Page 31 of How to Get Lucky
“Or you could meet at the radio station. Weren’t you telling me that it has a great digital collection and speaker setup?”
Yeah, and it has a fucking couch too. Thanks a lot, Archer.
I gulp and then fasten on a smile. “Yes. Perfect.”
“Excellent. Now I need to chat with Carlos and Stanley about a booking for tomorrow night,” Archer says. Sure enough, those guys are just outside and head into his office as I leave.
On my way down the hall, I check my phone to find a text from London sent an hour ago.
London: Heads-up! I’m at the club. Archer loves the idea of us collaborating! Yay!
Yay.
So much not yay.
I have to ignore this powder keg of feelings I have for London.
Because this is about work. This can only be about work.
* * *
I open the door to my car, when the unmistakable sound splits my eardrums.
Shrieking.
Squealing.
Then a woman’s voice. “Oh my God! You are just the guy I wanted to see!”
That doesn’t sound like the opening line of an ax murderer who’s about to hack you to pieces in a parking lot.
At least, I hope not.
And the woman click-clacking across the parking lot in a black dress and white sash isn’t wielding an ax. Just a tiara. So, odds are good I’ll end the night with my limbs still attached.
Bloom, the entertainment exec bachelorette, charges at me in a feat worthy of a new Olympic sport—rushing across concrete in high heels while smashed. Come to think of it, running anywhere in high heels should be an Olympic sport because that’s world-class athletic prowess, wasted or not.
Five seconds of ear-piercing shrieks later, she slams her hands down on my shoulders. “DJ Insomnia! I was hoping to catch you.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I go with it. “Cool. That’s me. DJ Insomnia, your first choice to make a party last. What can I do ya for?”
She flicks a strand of dark hair off her cheek, her lip gloss smeared, the scent of margaritas swirling around her like it’s her new perfume. “You’re never going to believe this. I have the worst news ever. The worst of all the worst news that was ever delivered anywhere.”
“That doesn’t sound very good,” I say dryly, waiting to see where this conversation is going. My guess is Wedding Town, because the rest of the bridal party marches across the parking lot to flank their bridal leader in what feels like a Reservoir Dogs meets Bridesmaids moment.
“But see, it’s not the worst news. Because my gals and I—we were discussing it. And we texted Nate. And we had the best idea. All of us. It’s the best idea ever.” She takes a tequila-scented pause. “Be my Obi-Wan.”
I arch an inquiring brow. “Is this a you’re-my-only-hope request?”
Synchronized shrieking commences.
“OMG, he knows what I mean.”
The maid of honor jumps up and down. A bridesmaid claps.
“If you could be my Obi-Wan, I would just kiss you. I mean, I won’t kiss you, because I totally love my husband. Well, he’s not my husband yet. He’s going to be my husband in three days, and I’m not going to kiss anybody else, but if I did, it would be you as long as you tell me that you can do one thing for me.”
“What would that thing be?”
“My DJ backed out of my wedding. He booked a shampoo commercial, and it shoots this weekend. It’s a national, so obvs, he can’t miss it,” she says.
I feel my luck changing on a dime. I can guess what’s coming next from Bloom, and in three, two, one, it arrives. “And Nate said London told him you also do weddings. So, would you please DJ at my wedding this Sunday?”
There is only one answer. “Yes.”
16
I meet with Bloom Friday morning at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, not only because I like the name, but because it’s in Silverlake, between both of us. Over a vanilla latte for her and a black coffee for me, we review her picks for the first dance, the dance with her father, and the groom’s dance with his mom.
She also rattles off all her favorite numbers and her never-ever-play-at-my-wedding list.
“No ‘Macarena,’ no ‘Every Breath You Take,’ and no ‘My Heart Will Go On,’” she says, counting off on her fingers.
“Because it’s cheesy, because it’s a stalker song, and because no one wants to think of Leonardo DiCaprio dying.”
The bride-to-be’s grin is massive. “It’s like it was meant to be, you deejaying my wedding.”
“Kismet,” I say, feeling great about this opportunity. “Glad I could help out.”
She gives me the rest of the venue and timeline details, and I tell her I’ll see her on Sunday.
When I hop into my car, my phone buzzes with a text. Apparently, I’m Pavlov’s dog, because the possibility that it might be from London has me swiping the screen faster than usual.
