Page 60 of How to Get Lucky
He makes a rolling gesture with his hand that translates to go ahead. “You’ve got the floor.”
I rip off the Band-Aid. “I’ve been seeing London.”
His eyes widen to the size of pizza pies. But he says nothing.
That’s okay. I have more to say. More that I should say. “I didn’t expect anything to happen. But I met her here at the club two weeks ago, and then I ran into her at the dog park before I knew she was related to you. I took her out to dinner, and I know I’m not supposed to be involved with people who work at the club, and more than that, she’s your sister. I’m pretty sure it’s a violation of the bro code to date your boss’s sister,” I say in a six-car verbal pileup.
Archer blinks. “Bro code. That’s funny.”
Is it funny? No idea. I still can’t read him. I’m still not sure what he’s thinking.
“But I did it anyway because she’s fantastic, she’s brilliant, and I’m pretty much crazy about her,” I say, starting with the crazy about her sentiment because I don’t want to shock the guy further with the L word. “And I want to keep seeing her.”
He’s quiet. Too quiet. He doesn’t say anything for several long seconds that threaten to spill into a minute.
An interminable minute.
Say something. Please say something.
He takes a deep breath, then speaks at last. “Is that why you’re quitting?” he asks, like he’s trying to make sense of all these events.
Understandable.
“No, and yes. I do think this is the next step of my career. And I also care deeply for her.”
He runs a hand across his chin. “Well, that does make things a little more complicated with what I was going to talk to you about.”
“What were you going to talk to me about?”
He parts his lips to speak, when his phone rings. He glances at the caller ID. “This is the call I was waiting for. I need to take it. I’ll catch up with you at the end of the night though.”
I leave with absolutely no clue what happens next.
34
That evening
From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery
London: Makeup is magic.
Olive: Girl, I tell that to my mascara every day.
Emery: I’m convinced lipstick has special powers. The power to make me actually look decent every single day. But does this mean you’re feeling better after this morning? You were pretty damn sad. Understandably.
Olive: Yeah, and if you’re not feeling better, I am ready with my jujitsu skills to take the bastard down.
London: Appreciate the martial arts support, but no need for that. Also, “better” is relative. But I’ve applied mascara, so I look half human.
Olive: Then why are you not at my bar right now? Come hang out with me while I sling drinks, and you’ll be fully human again.
Emery: I’m thinking a gal is more like one-quarter human after an Olive drink, and three-quarters happy alien moonwalking.
Olive: That is true. I am a badass bartender who delivers happy-alien-moonwalking libations. And badass bartenders also give excellent advice to their sad friends to help them be unsad. So get your cute butts here, ladies.
Emery: We need girl time. We need to help our London recalibrate.
Olive: Recalibration begins in thirty minutes!
London: On my way. Let me just grab some tissues and hug Mr. Darcy one more time.
Emery: Awww.
London: But I’ll be fine. Plus, I need to figure out what to do about the San Francisco job, so we can chat about that.
Olive: You do. Because you kick ass at what you do. See you in thirty.
London: Smack me if I’m too sad, please?
Emery: There will be no smacking. You will get bestie hugs instead.
London: Shut up. I love you.
Olive: I love you so much that I’m turning your phone off when you arrive.
London: Deal.
35
The music thumps. Sam dances to “You Shook Me All Night Long” for Lydia’s bachelorette party.
Carlos, Stanley, and the other guys join him onstage.
The women in the audience cheer and clap, tossing bills and toasting their friends.
The crowd is raucous, as they should be.
Tonight is everything Edge has always been.
In some ways, I’ll miss it.
In most ways, I won’t.
What I’ll truly miss is the camaraderie with the guys. The ribbing, the jokes, the bro talk. The way the dancers rely on each other, and on me. How we look out for each other in this odd job we’ve found ourselves in. Usually, strip clubs are the butt of jokes, and dancers are seen as sex workers.
These guys though? They’re just guys making a living.
Sam likes to move.
Stanley likes the extra money.
Carlos loves to dance.
No doubt I’ll hang with them occasionally once I’m gone. For sure, Sam will always be in my life.
I check the time on my phone, willing the minutes to pass, wanting to know what Archer has to say next so I can wrap things up with him.
