How to Get Lucky

by Lauren Blakely

  “Because I do,” I say, the gravity of my words more intense than before.

  I love London.

  I want to go to weddings with her, take her out for sushi, bring the dogs to the park, eat ice cream, talk about toasters.

  Everything is better with London.

  Trouble is, London’s gone. She needs space.

  And truthfully, I need it too.

  But I don’t know what to do now, so I hold my arms out wide. “What do I say to Archer tonight? Do I quit? Do I tell him I’m in love with his sister? I’ve been down this road before, and it didn’t end well.”

  Sam adjusts his other leg on top of his half lotus. “London’s not Tracy, and Archer isn’t Tracy’s dad. None of this has ever happened before. Every moment is new. What does your gut tell you? What does your heart say? Ask those questions and listen to the answers. Then decide what you’re going to do with this moment.”

  I mull over his advice, but not for long.

  Because ideas begin to spark.

  Plans take shape.

  Real ones. True ones.

  “I need to be honest.” I recall Mom’s advice about priorities, and as Sam’s wisdom also takes hold, so does my certainty. “I need to come clean.” The thoughts pour out as fast as they form. “Not just about the job. I need to be fully honest with my boss. I owe it to him. I owe it to London. Hell, I owe it to myself. Because that’s the man I want to be. A good guy.” I smile, remembering London’s initial challenge to me.

  “That’s the Teddy I’ve always known, but life is a series of tests we must continually pass.”

  Energy fills me, flooding my cells. My mind races to tonight.

  I stand. Pace. Blueprint the evening ahead.

  “I need to quit Edge, but not for the reasons I thought. I thought I could quit, then mention I was seeing London down the road, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. But she’s not a ‘down the road’ person. She’s right fucking now.” I pace in the other direction, ticking off points as I talk. “I need to quit because having my own company is my dream. I can’t be the man I need to be for London if I’m not the man I want to be for myself. And that starts by telling my boss the truth and taking a chance on myself.”

  It’s time to give everything I have to a company that hasn’t even taken flight yet. But the risk will be worth it. I believe that.

  I blow out a heavy sigh. “This won’t be easy.”

  Sam nods sagely. “It’s like Bodhi tells Johnny in Point Break: ‘If you want the ultimate, you’ve got to be willing to pay the ultimate price.’”

  I stare at him, noodling on that. He’s right. Like Bodhi was right. “I needed that. Thanks, man.”

  I smile and give Sam a big hug before I leave, knowing what I need to do next.

  It’s time to take control of my life. Even if it means losing a lot along the way.

  33

  On the one hand, this is a death march.

  On the other, I’m walking into my future.

  That’s what I tell myself as I administer an epic pep talk on the drive to work. Sam, riding with me in the car, backs me up.

  “You’ve got this,” he says as I turn onto the block that houses Edge. “You’ve so got this, bro.”

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate all the help today. I couldn’t have figured this out without you.”

  Sam shakes his head, having none of it. “Nope. It’s all you.”

  At Edge, I park my car, cut the engine, and scan the lot.

  My stomach leaps into my lungs when I spot Archer’s red Lexus here. That’s a good sign, but it’s also an omen that shit is about to get real.

  It’s hard to leave a job you like, to say goodbye to a boss who’s been good to you. “I can do this,” I say as I head toward the club, Sam by my side.

  “You can do it, just like I can do a hot AF dance to ‘You Shook Me All Night Long.’”

  “True. You can definitely do that.”

  “So if you need extra guts before you go into his office, just think about me shaking my hips to that rock anthem.”

  “I probably won’t do that, but I do appreciate the offer,” I say dryly.

  “Just trying to help a brother out.”

  I open the door to the club, both nervous and resolute. I’m ready for my future.

  For everything.

  As Sam makes his way to the dressing rooms, I head around the corner to the manager’s office.

  Archer’s voice drifts through the doorway, sounding like he’s finishing a phone call. My shoulders tense as he says, “Sounds great. Talk to you again soon.”

  The tension spreads as reality kicks all the way in once I reach his office. I’m doing this. True, I’m stepping into my future, but it’s without a safety net.

  I knock on the open door as Archer ends the call then flashes me a professional grin. “Hey, Teddy. How’s everything going?”

  “Good,” I say, my pitch a little high. I draw a breath, trying to keep my voice even, but I don’t budge from the doorway. “Do you have a minute?”

  His brow knits. “Sure. I was hoping to chat with you too.”

  He wants to talk to me too? About what? My tongue feels heavy, my throat dry.

  Archer waves me in. “Come in. You look like this is a take-a-seat conversation.”

  I nod, relieved that he senses my awkwardness. “It is, sir.”

  He blows out a long stream of air. “You’re breaking out the sir. Sounds more like it’s a shut-the-door conversation.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say, turning around, doing just that, then grabbing a seat in the chair across from his desk. He waits, his expression patient.

  Time for me to man up.

  I draw a breath, letting it fuel me. “You said the other week that if I wanted to pursue other opportunities, you would just be grateful for a heads-up.”

  He winces. His expression falters. “I did.” He leans back in his chair. “I had a feeling this was coming.”

  I run my palms along my jeans. “I’d like to give you my two weeks’ notice. I didn’t think it would come so soon, but the thing is, I really want to run my own company,” I say, getting those words out finally, and once I do, I feel lighter, buoyant. “I want to do weddings. I want to do bar mitzvahs. I want to do celebrations. I want to be part of these great family rituals. Parties, birthdays, anniversaries—that’s what I really like doing.”

  He nods a few times. “I can see that in you. That seems like your jam.”

  “It is. The wedding I did last weekend reminded me of that. Honestly, even helping choreograph London’s routine reminded me how much I like putting music together for all sorts of opportunities. And I think I should devote all of my attention to that kind of work,” I say, taking a staggered breath after getting all those words out. All those true words that I should’ve said a few days ago. But it took me that time to figure out what I needed for my own happiness.

  Archer picks up a pen, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll miss having you around here, but I appreciate you coming to me. I had a feeling that was what you wanted to talk about as soon as you showed up in my doorway.”

  I swallow, digging down deep to say the next thing. “But there’s something else I need to chat with you about too.”

  He makes a rolling gesture with his hand that translates to go ahead. “You’ve got the floor.”

  I rip off the Band-Aid. “I’ve been seeing London.”

  His eyes widen to the size of pizza pies. But he says nothing.

  That’s okay. I have more to say. More that I should say. “I didn’t expect anything to happen. But I met her here at the club two weeks ago, and then I ran into her at the dog park before I knew she was related to you. I took her out to dinner, and I know I’m not supposed to be involved with people who work at the club, and more than that, she’s your sister. I’m pretty sure it’s a violation of the bro code to date your boss’s sister,” I say in a six-car verbal pileup.

  Archer blink
s. “Bro code. That’s funny.”

  Is it funny? No idea. I still can’t read him. I’m still not sure what he’s thinking.

  “But I did it anyway because she’s fantastic, she’s brilliant, and I’m pretty much crazy about her,” I say, starting with the crazy about her sentiment because I don’t want to shock the guy further with the L word. “And I want to keep seeing her.”

  He’s quiet. Too quiet. He doesn’t say anything for several long seconds that threaten to spill into a minute.

  An interminable minute.

  Say something. Please say something.

  He takes a deep breath, then speaks at last. “Is that why you’re quitting?” he asks, like he’s trying to make sense of all these events.

  Understandable.

  “No, and yes. I do think this is the next step of my career. And I also care deeply for her.”

  He runs a hand across his chin. “Well, that does make things a little more complicated with what I was going to talk to you about.”

  “What were you going to talk to me about?”

  He parts his lips to speak, when his phone rings. He glances at the caller ID. “This is the call I was waiting for. I need to take it. I’ll catch up with you at the end of the night though.”

  I leave with absolutely no clue what happens next.

  34

  That evening

  * * *

  From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery

  * * *

  London: Makeup is magic.

  * * *

  Olive: Girl, I tell that to my mascara every day.

  * * *

  Emery: I’m convinced lipstick has special powers. The power to make me actually look decent every single day. But does this mean you’re feeling better after this morning? You were pretty damn sad. Understandably.

  * * *

  Olive: Yeah, and if you’re not feeling better, I am ready with my jujitsu skills to take the bastard down.

  * * *

  London: Appreciate the martial arts support, but no need for that. Also, “better” is relative. But I’ve applied mascara, so I look half human.

  * * *

  Olive: Then why are you not at my bar right now? Come hang out with me while I sling drinks, and you’ll be fully human again.

  * * *

  Emery: I’m thinking a gal is more like one-quarter human after an Olive drink, and three-quarters happy alien moonwalking.

  * * *

  Olive: That is true. I am a badass bartender who delivers happy-alien-moonwalking libations. And badass bartenders also give excellent advice to their sad friends to help them be unsad. So get your cute butts here, ladies.

  * * *

  Emery: We need girl time. We need to help our London recalibrate.

  * * *

  Olive: Recalibration begins in thirty minutes!

  * * *

  London: On my way. Let me just grab some tissues and hug Mr. Darcy one more time.

  * * *

  Emery: Awww.

  * * *

  London: But I’ll be fine. Plus, I need to figure out what to do about the San Francisco job, so we can chat about that.

  * * *

  Olive: You do. Because you kick ass at what you do. See you in thirty.

  * * *

  London: Smack me if I’m too sad, please?

  * * *

  Emery: There will be no smacking. You will get bestie hugs instead.

  * * *

  London: Shut up. I love you.

  * * *

  Olive: I love you so much that I’m turning your phone off when you arrive.

  * * *

  London: Deal.

  35

  The music thumps. Sam dances to “You Shook Me All Night Long” for Lydia’s bachelorette party.

  Carlos, Stanley, and the other guys join him onstage.

  The women in the audience cheer and clap, tossing bills and toasting their friends.

  The crowd is raucous, as they should be.

  Tonight is everything Edge has always been.

  In some ways, I’ll miss it.

  In most ways, I won’t.

  What I’ll truly miss is the camaraderie with the guys. The ribbing, the jokes, the bro talk. The way the dancers rely on each other, and on me. How we look out for each other in this odd job we’ve found ourselves in. Usually, strip clubs are the butt of jokes, and dancers are seen as sex workers.

  These guys though? They’re just guys making a living.

  Sam likes to move.

  Stanley likes the extra money.

  Carlos loves to dance.

  No doubt I’ll hang with them occasionally once I’m gone. For sure, Sam will always be in my life.

  I check the time on my phone, willing the minutes to pass, wanting to know what Archer has to say next so I can wrap things up with him.

  But at the same time, what can he say that’ll change things? I already pulled the rip cord.

  And survived.

  I made my choice.

  The other choice I want to make is her.

  London.

  I’m dying to see her again, touch her, kiss her.

  Talk to her.

  Figure out if we can take this thing off ice.

  Heat it all the way up again.

  Do I need to wait for Archer’s nod of approval?

  As soon as that thought lands, I dismiss it. This is my choice. Her choice. Our choice.

  And I only want to choose her.

  She’s been on my mind all day long, and as the guys launch into a new routine Carlos choreographed to Sam Smith and Demi Lovato’s “I’m Ready,” I weigh my options.

  Call London tomorrow? Text her? See her? Go to her place with a salted caramel ice cream cone and say, Be mine?

  I lean back in my chair, contemplating, as the song echoes through the club.

  As it does, I listen.

  And I know.

  The title can only be a message.

  A command.

  One I need to follow right this damn second.

  I am ready.

  Fuck waiting.

  When you know you want to be with someone, when you know she’s the one, you don’t wait.

  You do.

  As the chorus blasts through the club, I open the message app on my phone and tap out a text to her.

  * * *

  Teddy: I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want to take a break from you any longer. I want to see you again. I want to talk to you. Tell you everything I figured out. Because I’m crazy for you, London. Text may not be the best way to tell you everything, but let me know if you’re around.

  * * *

  I read it one more time, my finger hovering over the send button.

  I am ready, no doubt.

  But I’ve been learning that being ready means doing things right.

  I’m not an expert on love, or women, or even great sex. But I’ve discovered this much from being with London and working out what I want.

  A text isn’t enough.

  When you want to tell a woman you’re in love with her, you need to show up in person.

  Bring her a gift.

  Do things the right way.

  I hit delete.

  The moment the last song of the night fades out, I grab my gear, tap the doorframe twice, then stop by Archer’s office to finish our conversation.

  But his door is shut.

  I shrug. So it goes. He’s not the priority any longer. London is. I’ll catch up with him another day.

  Sam waits by the front of the club, and I tell him I need to swing by Target before I head home.

  “Sweet. I’ve been jonesing for some Cinnamon Life cereal, and Target has those big-ass boxes.”

  “Are you so hungry you’re going to eat a whole box tonight?”

  He frowns. “You’re right. Six-packs don’t grow on trees. I’ll get some yogurt instead. Thanks for looking out for my abiliciousness
.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing.”

  A little later, Sam is digging into his yogurt, I have a bag of home-baked dog treats in the center console, and we’re cruising along the streets of Los Angeles after midnight on the way to London’s house.

  Sam hums thoughtfully. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it almost two in the morning?”

  The green display on the car’s dashboard confirms he can tell time. “It is.”

  “Does she want you to show up at two in the morning?”

  I smile as I turn onto her street. “That’s where this gift comes in.”

  “Oh. She’s one of those women who likes you to leave gifts at two in the morning? I’ve heard of the existence of such ladies, but I haven’t met any.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m going to leave a gift on her doorstep. It feels like something a Jane Austen hero would do.”

  “Leave dog biscuits?”

  “Yes. Captain Wentworth would, and he’s the bomb,” I say as I pull over, parking at the curb.