How To Get Lucky

by Blakely, Lauren

  “You can take it, kitten. You can handle both of us at the same time. That’s right. Just relax. You feel us now?”

  London: Ugh, he sounds like Teddy. Not helping!

  Olive: Teddy sounds like my favorite audiobook narrator? I’m so jelly now.

  London: Good night, crazy girl.

  Olive: Good night, Dancing Queen.

  14

  It’s Thursday night. We have three hen parties in the building, and Archer is like a general giving his troops our final marching orders.

  “All right, gentlemen. The Rothman party is already seated,” he says as he paces the dressing room backstage. “That bride-to-be is an entertainment executive named Bloom, and she’s wearing a sash that says ‘My friends made me wear this.’ She’s a good friend of one of my sister’s roomies.”

  I almost ask, Nate or Eli? But I catch myself and zip my lips because I shouldn’t know her roomies.

  I keep my insider knowledge of London’s life locked up airtight as Archer continues, “The maid of honor tells me Bloom has a thing for Aussie men. Sam, you know what to do. Play it up.”

  “No worries, mate,” Sam says, doing his best down under accent. “Even though I won’t be the one up there doing my best Hugh Jackman impression. Teddy will.”

  “Someone has to do the talking,” I say.

  “And someone has to have the moves,” Sam says.

  “And we all have a division of labor to keep the show moving,” says Archer. “Then, we have Mallory and her guests at the bar. And she happens to love firemen.”

  “I’ve got a hose right here for her,” Carlos offers with a pump of his built-like-a-Marine hips. He has close-cropped brown hair to match, and the look works for the job.

  Archer rolls his eyes, and holy hell—they’re the same fucking color as London’s. I’m not okay with that.

  “Keep it classy,” he says. “This is a revue, not a strip club.”

  “I tell my boyfriend the same thing whenever he gets jelly about me baring it all,” Carlos says.

  “You don’t bare it all,” Archer says.

  “I know, but I like to keep him on his toes.”

  And I’m not thinking about London’s eyes anymore.

  “Then we have the Flashmans. They’ll be arriving in around thirty minutes. Bride’s name is Victoria, and Miss Victoria loves a man in uniform.”

  Carlos licks his lips. “Me too.”

  “Again, Carlos,” Archer says.

  “What? It’s true. I mean, have you seen those hot cop videos?”

  “No, I have not,” Archer says.

  “Well, try them sometime.”

  That earns him another eye roll.

  Another well-deserved eye roll.

  “Wait,” Stanley cuts in, raising his hand like he’s in class. “Are we doing the handcuffs number or the soldier number? Which men in uniform are we talking about? Because there are a lot of uniforms out there in the world. Postal workers have uniforms too.”

  “Yes, Stanley. We know your day job is delivering mail,” Sam says.

  “And his night job is delivering . . . male,” Carlos says with a salacious wink.

  Archer slow claps. “Yes, puns are always entertaining. But back to business.” He turns to me. “You got everything, Teddy?”

  “Hot accents, hot hoses, Carlos likes cops and playing jealousy games. Stanley delivers all the packages. You enjoy homophones. It’s all in my notes.” I rattle it off at a steady clip without missing a beat. “Also, yes, I have music for that.”

  “Sam, Stanley, Carlos—I need a ton of energy out of you three tonight. Keep it classy, but a little dirty, like a proper martini should be,” Archer says.

  The four of us laugh, but the chuckles do nothing to take the edge off the tension in every cell in my body. It’s been three days since I last saw London, and I’m not sure if Archer knows we’ve hung out. Has she told him yet that we’re working together? Does he know we had ice cream?

  “You’ve got this, guys,” Archer says, giving us his go, team, go grin, which twists my stomach. Why the hell can’t he be an asshole? That would make my life so much easier.

  Though not really.

  Who wants to work for a dick?

  Which means . . . rock, meet hard place. I am in you.

  Ten minutes later, the lights dim, and I lure the crowd in with a fucking awesome Australian accent as Men at Work’s “Down Under” begins to play. “G’day, ladies, and welcome to Edge. We found our first act of the evening out back. Please give it up for Crocodile Hump Me.”

  Sam struts onstage in skintight dungarees and a wide-brimmed hat, which he tosses to our first bride of the night, Bloom. And like that, we find our rhythm as the rest of the guys join him onstage for the dance number. My nerves disappear as I let all thoughts of London and Archer fade away. I focus on the show and giving the crowd what they want, and the next few hours fly by.

  * * *

  When the guys finish their Top Gun–themed grand finale, complete with aviators, bomber jackets, and little else, I throw on the post-show playlist and head backstage to check in.

  With a look of terror in his eyes, Sam beckons me over. “Dude. Boss wants to see you.”

  The floor falls out from under me.

  Oh, shit.

  He found out about London.

  She told him we kissed more than once. Once can be forgiven. Once is an error. But twice is on purpose. He’s protective. He’s going to fire me.

  Because rogue kissing is not acceptable.

  I shouldn’t have crossed the line.

  With nerves frayed to the edge, I begin the death march to his office.

  “Do you think he knows?” Sam whispers, his voice thin with worry.

  “He probably has a camera in London’s car. Brothers do that, right? Maybe he saw me kissing her in her car the other day.”

  “That’s normal. I bet that sounds exactly like what he’d do.” He smacks my arm. “Seriously, do you think she told him you’re banging her?”

  I snap my gaze to him. “I’m not banging her.”

  “But you want to.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “There’s a thin line between kissing and banging.”

  I stare at him like he’s grown antlers. “It’s not a thin line. It’s a thick one. A huge one. A highway-median-sized one. There are a ton of lines between kissing and banging.”

  “All amazing lines,” Sam says, suddenly on my side again.

  “None of which I’ve crossed,” I hiss as I turn the corner, the sound of Archer’s laughter drifting into the hall and gutting me.

  “Good luck. I’ll say I knew you when,” Sam says, cringing. “I can’t watch horror movies, so I’ve got to jet.”

  I’ve never been a fan of scary films either, but seems I bought this ticket, and now I’ll have to face what’s on the big screen.

  15

  I walk the plank into Archer’s office and then stop, my eyes all but springing out of my head like a cartoon character’s.

  London is here.

  She’s standing next to Archer, checking out a picture on his phone. She jerks her gaze over to meet mine and tries to say something with her eyes.

  Like maybe she’s pointing to my pocket. My phone?

  Did she send me a message?

  I didn’t check my phone.

  I’ll have to improvise.

  “Teddy, I have a bone to pick with you,” Archer says, a serious glint in his eyes.

  And that’s the end of my job.

  The end of paying my bills.

  The end of my condo.

  I’ll be out on the street with Bowie tomorrow.

  I gulp but say nothing.

  “Isn’t it time for you to fess up?” he asks, still staunchly serious.

  London rolls her eyes. “Archer, dramatic much?”

  He gives her a look. “I could say the same to you, missy.”

  “Oh my God, you’re not Dad. Don’t call me missy.
”

  I can’t tell if she’s laughing at him, me, or whatever was on his phone. God, I hope it was a cat GIF. May she please have been laughing at a cat GIF.

  I don’t move. I stand there, waiting for the guillotine.

  It’s coming.

  Three, two, one.

  Archer gestures to the gorgeous woman I’ve already kissed. More than once. “This is my sister, London.”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” I blurt out.

  Why did I just serve that up?

  Because that’s what almost dead men do.

  “Don’t you have something to tell me?” Archer asks pointedly.

  I kissed your sister, and it was fucking awesome. Then I kissed her again, and it was more awesome.

  Instead, I shrug. It’s all I got.

  London points at Archer. “You need to stop.” She looks at me. “He’s being an annoying big brother.”

  Archer laughs, drapes an arm around London, then jams his knuckles into her hair, rubbing affectionately hard.

  And yeah.

  I can’t kiss her again.

  Ever.

  Because he’s such a big brother.

  And she’s such a little sister.

  And this is such a big mess.

  “She told me she enlisted you to help her develop the routine to show the partners. That’s an awesome idea.” Archer grins, looking from her to me. “Such a great idea, I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  What?

  He’s not canning me for kissing his sister?

  He’s not raking me over the coals for grazing his sister’s rack?

  I can breathe again.

  “She’s brilliant. I’m telling you, she is brilliant,” Archer says with obvious pride.

  “She is. She’s completely brilliant,” I say, grateful to be able to tell the truth.

  This is why I hate mixing business with pleasure. I don’t want to lie. Juggling multiple stories is not my jam. I don’t even like jam. I’m more of a peanut butter guy.

  And I don’t want to risk my job.

  I keep talking so I don’t do other things with my mouth, like seal it to hers. “The whole idea is brilliant. What you have planned for the club. Adding more dancing. Some new numbers. I bet it’ll draw even more crowds,” I say, leaning into the vision. “It’s important to broaden our reach and explore new markets. Great time to be expanding too.”

  “Exactly. It’s like you can read my mind,” Archer says.

  I only hope he can’t read my mind, because if he could, it would look like a spilled bag of Scrabble tiles that spell I really like your sister and I need to get the fuck out of here.

  Because my brain is at war with my body, twin desires tugging me in opposite directions.

  I want to tell Archer I have feelings for his sister and get everything out in the open. I want to run away and pretend this meeting never happened.

  But before I can do any of those things, Archer chimes in again. “Have you two ironed out a set list for her new material? You should get together ASAP to discuss what might work best. If this goes well, the owners will want to get this up and running stat.”

  Yes.

  This is brilliant.

  At least he knows I’m hanging out with her.

  Oh, wait. Hanging out with her is what tempts me TO TOUCH HER ALL THE FUCK OVER.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Except Archer got me into it. So now I need to get myself through this.

  I need to meet her someplace safe.

  Someplace that won’t tempt me.

  And I know exactly where that is.

  “What if we meet here during the day?” I suggest. There is zero that is tempting about this joint.

  “Or you could meet at the radio station. Weren’t you telling me that it has a great digital collection and speaker setup?”

  Yeah, and it has a fucking couch too. Thanks a lot, Archer.

  I gulp and then fasten on a smile. “Yes. Perfect.”

  “Excellent. Now I need to chat with Carlos and Stanley about a booking for tomorrow night,” Archer says. Sure enough, those guys are just outside and head into his office as I leave.

  On my way down the hall, I check my phone to find a text from London sent an hour ago.

  London: Heads-up! I’m at the club. Archer loves the idea of us collaborating! Yay!

  Yay.

  So much not yay.

  I have to ignore this powder keg of feelings I have for London.

  Because this is about work. This can only be about work.

  * * *

  I open the door to my car, when the unmistakable sound splits my eardrums.

  Shrieking.

  Squealing.

  Then a woman’s voice. “Oh my God! You are just the guy I wanted to see!”

  That doesn’t sound like the opening line of an ax murderer who’s about to hack you to pieces in a parking lot.

  At least, I hope not.

  And the woman click-clacking across the parking lot in a black dress and white sash isn’t wielding an ax. Just a tiara. So, odds are good I’ll end the night with my limbs still attached.

  Bloom, the entertainment exec bachelorette, charges at me in a feat worthy of a new Olympic sport—rushing across concrete in high heels while smashed. Come to think of it, running anywhere in high heels should be an Olympic sport because that’s world-class athletic prowess, wasted or not.

  Five seconds of ear-piercing shrieks later, she slams her hands down on my shoulders. “DJ Insomnia! I was hoping to catch you.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I go with it. “Cool. That’s me. DJ Insomnia, your first choice to make a party last. What can I do ya for?”

  She flicks a strand of dark hair off her cheek, her lip gloss smeared, the scent of margaritas swirling around her like it’s her new perfume. “You’re never going to believe this. I have the worst news ever. The worst of all the worst news that was ever delivered anywhere.”

  “That doesn’t sound very good,” I say dryly, waiting to see where this conversation is going. My guess is Wedding Town, because the rest of the bridal party marches across the parking lot to flank their bridal leader in what feels like a Reservoir Dogs meets Bridesmaids moment.

  “But see, it’s not the worst news. Because my gals and I—we were discussing it. And we texted Nate. And we had the best idea. All of us. It’s the best idea ever.” She takes a tequila-scented pause. “Be my Obi-Wan.”

  I arch an inquiring brow. “Is this a you’re-my-only-hope request?”

  Synchronized shrieking commences.

  “OMG, he knows what I mean.”

  The maid of honor jumps up and down. A bridesmaid claps.

  “If you could be my Obi-Wan, I would just kiss you. I mean, I won’t kiss you, because I totally love my husband. Well, he’s not my husband yet. He’s going to be my husband in three days, and I’m not going to kiss anybody else, but if I did, it would be you as long as you tell me that you can do one thing for me.”

  “What would that thing be?”

  “My DJ backed out of my wedding. He booked a shampoo commercial, and it shoots this weekend. It’s a national, so obvs, he can’t miss it,” she says.

  I feel my luck changing on a dime. I can guess what’s coming next from Bloom, and in three, two, one, it arrives. “And Nate said London told him you also do weddings. So, would you please DJ at my wedding this Sunday?”

  There is only one answer. “Yes.”

  16

  I meet with Bloom Friday morning at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, not only because I like the name, but because it’s in Silverlake, between both of us. Over a vanilla latte for her and a black coffee for me, we review her picks for the first dance, the dance with her father, and the groom’s dance with his mom.

  She also rattles off all her favorite numbers and her never-ever-play-at-my-wedding list.

  “No ‘Macarena,’ no ‘Every Breath You Take,’ and no �
�My Heart Will Go On,’” she says, counting off on her fingers.

  “Because it’s cheesy, because it’s a stalker song, and because no one wants to think of Leonardo DiCaprio dying.”

  The bride-to-be’s grin is massive. “It’s like it was meant to be, you deejaying my wedding.”

  “Kismet,” I say, feeling great about this opportunity. “Glad I could help out.”

  She gives me the rest of the venue and timeline details, and I tell her I’ll see her on Sunday.

  When I hop into my car, my phone buzzes with a text. Apparently, I’m Pavlov’s dog, because the possibility that it might be from London has me swiping the screen faster than usual.

  But I’ve got too much riding on my career to get sidetracked now, especially with new opportunities like Bloom’s wedding in my future.

  I’ll be friendly and businesslike if it’s London. But my mom’s name pops up on the screen.

  Mom: Ready when you are.

  Since I haven’t heard from her in a few days, this text must be for someone else, so I use this as an excuse to call.

  “Hi, Teddy. Good to hear from you.”

  “Question, Mom. Ready for what? Chess? Mah-jongg? Key party?”

  “Oops, did I send that to you? I meant to text your father. We’re brunching. Day date.”

  “You text him even though you live in the same house?”

  “We’re a modern couple. Don’t be so surprised we know how to text.”

  I shake my head. “That wasn’t the surprise. It was that you didn’t just yell up the stairs.”

  “We like to text.” Do I hear a hint of coyness in her voice?

  “Okay, then. Carry on.”

  “We will. We like to text about a lot of things.”

  I cringe, even though my parents have always been a touchy-feely couple. Which I truly don’t mind. I just don’t require details. “Mom, I don’t need to know that.”