Page 17 of How to Get Lucky
Olive: Ooh, I just finished this super-hot book about a double-dicked alien who gives quadruple orgasms to Earth ladies. That’s what he calls them—Earth ladies. And trust me, in Dax Long’s voice, nothing sounds hotter. But enough about twin dicks. My condolences on your date . . . not being a dick.
Emery: How dare he be considerate?
London: Tell me about it. But hey, Teddy and I will be friends. It’ll be great. I’ll keep the laser focus on work and friendship, friendship and work. Besides, that’s what I should be focused on now that I’m back in town regardless.
Olive: I agree. You need to nail that opportunity you’ve been telling us about.
London: And nail it I will! I’ll be all work, work, work, friends, friends, friends with Teddy.
Emery: Have fun being friends with a guy you want to bang, bang, bang, no matter how many alien dicks he has.
Olive: He has two, Em. Two.
Emery: I’d have thought he has three, what with all that spark.
8
The next morning, the sun blares through my window, the coffee machine whirrs, and I put on my game face. It’s Monday, so the club is closed, giving me a chance to work on my business plan. Edge is fun, but I’m pretty sure deejaying a part-time all-male revue has a shelf life. And though my weekly radio show is a blast, my dreams are bigger. That’s why during my free time I pour my energy into building up DJ Insomnia’s full-service event business, All Night Entertainment.
The website is up and running, all the social media platforms are covered, and I’ve invested in a great road kit and some killer lights to bring the party wherever I go. Now, I need clients.
That’s all.
I roll up my sleeves, so to speak, and do my damnedest to find them.
I spend some time cold-contacting various community organizations in town: churches, temples, rec centers. I fire off tons of emails, crack my knuckles, stretch, and feel pretty good about my progress so far today.
Better, in fact, when my inbox displays one new message right away. This is awesome. I bet a church has already responded with Yes. And can I please book you for this weekend’s potluck?
But when I click over to the email, my heart sinks a little bit.
Or maybe it’s not my heart. What’s the organ in your body that hosts all of the guilt that you feel? Oh, it’s pretty much your entire bloodstream, and mine is coursing with a whole lot of guilt right now thanks to an email from the boss.
I click it open, a bit of regret swirling around in my chest as I read Archer’s message.
Hey, Teddy, just a quick note to let you know that double bachelorette party on Thursday just became a TRIPLE. I don’t think we’ve ever done a triple bachelorette party before! But I am up to the challenge. Hoping you can get to work a half hour early to make sure everything is a go with the music?
I reply instantly.
Absolutely. I’ll be there, and I’ll tweak my set list to add even more awesomeness. It’s going to be a fantastic night!
I add an exclamation point at the end. I’m not an exclamation point kind of guy, but I’m going to sell this with all the exclamation points in the world. I hit send. As the message flies off into cyberspace, I choose to see his email as a reminder.
A reminder that I cannot pass Go again. I’m playing Monopoly, and I’m putting myself in jail for the rest of the game.
I click over to my texts and look up London’s name, then I fire off a professional note.
That’s all it is.
Just a text about working on her project.
Nothing more.
Teddy: Hey! When do you want to get together to talk music and dancing? I have time this afternoon or tomorrow. What’s good for you?
I read it over.
Yup.
There’s nothing flirty. Nothing dirty.
I hit send, then it’s time for a midmorning tennis session with Sam. I pull on workout shorts and a stretchy polo, walk Bowie around the block, then pop down the hall and grab Sam to take off for the public courts at Vermont Canyon.
* * *
An hour later we’re both drenched in sweat, my heart rate is up somewhere between “power walk” and “chased by wolves,” and I’m ready to put the nail in the coffin of this match. Sam might have the looks of an athlete, but hand-eye coordination seems to have eluded him.
Lucky for me.
I finish him off with a powerful forehand down the line, which he misses by a mile.
Sam rips his headband off, his blond hair flying around his face. “Damn you, Teddy,” he screams like he’s McEnroe. His yell morphs into a laugh as he calls, “Good game,” while retrieving the ball.
“It’s always a good game when I win,” I say as we head toward the bench at the side of the court to grab our gear.
