Page 29 of How to Get Lucky
“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.”
