How to Get Lucky

by Lauren Blakely

  Which is the point of his job—to make Brittney feel like the only woman in the room. And he’s damn good at it.

  Even from my vantage point above the floor, Brittney looks as happy as I am when I find a fresh, new record.

  Nearby, her friends cheer like they have megaphones. One of the many things I love about the women who enter Edge is how, while they don’t object to the beefcake, they’re so clearly here for the camaraderie with their friends. I don’t see many sad solo women nursing drinks in corners here.

  And I do a lot of observing. Occupational hazard, you might say, but I think of it as a benefit.

  I have the time to people-watch, and it’s become a favorite pastime of mine—studying human behavior—and few places are better than the fishbowl of a club.

  A place where, technically, I could meet plenty of women to ask out on dates. But I haven’t.

  Because work is work.

  And because dating these days is scarier than clowns, dentists, and clown dentists.

  As Bulge finishes his dance, he moves around the stage, ripping off his pants and unbuttoning his elbow-patched cardigan. The bills come out. Ladies stuff tens in his spandex briefs or tastefully throw fives on the stage. Over by the bar, a couple of guys do too, laughing happily as they tuck in some greenbacks.

  Once Bulge has received his extra credit, one dude smacks a kiss on the other, then they catch the gaze of the woman with them, who flashes the biggest smile their way.

  A bright, gorgeous grin that lights up her face.

  Followed by an eye roll that is somehow both adorable and feisty.

  And now I’m definitely glad that checking out the guests is in the job description because . . . holy shit. I’m not sure I can look away.

  She’s like a sexy librarian with her hair piled on her head in a messy bun and adorable red glasses sliding down her nose. Her chestnut curls dance playfully off her cheeks, which have just the slightest hint of red in them, like she’s turned on or embarrassed. Or both. Or neither.

  Now I wish my only job were to keep my eyes on the patrons, because I could stare at her all night.

  But the last notes of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” are playing, and that means I’m up.

  As the music fades, my voice booms over the PA system. “Professor Bulge has to grade some papers right now, but you’ll find him on the side stage in a little while. Right now, I have a very special treat for you. His business is taking care of your business. He’s the CAO of the most successful company in LA. It’s our Chief Arousal Officer, Mr. Jerkins.”

  The lights shift, I fade to the next track, and Sam, now in his Mr. Jerkins attire, saunters onto the stage in his tailored suit while Bulge tosses out some detention slips on his way backstage.

  Once Mr. Jerkins hits the lights, I take up the cause again, my eyes hunting for the sexy librarian, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  My shoulders sag.

  I sigh, run my hand through my hair, and shrug.

  But what can you do?

  It’s not like I was going to jump over the edge of the DJ booth, sidle up, and ask for her number.

  I want to keep my job, and hitting on patrons is numero uno on the Do Not Do List at Edge.

  It’s a short list. House rules are hands off the guests, the staff, the money.

  Easy as one, two, three. Like the Jackson 5 song.

  As the night winds down, I program the next few tracks to play and head to the bar for a refill—water, of course. Seltzer, actually, since I do love my bubbles.

  And I’m not alone.

  The brunette thanks the bartender and reaches for what looks like a Diet Coke, her friends nowhere to be seen.

  As I’m walking to the counter, Aerosmith’s “Crazy” hits the chorus, and she spins in her stool, playing air guitar like she’s auditioning for the band. Her gaze swings to mine, and I’m instantly lost in the most arresting brown eyes I’ve ever seen—they’re like brandy.

  She doesn’t miss a beat. Just flashes me a smile and keeps jamming.

  I don’t know what comes over me. Nothing. Everything. But without thinking, I tell her, “You’re in air guitar C, but you want to be in air guitar E for this part.”

  Her hands freeze. “Perish the thought of playing in the wrong key,” she says, all dry and deadpan.

  I’m about to reply when Jake slides my seltzer across the bar. “Here you go, DJ Insomnia.”

  I whiplash back into the moment—work, I’m at work—and that’s my cue to go back to fucking work.

  Good thing too. Because as much as I want to grab a stool and chat her up, this dude abides by the Do Not Do List.

  I’ve got plans. So many damn plans. And they all start and end with not repeating the mistakes of the past.

  So, with that firmly in mind, I head back to my perch to finish out this Saturday night.

  Nighttime is my favorite.

  It’s the vibe I know, the vibe I love. The club always feels a little off when the lights go up, the sounds go down, and the artifice is exposed.

  It also means it’s time to go.

  I turn off the amp, mixer, and computer, then slide my iPhone into my pocket and rap twice on the door to the DJ booth for good luck.

  On my way out of the club, I stop by the manager’s office, since it’s always wise to be on good terms with the guy who signs your paychecks.

  Something that wasn’t always the case at my last gig.

  Plus, Archer is a cool cat, even if he likes Coldplay. I can forgive him for that sin, since the rest of his musical taste is top-notch.

  When I pop in, he’s rocking out to My Chemical Romance, spreadsheets open on his laptop.

  I point at the computer speakers. “An excellent choice. I saw them at the Palladium a few years ago. Sick show.”

  “Love these guys. And glad to have the DJ’s approval,” he says, leaning back in his chair in that casual manner of his.

  “Happy to give it. I’m out of here, but I’ll see you in a few days. We’ve got that double bachelorette party on Thursday, right?”

  “We do. Bring your A game. Should be a wild one.”

  I smile. “You’ll only get the best. I have some great new tunes and mixes lined up. I’m pretty sure the hot dancers are the main reason those ladies are coming, but hey, everything is better with a good soundtrack.”

  “Great, Teddy. Always love hearing the stuff you find. Oh, also,” Archer continues, shifting gears, “your one year with the company is coming up next month.”

  “It’s been that long already?” This job has been the best part of a year that started out as a dumpster fire.

  “Sounds like a nice time for a raise,” he says, lifting his brows, leading the horse to water.

  And, oh yes, I will drink that. Not going to turn down some extra cash. “I am a big fan of raises,” I say with a smile. I’m tempted to add sir in an eager-to-please way, but Archer would roll his eyes, and rightfully so.

  I thank him and head out of the club, amped up by the possibility of not just a raise, but of doing everything differently this time around.

  2

  When most people envision life in Los Angeles, they think of beaches, celebs, and crazy-good food. And they’re not wrong. All those things rock.

  But for me, one of the best parts of living in Los Angeles is the twenty-four-hour Target.

  Do I frequently find myself walking its aisles at three in the morning? No. But when I do need to hit it after my shift ends, all-hours access to Target is awesome.

  Plus, I’m amped up tonight. I can’t stop thinking about the brown-eyed beauty who seemed interested and not interested at the same damn time.

  I turn that over in my head as I park my Prius in between two other Priuses. (Or is it Prii? Whatever it is, there are a lot of ’em in LA.)

  Will I see her again?

  Seems doubtful.

  Best to put her out of my mind.

  And since it’s pushing one a.m., I make a detour fo
r treats and toys on the way home.

  Not for myself, but for my fifty-pound rescue pit bull, David Bowie. I love that gray-and-white ball of muscle. He’s the only thing I salvaged after my breakup with Tracy—the only thing that mattered to me.

  Bowie happens to be a dog-toy aficionado, so I make my way to the best aisle in the store and load up my red basket with braided rawhides, salmon chews, and a squeaky duck. Bowie mans the home front while I’m putting on the show, so now and then, he gets a reward for his security work. He’s excited to see me either way, but I’m sure the treats help. Hell, I like treats. I wouldn’t object to someone bringing home treats for me.

  I grab some of the store’s special home-baked dog biscuits, then I throw a furry hedgehog toy into the basket because it is a truth universally acknowledged that all pooches in possession of a good hedgie must be in want of nothing. Props to Jane Austen for an epic first line in Pride and Prejudice—a line which can be applied to pretty much anything.

  I buy the toys, head home, and give my boy a hello.

  Or really, he greets me with a goofy smile and a face lick.

  After I take him outside, I toss him his new stuffed playmate, hit the sack, and put the air guitarist out of my mind.

  It’s not as if I’m going to see her again.

  And if she did come back to the revue, well, that might mean I’m not her type.

  Since, ya know, I’m not a stripper. And strippers are generally the reason people frequent the club every weekend when the guys are in all their, as Sam likes to say, abilicious glory.

  I do have good abs though. I blame LA for that.

  Or really, I thank LA for that.

  And as I hit the hay, I don’t think of Miss Air Guitar for one second. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

  Women only mean distraction—and I sure as hell don’t need that in my life right now.

  Ever listen to a song you’ve never heard before on the radio and then go home and hear that same song on a TV show? Or a commercial?

  I have a theory about that.

  It’s not that everyone in the entertainment industry is listening to the same five songs. Though a lot of them are.

  The theory is about synchronicity.

  It’s happening all the time, all over the world. Meaningful coincidences.

  We might not always be aware of it.

  But I bet we’re walking past the same people every day at the farmers market, the park, the coffee shop.

  We don’t always notice them though.

  Unless, like that song on the radio, that person is already on our mind. I’m already thinking about her. I want to be looking for her.

  Evidently I’m looking.

  And evidently I’m a lucky fucking guy.

  Because my theory proves out Sunday afternoon when I unleash Bowie and open the gate to the Silverlake Dog Park.

  In the corner under the shade of a tree, a woman with red glasses chucks a tennis ball at a Chihuahua mix, who takes after it like his feet have wings.

  Hello, synchronicity, and thank you very much.

  The air guitarist wears a vintage Beverly Hills, 90210 T-shirt that says “Senioritis” above a shot of the cast.

  Another coincidence—I just started streaming that show.

  What are the odds I’d see her again so soon? Not only that, but she’s obviously a fellow dog lover.

  This is the universe making everything easy. She’s not a patron of the club right now. This is neutral territory. Ergo, it’s time for my pooch to earn his treats.

  I look down to enlist my furry wingman to help snag an introduction, but Bowie spots a pair of playful huskies and abandons me. Can’t say I blame him. My dude loves the chase. Looks like I’m on my own.

  I casually make my way up the dirt hill toward the wavy-haired brunette I haven’t stopped thinking about since last night.

  She’s even prettier in the sunlight.

  My step turns a little hesitant as I get closer. It’s been a while since I’ve approached a woman. In the club my confidence is sky high, but I’m in my element there. Safe behind the DJ booth, perched aloft, looking down on the action.

  Here I’m just a guy who hasn’t been on a date in almost a year. But that won’t change unless I get back out there, and I’d never forgive myself if I let this opportunity slip by.

  Before I can second-guess myself anymore, I’m sharing her shade and making eye contact.

  I gesture to the ’90s throwback tee she’s wearing. “This may be an unpopular opinion, but I always thought Andrea was the cutest one on that show,” I say.

  She smiles back before reaching down to pick up the tennis ball, a hint of recognition in her eyes, like she’s trying to place me. “You’re not just a fan of the crew, but of the girl who never gets picked first?”

  I hold up a hand as if I’m taking an oath. “I am all that. Though technically I’m a new fan. I’ve only streamed a couple episodes, but I definitely dig the whole glasses-and-curls vibe she has going on,” I say, and the brunette gives me a keep going nod. “Plus, the show did have an epic soundtrack, before that became the thing for TV shows.”

  “So, my shirt is retro, but the show was ahead of its time. Yay me,” she says with a playful glint in her eyes.

  I grin. “Hard to go wrong with R.E.M., Elvis Costello, and Chris Isaak.”

  She plucks at the fabric and smiles. “That was the slogan on the other shirt I was going to get. Darn. Should have snagged that one.”

  “I’d wear that shirt too.”

  She laughs, and I want to pump a fist. Then she screws up the corner of her lips, studying me. “I saw you at the club last night, didn’t I? You were the DJ and erstwhile air guitar expert.”

  Yes. Pretty sure her remembering me falls under the heading of Keep Going. So I do. “That’s what it says on my business card. Both those things, actually.”

  “I enjoyed your emceeing.”

  I try to rein in a grin. Compliments from cute women are the best thing ever. “I was up there doing my best Michael Buffer impersonation.”

  Her brow knits in confusion. “Who’s Michael Buffer?”

  “You don’t know Michael Buffer? Like, from boxing? Or MMA?” How could she not know who he is?

  “Not a huge fan of watching men beat the crap out of each other.”

  “That’s understandable. He’s a fight announcer. That’s literally all he does. Just announces the start and end of a fight. And he’s super famous and super rich for just that. You know ‘Let’s get ready to rumble’?” I say the catchphrase, but don’t perform it. She, on the other hand, dives right in.

  “Oh yeah! Let’s get rrreeeeaaaadddyyyy—”

  I cut her off, bringing my finger to my lips. “No, wait! Stop. You better not say it out loud. He might hear you.”

  She scans the park, left and right, and drops her voice. “Oh, what? Is he like Candyman or something? Is he going to come through a mirror and get me?”

  “It’s possible. You can’t be too safe.”

  “Thank you so much for the warning. But it’s kind of hard not to say. Don’t you think?”

  “True,” I concede. “It’s like ‘I’ll be back’ or ‘No, I am your father,’” I say, imitating Arnold and James Earl Jones in turn.

  She laughs. “Those weren’t bad. So come on, let me hear your Michael Buffer . . .”

  I’m pretty sure I’d do anything she asked me to. And I’m adhering to the keep going rule I just enacted. “I’ll do it for you, but if he hears me and sues for trademark infringement, you’re paying the fine.”

  “Consider it paid. Now proceed.” She crosses her arms and gives me a playful I’m waiting look. I take a deep breath, when my blue-nose bruiser crashes into my knee. I steady myself, since now is not the time to fall, then I mix it up, meeting the brunette’s eyes as I imitate the announcer, saying to my pooch, “Someone is ready to rumble.”

  My audience of one gives an approving nod, dips a hand in her back pocke
t, then pretends to fish out some money from her wallet. “For your fine.”

  “Much appreciated.” I mime taking it from her and tucking it into my own pocket before I bend down to give my boy some scratches on the chin. “Hey, big guy. How you doing?”

  He pants, then hops over to the teacup dog, gently nuzzles his ear, and flops down on his back. The little dog takes his turn and boxes my guy’s ears.

  The 90210 fan joins in with the pack moment, stroking Bowie on the chin, and if I didn’t have a crush on her already, I would now. Women who love dogs are my kryptonite.

  “And who is this adorable fellow?” she asks.

  “This is David Bowie. He’s super friendly. Got him from the North Central shelter about six years ago. The second he looked up at me with that little streak of white between his eyes and that goofy grin, I was a goner.”

  Her fingers graze mine as we pet him, and yep, Bowie is getting all the treats in the world tonight. I take back everything I said about his wingman skills. He’s showing them all and then some right now.

  “I’d be a goner too. He’s a doll of a dog, and I love rescue mutts.”

  Bowie takes off, glancing behind him like he’s daring the other guy to follow, and the little dog flies. We stand, and her gaze follows the dogs as they race in circles around the park, her expression saying she’s getting a kick out of them getting along.

  “Love the name. Are you a Stardust fan?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been trying to get him to answer to Ziggy, but so far, no dice.”

  “You should try Rebel Rebel,” she says.

  “Not a bad idea.” I test it out to no avail and shrug. “Worth a shot. So, who’s the little guy running with the big dogs?”

  “That’s Mr. Darcy. We come here every Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon. Sometimes he goes to the small-dog side of the park, but even though he’s seven pounds, he’s convinced he’s a German shepherd. Hence, he insists on the big-dog side.”

  “The man knows his mind. Good for him. Honestly, most tiny dogs bark at Bowie like they’ve got something to prove, but your little guy has some serious swagger. Of course, when you oversee the entirety of the Pemberley estate, you have to have some confidence.”