Page 23 of How to Get Lucky
There’s more at stake here than whether I want a third or fourth date with her, than whether I want to take her home, strip her down to nothing, and kiss her all over. Than whether I want to learn if she likes it when I lick the hollow of her throat, the valley of her breasts, her belly, and if she likes to be undressed slowly or quickly, and . . . FUUUUCKK.
I am getting off topic right now.
“I can give you some suggestions or play some tracks for you,” I say, reorienting my thoughts as best I can. “But it might help if I saw these moves in action. To give me a better sense of what you’re going for.”
Might give me a better sense of how sexy she is too, but I don’t say that out loud.
A wicked glint flashes in her eyes. “Follow me.” She wiggles her fingers. She jogs halfway down the block, points to a door, punches a combo on a keypad, then disappears into the entrance of the Theatre at Ace Hotel, a former movie house that’s been renovated into a live performance venue.
When I catch up, she’s holding the door open for me, and naturally, I have no choice but to follow her.
11
I’m damn curious how she finagled her way into this theater. “Hey, magician. How did you just walk into the Ace like that?”
“I know the house manager,” she says, looking all manic-pixie-dream-girl for a hot second. “Texted him earlier. He told me we could have the stage to ourselves for an hour. It’s all ours.”
She runs through the ornate lobby, then past a set of double doors that lead down the aisle past the seats. When she reaches the stage, she hops up onto it, tucks her glasses into her purse, and drops it on the side of the stage. I trail behind, taking in the grandeur of the empty Gothic theater.
My eyes eventually land on London where she stands, hands on hips, right in the middle of the stage.
I take a seat in the front row, and this is definitely the best front-row seat I’ve ever had. The stage is washed in a soft blue light, and London sets up the routine. “I imagine this is a synchronized set with maybe four or five women. They sashay to center stage as the lights come up and the amazing music that you’re going to help me choose begins. Hold for four.” London freezes, reminding me of a statue of Aphrodite. “Then five, six, seven, eight . . .”
She slides into that classic stripper move where she drops her head, jams both hands into her hair, flips her head back, and pumps out her hips.
That move works fantastically well on London’s body—and on mine, judging from the wood I’m now sporting.
Thanks, dick. Really fucking helpful.
With a snap of her hips, the energy of the dance shifts. It’s raw, sexy, with familiar moves, like the sway of her body and the slide of her hands traveling down between her breasts.
As the choreography teeters on the brink of red-hot sexuality, her movements morph into something fun and playful, like at any moment she might raise her hands, whoop, and holler, which is exactly what the crowd wants to do sometimes.
A few beats later, the dance turns quieter, softer, more sensual, more erotic.
I am transfixed. I can’t look away. She’s done everything she said she would do. She’s created something completely unexpected.
The creative part of my brain is offering an encouraging yes.
The dirty part of my brain is shouting, Holy hell, get over here. Get off the stage and get on top of me and ride me so fucking hard in the middle of this theater.
And the rational, logical part of my brain agrees, saying, Well, that would be an excellent idea, and you should absolutely do that.
Then there’s that voice, the dude-bro in me, rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and telling me, You’re such a fucking dumbass.
But the one thing all my gray matter has in common? Every part of me is Into. This. Woman.
I swallow the words stuck in my throat as her body stops moving and she asks, “What did you think?”
What did I think?
I think I’m like every guy in every movie, when the gorgeous friend he’s falling for tries on a bunch of outfits and prances around the dressing room and comes out with silly hats and gigantic sunglasses and makes pouty faces, and everybody laughs, and it’s all fun and games.
Until that moment at the end, when she emerges wearing a beautiful, stunning, perfect dress and she looks incredible, and says, “What do you think?”
In that moment, his eyes widen and all his wishes flicker across them.
What do I think?
I think this—that it’s been a couple days since I met her, but already I’m feeling like the way we talk, the way we connect, the way she is so easy to get along with is making it so much harder for me to stay in Monopoly jail.
