedding? I want to hear all about it.”
“The bride was incredibly happy. I checked this morning on Yelp, and she already left me a five-star review, which was definitely not something I thought she’d take care of on her wedding night, but hey, she did,” I say, spreading my napkin on my lap. “Plus, I’ve already had one person reach out to me after seeing the review, asking to book me for an upcoming gig.”
Dad pumps a fist. “This is good. This is exactly what you’ve been wanting. You’ve been a little lost for the last year.”
That’s my dad—not one to mince words. “True. And I think this is going to help me focus on growing my new business, building it from the ground up. I won’t be distracted now.”
But that’s not entirely honest. When I got home from tennis and got in the shower, I was 100 percent focused on London again.
My dad gives me a warm grin. “It’s good to see you moving on after Tracy. You were in a funk for a while after things fell apart with her.”
“And that’s understandable,” my mom weighs in. “But speaking of moving on from Tracy . . .” She trails off in that inviting sort of tone that warns the next question is coming in three, two, one . . . “Have you met anybody else?”
“Since you asked me a few days ago?” I counter, deflecting.
She nods earnestly. “Yes, love can happen quickly.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that.”
This is the moment of truth. I like my parents. I’ve been pretty open with them my entire life. I told them when I had my first kiss my freshman year of high school. I told them about the girl I took to senior prom. I’ve discussed sex with them. They bought me my first box of condoms and took me out for pizza after my first breakup. They raised me in a household without any shame.
They kissed in front of my sister and me. They went out together and made it clear that date nights were important for a couple.
They’ve always talked openly about intimacy and the power of love. I’ve always believed in love because of them.
A part of me desperately wants to continue down that path of truth and say, Yes, I’m seeing this awesome woman.
But am I seeing her? Are we dating?
No, you dumbass, you’re not fucking dating; you’re messing around with her. She’s your boss’s little sister, and you’re hooking up with her on the side, which feels entirely wrong.
And entirely what I can’t say to my parents.
“There’s not really anyone,” I say with a smile and a shrug.
And as our food arrives, I feel shitty about lying.
But not so shitty that it stops me from seeing London that night.
25
That evening, I settle into one of my happy places—behind the soundboard at the public radio station, putting tracks together for my Monday night show.
I’m trying to keep my mind focused on my work project with London, but if my set list tonight is any indication, my brain is not cooperating. The show is packed with soulful R & B. Seems that some part of me thinks this work meeting is a good excuse to chill to some vocalists who know how to tell a woman how they feel.
And Al Green can do just that.
Should I follow his lead? Tell London I’m a little crazy for her?
Wait.
What the . . .?