Page 7 of How to Get Lucky
She hums, tapping her chin as Mr. Darcy runs two circles around her legs, then darts off again. “Now I’m curious. How does a lit major find himself deejaying at an all-male revue?”
“Do you mean did I dream about playing ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ for my half-naked buds when I was in fourth grade?”
“That’s the path to DJ-hood, right? Cueing up stripper songs as a grade schooler?”
I bring my hand to my heart and sigh exaggeratedly. “Exactly.” But while I could talk about my passion all day, I don’t want to come on too strong. So I focus on the question she asked—why am I at Edge? “I started deejaying parties in college, and I was able to turn it into a job when I graduated.”
I check out Bowie’s whereabouts—near the water fountain scampering with Mr. Darcy—before getting to the still-raw bit. “Then last year, when I needed a new gig, my best friend hooked me up. He works there too, which is dope. You’d think a straight guy might not be into spending his nights with a room full of oiled-up men, but honestly, everyone is super fun to be around. More importantly, what brought you and those two dudes there last night?”
“Those guys are my roommates. Nate and Eli. Though technically they’re my landlords, since I rent a little studio—like a mother-in-law pad—off their house. They’re insanely fun, but also disgustingly in love, and sometimes I feel like the third wheel.”
“You always have your solo career as an air guitarist to fall back on if that friendship band breaks up.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. Very funny.”
“What? I’m serious. You had some real moves. You do know there are air guitar competitions? I’ve DJ’d some. We could get you into one.”
“That’s what I’ve always wanted. To show off my skills with imaginary instruments,” she says as Mr. Darcy arrives to drop off the tennis ball.
“No time like the present to build your burgeoning air guitar career. I’m trying to do the same thing with a DJ business I just started—weddings, bar mitzvahs, and corporate events. Los Angeles is the place to be for that.”
“This city does have every form of entertainment under the sun,” she says as she reaches to pick up the ball that Mr. Darcy brought over, and I can’t help myself. I steal a quick glance at her shapely legs and round ass, painted into that pair of jeans. She is fine. “How long have you lived in LA?”
“My whole life.”
She shoots me a skeptical stare as she tosses the ball for her eager pup. “No way. No one is from Los Angeles. Do you, like, get a tattoo or something when you’re born here?”
I flash briefly to the Celtic trinity knot ink on my left forearm, covered by my long-sleeve shirt. But this moment calls for levity, so I go a different route.
“You do,” I say in mock seriousness as the Chihuahua mix takes off in a blur. “Mine says ‘Sun’s out, buns out.’ I can’t show it to you now though.”
Her eyes glint in a way that says she’d like to see it another time, and I beam inside. This is working. With a naughty little smile, she asks, “But another time? You’ll show it to me another time?”
I shrug, the kind that says yes, of fucking course. “I could probably be convinced.”
She taps her temple. “Duly noted. I’ll try to think of how to be convincing, Mr. Native Angelino. Now, if you’ve been here your whole life, you must love—”
I jump in to finish her sentence. I know where this is going—same place it usually goes. “Surfing and skateboarding?”
She hesitates like maybe I caught her. “Tacos. I was going to say tacos, obviously. You must love tacos.”
“To quote the great Ms. Austen, ‘Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of tacos.’”
“And I believe that’s a direct quote too.”
“It should be,” I say. “Actually, I love all Mexican food. If I could only eat one kind of cuisine for the rest of my life, it’d be Mexican. What about you?”
“Ice cream, of course. What could beat a dessert that encompasses all four food groups?”
“Don’t get me wrong—I love a cone, but how does ice cream cover all the food groups?”
“Simple science. Strawberry counts as fruit. Mint is clearly a veggie, because mints are leaves. Bacon ice cream covers protein. And every single scoop is dairy. So there.”
I laugh. Deeply. “You win that debate.”
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion,” she fires back at me, and I can tell she’s quoting something.
My brain cycles quickly through options, since the words feel familiar and I want to get it right. “Is that Emma?”
“Nice try. Pride and Prejudice,” she says, her eyes sparkling like she’s having fun with this moment and with me. “I was trying to see how sharp you are. The fact that you even know of the existence of Emma is pretty impressive.”
