Page 42 of How to Get Lucky
London: Not yet. But if something came of it? Yeah, I would. I don’t like lying to him.
Olive: Sweets, you’re not lying to him. You’re just not telling him till there is something to tell.
London: True. I guess we will see if anything happens.
Olive: I bet it does. And in the meantime, if the Pegasus plays the Lizard King with the magic tongue in the audiobook of your love life, here’s a great primer on dirty talk. I listened to this the other night, and then texted Hawke to be good and ready when he got home. I’m going to send you a snippet of All Night with the Inked Biker Next Door, read by Dax Long, aka the Pegasus.
“I’m going to give it to you and give it to you hard. That’s the only thing I want on earth. To make you feel so fucking good.”
London: Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was busy with my BOB.
Olive: Knew it. Called it.
23
As I finish up a long walk with Bowie, a text message pings on my phone.
Like a trained circus monkey, my dick stands at attention.
Hopeful fucker.
But not without cause—the message is from London.
London: I did as promised.
Teddy: Told your friends?
London: Yes.
Teddy: And?
London: Olive sent me a naughty audiobook full of dirty talk, and I . . . well, did I mention you give good dirty talk?
Teddy: Is this another good-guy hurdle?
London: It is. Also, I just learned I really like dirty talk. Can I order up some more for the next time I see you?
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?”
