Page 44 of How to Get Lucky
When the song ends, it’s one minute to ten. Time to wrap up.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s wind down, and whether you’re in the mood tonight for some ‘Love and Happiness’ or just looking to ‘Get It On,’ I hope you find someone to share it with. This is DJ Insomnia, reminding you that you can sleep when you’re dead. Peace.”
The “On Air” light flicks off as I cut the feed, energized by the post-show buzz.
Or is tonight’s high courtesy of anticipation? London will be here any second, and we’ll be alone.
The engineer took off already, since I’m used to locking up, and my show’s the last of the night.
In the quiet of the studio, I have my laptop open to cue up the “Come as You Are” remix I made for London’s revue, when she texts that she’s downstairs. I buzz her into the building. “Third floor. End of the hall. There may or may not be ice cream.”
“Do not tease about ice cream.”
“Fine. There is sadly no ice cream.” I wish now that there were. “But I can’t wait to tease you about other things.”
A minute later, the door to the studio control room opens, and London breezes in. “Your music partner has arrived,” she says with a flourish, and tosses her bag onto the couch.
Partner. Did she listen to my show? Hear my comment about duets? If so, that’s hella hot. “Music is better with a partner,” I say, and the glint in her eyes behind those cute red glasses is my answer.
I drink her in, from her flowy floral top that has the good sense to hug her breasts, to the curve of her hips in her snug jeans. My jeans become a bit snugger too. A lot snugger, actually.
“It’s good to see you.” I try to keep the mood casual as I stand, cross the studio, and wrap her in a quick hug.
We separate as she checks out the room, taking in the posters advertising bands at the Hollywood Bowl and the Greek. “This place is exactly how I pictured it. I have to confess, I was hoping I’d feel like I was in a Nick Hornby novel,” she says.
“It’s High Fidelity in radio station form.”
“Exactly. Epic show posters, a few gold records.”
I gesture to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.” As she sinks into the cushions, I take a seat opposite her at the desk so I can man the controls. As I settle in, her gaze lingers briefly on my stomach and the bulge in my pants. The hungry look in her eyes only sends more blood rushing to the region. Last night’s oral offer has been running through my mind continually. How can I be expected to get any playlist-planning done when she’s eye-fucking me like that?
It’s an impossible feat. Eye-fucking wins, fair and square.
She rubs her palms, at the ready. “What have you got for me?”
Oh, I have plenty for you, London.
I click on the mix, launching into the opening notes of Nirvana.
“You said you wanted something playful, fun, and also iconic. And when you busted out those moves downtown, then again in that video, I kept thinking about the type of music that women love, that gets them to grab their friend’s hand and say, ‘Oh my God, I love this song.’ But I also thought about how some things make us hear a song a new way. So . . .” I stretch out the word as I build to my big idea. “I’ve put some mash-ups together that combine rock edginess with pop effervescence. Something like this.” I switch from the Cobain track to the start of an Imagine Dragons tune.
Her eyes light up. “I love them. My friends do too.”
Yup. Called it. “Let’s give the audience what they want.”
“Brilliant.”
The second the lyrics are set to kick in, Taylor Swift launches into “Shake It Off.”
London’s eyes spark, and my chest tightens with a growing hope. I want her to like this way more than I expected.
She seems into it, but not quite sold, until I move on to the next tune—a Duran Duran number that the ladies at Edge always seem to sing their own karaoke to, “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
Something like glee crosses her face.
Pride suffuses me. Nothing beats impressing the woman you like.
Except sex.
That’s better.
But this is pretty damn close.
As Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” blends in with the chorus, London picks up her imaginary Strat and strums the air.
“You’ve been practicing. I can tell,” I say of her air-shredding.
“I’ve got a competition to enter, remember? And apparently I’ll have to learn animal hybrid tunes . . . because did you really just combine wolf and tiger songs?”
“I’m not afraid to go carnal,” I say, and her mouth forms a sexy O as she sets down her imaginary guitar and pick when Survivor hits the chorus. London bobs her head, visualizing her choreography, I suspect.
