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?<
br />
Wait.
What the . . .?
Snap out of it.
I am not feeling Al Green levels of hearts fluttering over my head.
Nope. Just enjoying some tunes. That’s all. Like William Bell. I switch to him next, then lean back in the chair and enjoy the song along with my listeners.
I turn my mic on as the track fades out. “And now, because music, like sex, is better with a partner, here’s Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’”
When the song ends, it’s one minute to ten. Time to wrap up.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s wind down, and whether you’re in the mood tonight for some ‘Love and Happiness’ or just looking to ‘Get It On,’ I hope you find someone to share it with. This is DJ Insomnia, reminding you that you can sleep when you’re dead. Peace.”
The “On Air” light flicks off as I cut the feed, energized by the post-show buzz.
Or is tonight’s high courtesy of anticipation? London will be here any second, and we’ll be alone.
The engineer took off already, since I’m used to locking up, and my show’s the last of the night.
In the quiet of the studio, I have my laptop open to cue up the “Come as You Are” remix I made for London’s revue, when she texts that she’s downstairs. I buzz her into the building. “Third floor. End of the hall. There may or may not be ice cream.”
“Do not tease about ice cream.”
“Fine. There is sadly no ice cream.” I wish now that there were. “But I can’t wait to tease you about other things.”
A minute later, the door to the studio control room opens, and London breezes in. “Your music partner has arrived,” she says with a flourish, and tosses her bag onto the couch.
Partner. Did she listen to my show? Hear my comment about duets? If so, that’s hella hot. “Music is better with a partner,” I say, and the glint in her eyes behind those cute red glasses is my answer.
I drink her in, from her flowy floral top that has the good sense to hug her breasts, to the curve of her hips in her snug jeans. My jeans become a bit snugger too. A lot snugger, actually.
“It’s good to see you.” I try to keep the mood casual as I stand, cross the studio, and wrap her in a quick hug.
We separate as she checks out the room, taking in the posters advertising bands at the Hollywood Bowl and the Greek. “This place is exactly how I pictured it. I have to confess, I was hoping I’d feel like I was in a Nick Hornby novel,” she says.
“It’s High Fidelity in radio station form.”
“Exactly. Epic show posters, a few gold records.”
I gesture to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.” As she sinks into the cushions, I take a seat opposite her at the desk so I can man the controls. As I settle in, her gaze lingers briefly on my stomach and the bulge in my pants. The hungry look in her eyes only sends more blood rushing to the region. Last night’s oral offer has been running through my mind continually. How can I be expected to get any playlist-planning done when she’s eye-fucking me like that?
It’s an impossible feat. Eye-fucking wins, fair and square.
She rubs her palms, at the ready. “What have you got for me?”
Oh, I have plenty for you, London.
I click on the mix, launching into the opening notes of Nirvana.
“You said you wanted something playful, fun, and also iconic. And when you busted out those moves downtown, then again in that video, I kept thinking about the type of music that women love, that gets them to grab their friend’s hand and say, ‘Oh my God, I love this song.’ But I also thought about how some things make us hear a song a new way. So . . .” I stretch out the word as I build to my big idea. “I’ve put some mash-ups together that combine rock edginess with pop effervescence. Something like this.” I switch from the Cobain track to the start of an Imagine Dragons tune.
Her eyes light up. “I love them. My friends do too.”
Yup. Called it. “Let’s give the audience what they want.”
“Brilliant.”
The second the lyrics are set to kick in, Taylor Swift launches into “Shake It Off.”
London’s eyes spark, and my chest tightens with a growing hope. I want her to like this way more than I expected.
She seems into it, but not quite sold, until I move on to the next tune—a Duran Duran number that the ladies at Edge always seem to sing their own karaoke to, “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
Something like glee crosses her face.
Pride suffuses me. Nothing beats impressing the woman you like.
Except sex.
That’s better.
But this is pretty damn close.
As Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” blends in with the chorus, London picks up her imaginary Strat and strums the air.
“You’ve been practicing. I can tell,” I say of her air-shredding.
“I’ve got a competition to enter, remember? And apparently I’ll have to learn animal hybrid tunes . . . because did you really just combine wolf and tiger songs?”
“I’m not afraid to go carnal,” I say, and her mouth forms a sexy O as she sets down her imaginary guitar and pick when Survivor hits the chorus. London bobs her head, visualizing her choreography, I suspect.
“I have a verdict,” she says, and I can’t tell from her tone if she’s deep in thought or deeply disappointed. She relieves me with her next words. “I love it, Teddy. It’s exactly what I’m looking for. The pop lyrics are familiar enough to get a club pumped up, but the rock jamming underneath makes it a totally unique sound. You’re soooo good.”
My body tingles at her words. I could listen to her compliment me all night long. And hell, I’d like to earn praise from her, in all different ways.
She mentions other artists she wants to hear, like P!nk and Ed Sheeran, so I make some notes to work on it and send her another round tomorrow.
We listen to a few other tunes I have cued up, soaking in the surround-sound vibe of the speakers, the way music bathes the studio. Archer’s right—it does feel like the club in here.
When we’ve made real progress, I declare our work done for the evening and head to the mini-fridge, grabbing two cans of seltzer and handing her one. “Celebratory toast?”
After we pop them open, we clink aluminum and say, “Cheers.” I slide next to her on the couch.
“That was hard work,” she says. “You do seem like you need a break.”
“Hey, it’s been a long day,” I say, a hint of fatigue coming through. “Tennis with Sam, lunch with my parents, radio show, thinking about the situation with you all day.” I probably shouldn’t admit that last bit, but when I’m next to her like this, the truth wants to come out.
“Ah, yes. It is a situation.”
“It didn’t help either when my mom asked if I was seeing anyone.” The guilt and confusion from lunch comes rushing back, like a sharp, stabbing pain.
She takes a sip of her bubbles, her brow knitting, like she’s mulling this over. “And what did you say?”
“Honestly? I lied. Or at least I kinda didn’t answer. And I don’t know why exactly. Because I love my folks and I’ve always been up-front with them about my relationships, and I wanted to tell them about you. But I don’t know . . .” I trail off, not sure exactly what I’m trying to say. Not sure where we should go from here.
How to be careful and also be present tonight. Or if I can.
“But this isn’t a relationship.” It comes out a little sad, and that note in her voice stops me for a moment.
But then, I can’t argue with her.
It’s not.
I’m the one who made it clear that we couldn’t have one.
I laid down the law.
“Right,” I say, a little heavily. “For all the reasons we talked about.”
“Exactly,” she says, adjusting her tone, speaking brightly now. Maybe too brightly? Hard to say, but I swear for a second it sounds like she�
�s convincing herself.
Like maybe she wishes we could have something more.
Or is that wishful thinking on my part?
Likely so, and with that in mind, I let the next words make landfall. “Except we aren’t going to be working together that long . . .”
It sounds like an invitation, one that spells out how I’m potentially up for more in the future.
Trouble is, even though she won’t be working for the club much longer, she’ll always be my boss’s sister.
And I don’t want to mix business with pleasure.
Especially since leaving the club isn’t an option.
My deejay business has barely gotten off the ground. It’s like a hot-air balloon floating a few feet above earth, sandbags still very much attached.
“That’s true,” she says, perched on the edge of the couch like she’s waiting for me to say more.
But, fuuuuck, I can’t say what I want to say. Can’t do what I want to do.
I can say this much though.
“You’ve got to know, if I didn’t work for your brother, this would be different,” I say, gesturing from her to me and back. “It would. I swear.”
Her smile curves wickedly. “Good to hear.”
“But I do work for him. And more than that, I just can’t make the same mistakes I made last time. Everything was tangled up with Tracy’s dad, and when I got out of that relationship, I had to start over. Rebuild from scratch.”
“I don’t want you to be in that position. You need to know I don’t want to get in the way of your career. That’s the last thing I want.”
Damn. Why does she have to be so understanding? Oh right, because she’s awesome. Thanks, universe, for dangling a fantastic woman in my path—a woman I can’t have.
“And I need the job. I need the raise I’m up for too, since it’ll help me with my own business.” I emphasize the word need because, well, it deserves emphasis. “My event business isn’t ready to fly on its own just now. Maybe someday. But not yet. So I need to keep building that. I said as much to Sam when I told him about you.”
How To Get Lucky Page 13
