Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Lucky
“Wanna fuck?”
Lovely approach.
“Does that line ever
actually work for you?”
The tactless drunk at least has the decency
to look a little embarrassed. “Not really.”
“Perhaps you should try opening with a
compliment instead. We like that much better. Go ahead, give it
another try.”
“All right.” He gulps back the rest of what
will now be the last vodka tonic he’s served tonight and slurs,
“You got a nice rack.”
I shake my head and move to the next table.
So much for trying to help the clueless ass. After taking drink
refill orders from a half dozen tables, I pause, my attention
drifting to the small stage. A gyrating woman is pouring her heart
out, butchering “Hey Jude.” The sound is akin to nails scraping
down a blackboard.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the Beatles.
Obviously. But this poor song is way too long. It needs to be
retired permanently from the karaoke catalog. The drunkards in the
front row sway their arms back and forth in the air—joining in on
the off-key, off-pitch, off-beat marathon sing-along. Somehow,
tonight it still makes me smile. I walk to the bar singing
along quietly to myself, “Na na na nananana,
nananana, hey Jude.”
“We’re getting drunk as soon as this place
empties out tonight,” Avery yells over the deafening crescendo of
the chorus
. Suddenly, the singer on stage goes
for the last na na na nananana and her voice breaks into a horrific
earsplitting screech.
“I may not be able to wait that long.” I tip
my chin in the general direction of the small stage at the other
end of the bar and shake my head.
“She’s not that bad actually.”
I make a face that conveys what I don’t say
out loud, and Avery rolls her eyes as she finishes making my drink
order.
“You know, you could always show her how
it’s done.”
I load my tray with the four drinks she’s
made and stick my middle finger up at my best friend before heading
back to the table of four middle-aged women searching for liquid
courage.
Stopping at the wall lined with framed
photos, I straighten a crooked picture of my dad and Bruce
Springsteen with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders.
They’re both sweaty messes from an impromptu hour-long jam session.
It was taken at the bar’s one-year anniversary party. Seeing Dad’s
smile brings out mine. I close my eyes briefly.
Step two, Dad.
I’m making progress.
“You ladies going to get up there and sing
tonight?” I ask, trying to be friendly as I hand off three mojitos
and a tequila sunrise. It’s the third tequila sunrise for the
redhead with the thick bun wrapped at the nape of her neck. She’s
already feeling no pain.
“I would love to,” slurs the redhead, “but I
need to have a few more drinks before I’ll have the nerve.”
I nod, never one to push people past their
limit. Redhead’s wearing a cream silk button-down blouse—buttons
fastened all the way to the top—with a navy pencil skirt and
matching blazer, a string of pearls completing her conservative
ensemble. The outfit pairs perfectly with the demure bun. But as I
start to walk away, something under the table catches my eye—and
it’s not her impeccably crossed ankles. It’s the shoes. They
definitely
don’t go with the rest of the package. Five-inch
Mary Jane stilettos, the red soles a dead giveaway that there is
more to the woman than meets the eye.
Spending six nights a week for the last
seven years here at Lucky’s has taught me a lot about people. I can
usually spot a closet Beyoncé wanna-be a mile away. I smirk to
myself, picturing Redhead standing in front of her bedroom
mirror—letting her hair down and singing into her hairbrush wearing
nothing but those nine-hundred-dollar Louboutins.
The crowd has doubled in the last half hour.
It’s Saturday night and the late movie across the street just let
out. I jump behind the bar to help Avery for a little while and
tell the DJ to throw on some house music so he can pitch in waiting
tables until things slow down. Twenty minutes later, I notice the
drink order Avery is making.
“Those for the same group that ordered them
a little while ago?” She’s finishing off mixing another round of
mojitos, and the colors settling in the tall tequila sunrise glass
are already at full peak.
“I think so. Redhead with a bun?”
“Yep. That’s her. I got twenty she’s our
flasher.” Flasher is a term we use for the patron who takes us by
surprise. Without fail, there’s one every weekend. They come in
looking conservative, wearing their sleek taupe Burberry raincoats
cinched tightly at the waist. But a few drinks and a microphone
later, they’re up on stage whipping open their coats, flashing us
their flesh as they grind their hips like a pro stripper. “Bet
she’s covering a red G-string under that knee-length skirt
too.”
“Her? Are you joking? She’s wearing fucking
pearls.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”
Avery reaches into her pocket and digs out a
twenty. She shoves it into an empty glass and sets it on a shelf
holding liquor bottles behind her. “Put your money up and cover the
bar. I need to get a close look at Pearls and make a stop at the
bathroom.”
“You know, I’m still your boss for
another….” I look at my watch. Nearly eleven o’clock. “Five
hours.”
“I’ve known you since middle school. Who are
you kidding? You’ll still be the boss even after I own half the
place.” She kisses me on the cheek as she rushes by.
Ten minutes later I’m still alone behind the
bar and Avery is nowhere to be found. I’m sure she’s in the back
alley smoking, even though she swears every day that she’s quit. I
check the IDs of three very young-looking pretty girls—they’re over
twenty-one, but barely. I can’t miss their conversation.
“Seriously, he has to be gay.”
“Why, because he hasn’t noticed you
yet?”
“No, because he’s too perfect to be
straight.”
“Could we buy someone a drink?” one of the
young blondes asks me.
“Of course. What do you want me to send
over?”
They giggle for a few minutes, then decide
on a Screaming Orgasm for their intended target. I mix the vodka,
Bailey’s and Kahlua and pour it over a tumbler of ice.
“Okay. Who’s the lucky recipient?”
All three of them point to the other end of
the bar and say in unison, “Him.”
Lord.
That
is one beautiful man.
The three blondes were clearly not the only
ones to notice. The brunette next to him with her full boobage on
display is giving him her rapt attention when I walk over. Yet I
feel his eyes on
me
as I walk down the long bar. I’m used to
being hit on. Men seem to find an attractive woman whose sole
purpose is to deliver them alcohol an alluring combination. They
tend to become even bolder after tossing back a few drinks.
Halfway down the bar, I stop to refill a
beer for a patron. I don’t need to look up as I pour to know
Beautiful Man is still watching me. The hair on the back of my neck
is all the confirmation I need. He never takes his gaze off me,
even when I turn, catch his eyes, and silently call him on his
staring.
“I’m here to deliver you a Screaming
Orgasm.” Damn, he’s even hotter up close. Sandy-brown,
shoulder-length hair tousled just the right amount to make him look
like he’s just gotten laid. Long, lean torso, tattoos on his
forearms peeking out from his long-sleeve fitted shirt. Nice. Then
he smiles. Dimples. Yep. He
definitely
just got laid.
“Thank you. But I have a ladies-first
policy.” He winks.
I stare at him for a moment, then drop my
eyes down to the drink, leading him to follow.
“Oh. You meant the drink.” He smirks—it’s
sexy as hell, and he knows it.
I roll my eyes, but there’s a reluctant
smile hidden just beneath the surface. “It’s from the three barely
legal ladies down at the end.” I nod in their direction and all
three smile broadly and wave.
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
I arch an eyebrow. “
Those
three women
buying you a drink with a name that tells you what their plans are
for you later is a disappointment?”
“I thought
you
were buying me the
drink.”
Cheesy, I know, but there’s a flutter in my
stomach nonetheless. “Sorry. But you get the Doublemint triplets as
a consolation prize.” I shrug, trying to come off nonchalant, and
turn to walk away. This close to him, the guy is making me fidget.
It’s a big bar, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like we’re
in a confined space.
“Wait,” he calls after me, and I turn back.
“What’s your name?”
I smile and point at the sign over the bar.
Lucky’s.
The bar is hectic, but it doesn’t stop me
from keeping tabs on him. He nodded and held up his glass in thanks
to the three women, but never walked down to meet them. Eventually,
the trio of buxom blondes made their way to his end of the bar.
They did their best at keeping his attention. He smiled politely,
but it was clear he wasn’t interested. Which seriously shocked me,
because I would have bet the bar that he could have taken all three
of them home.
“Hey, Lucky,” Beautiful Man calls from the
end of the bar when I finish waiting tables.
“Another Screaming Orgasm?”
“If you’re talking alcohol, I’ll pass and
take a beer instead.”
I grab a pint glass and pour a tall Guinness
without asking what kind of beer he wants. I slide it toward him on
the smooth waxed bar and ask, with an impish grin, “What if I
wasn’t talking about the alcohol?”
“We would already be out the door,
sweetheart.” Another wink, only this time he adds a crooked smile
to the dimples on his ridiculously sexy face. There’s a boyish
quality to his smile, but a quick glance at the rest of him finds
nothing but solid man. He sips his beer. “Guinness. My favorite.
Nice choice.”
Avery saddles up to the bar, a few spots
over from Beautiful Man, and tosses her round serving tray in my
direction. “Pearls wants another drink. Looks like your twenty is
coming home with me, because I’m pretty sure she’s going to pass
out from the next one, not get up on stage.”
I look over at the redhead with the tight
bun. She’s shimmying out of her navy blazer. Not only does she have
incredible shoes, but with her blazer unbuttoned, her tiny waist
and sinewy curves are on display—she’s got a great body hidden
under her suit and pearls. I’d guess there’s a red lace demi-cup
bra to match the G-string.
“You see that redhead over there?” I ask
Beautiful Man.
“The one with her hair up?”
“That’s the one. I have twenty that says she
gets up to sing and turns into a siren on stage before the night is
out.”
Beautiful Man arches his eyebrows. “Doesn’t
look like the type to me.”
“Don’t listen to her.” Avery dismisses me
with her hand. “She also thinks she’s wearing a red G-string under
there.”
“I’d like to hear this one.”
“You can tell a lot about a person by what
they wear. A woman who spends on shoes but dresses conservatively
likes nice things, even if no one is seeing them. Strip a woman
down to her underwear, you’ll learn a lot about her.” I shrug.
“I’ve been here practically every day for seven years. I’m good at
picking the closet rockstars.”
He sips his beer and studies the redhead.
“You ever get up there?” he asks me, only I don’t have the chance
to answer before Avery chimes in.
“She could be up on a real stage if she
wanted to. But she’s got arachnophobia.”
Beautiful Man looks to me with a furrowed
brow. “Fear of spiders?”
“Ignore her.” I roll my eyes at Avery and
make her drink order. “Tell Pearls this one is on the house.” It’s
almost all orange juice. I started cutting back the alcohol in her
drinks two rounds ago. Wouldn’t want Pearls to fall over before her
debut performance here at Lucky’s.
It’s nearly two in the morning when the DJ
announces last call for karaoke sign-ups. The crowd at the bar has
thinned out, but the tables are still keeping Avery busy. It’s
do-or-die time for the nervous hopefuls who came in with plans to
get up on stage. Half usually make it, the other half stumble out
inebriated from excess liquid courage.
Beautiful Man has spent hours fending off
women, many drunk, gorgeous and easy. With an inexplicable
gravitational pull, my eyes seem to track his whereabouts at all
times. It’s impossible to disregard his presence. I’m surprised to
find him at the sign-up desk chatting with the DJ after his second
trip to the bathroom.
“You came in to sing tonight?” I ask,
refilling his beer when he returns to the seat he’s spent all night
at. “Wouldn’t have taken you for the kind who needs alcohol to
boost your confidence to get up there.”
He sips his beer. “What would you take me
as?”
I squint, pretending to assess him, and lean
on the bar. He looks amused. “I would have said a player, but I’ve
watched you fend off easy pickin’s all night, so now I’m not really
sure what to make of you actually.” I shrug. “Are you here to
sing?”
“Wasn’t planning on it. Was supposed to meet
someone here, but he called a few hours ago and said he got stuck
and couldn’t make it. Didn’t even know it was a karaoke bar until I
walked in.”
“Interesting. But your friend canceled hours
ago, yet you’re still here. So you’re on the prowl after all? You
know, I don’t think you’re very good at it. You’re supposed to show
interest in the ones you want to take home at the end of the
night.”
Beautiful Man smiles; he’s completely
irresistible. “I have been.”
I chuckle and shake my head before walking
away to close out a patron’s tab. Beautiful Man doesn’t waste any
time when I return to his end of the bar. “So…can I buy you a
drink?”
I take an exaggerated look around. “Don’t
think that’s necessary. I own a bar.”
He isn’t even slightly deterred. “Dinner
then?”
I look at my watch. “It’s two a.m.”
“Breakfast?”
“I need to sleep before I eat
breakfast.”
“No problem. I’ll cook for you when we wake
up?”
I chuckle and shake my head, turning to
stock the rest of the shelf with wine glasses. “Thank you for the
generous offer. But I have to decline.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”
Avery’s outburst saves me from having to explain, although
Beautiful Man’s stare doesn’t waver. He eyes me over the brim as he
drinks from his tall pint glass. The sight of his Adam’s apple
working as he swallows does all kinds of things to my insides. And
some things to parts of my outsides too.
“What’s the matter?” I’m thankful for the
distraction.
“Pearls. Look.” Avery nods in the direction
of the redhead, who is talking to the DJ. I gloat a smile as I
watch her hand reach up to her tight bun and slip some hidden pins
from the knot. Her hair cascades midway down her back.
“Told ya,” I crow victoriously.
Pearls turns out to be even better than I
could have imagined. Apparently, her hair wasn’t the only thing the
alcohol helped loosen. By the time she gets on the stage, her
unbuttoned shirt reveals a healthy amount of cleavage and her skirt
is hiked above her knees so she can move. And can the woman move.
The slow rock of her hips as she sings the old Faith Hill song
“Breathe” turns the temperature in the bar up at least ten degrees.
Pearls can sing too. Not just carry a tune…really sing. A breathy,
sultry, perfectly-in-key flowing melody that, with a little
training, could sound great on an album. My attention is riveted on
the woman as the closed flower who came in begins to blossom, right
before our eyes. More than the song she sings, the sight itself is
beautiful to watch.
I envy her. I’d give anything to get up
there again. But, for me, it’s going to take more than a little
liquid courage. Years of therapy produced little results, and for a
long time I learned to accept who I was. Although, every once in a
while, my soul overpowers my logical brain and yearns for
salvation. Which leads me to make illogical decisions. Like
tomorrow, for example.
For some reason, I keep away from Beautiful
Man after that. There’s plenty to do as closing time draws near, so
it isn’t difficult. I make Avery switch with me, taking a second
turn behind the bar, so I can work the floor instead. She probably
thinks I’m trying to give her a break on my last night; the floor
is never easy around closing time. Too many drunks, and cutting
them off almost always results in boisterous rants.
As he does every night at the same time, the
DJ comes over the loudspeaker to announce last call for drinks at
the bar, but then he adds, “Tonight Lucky’s is excited to have a
celebrity in the house. For those of you not yet familiar with
Flynn Beckham, you will be soon. Rumor has it he’ll be joining a
big sold-out tour. Let’s give it up for a rocker who’s going to
show us his softer side tonight up on our stage.”
The whole place erupts in applause, except
me. I’m rooted in place watching Beautiful Man stride to the stage.
He takes the microphone from the stand and scans the room with an
easy smile. Eyes falling on me, his voice rasps over the speakers,
the words sliding over me. “This isn’t usually my style. But it’s
almost closing time, so I thought maybe I could help inspire those
of you who are hoping to get lucky tonight. Like me.” He winks at
me and nods to the DJ to start the song. I recognize the song in
the first four notes. It’s one of my all-time favorites. A true
classic, although people my age usually don’t appreciate the
gritty, heartfelt sound of Rod Stewart anymore. The music of
“Tonight’s the Night” plays quietly in the background until
Beautiful Man’s sinful voice joins in.
I was glued to the stage watching Pearls
belt out her song, but for a totally different reason than I am
now. His voice is seduction in the form of sound, and it flows from
him with the ease of a pro. The entire bar sways back and forth.
Every woman moves closer to the stage. Even Pearls.
For a long moment I watch the way his foot
taps in perfect time to the beat. A man with good rhythm has always
been my weakness.
Musicians
have always been my kryptonite.
Then my eyes slowly travel up, taking in the parts of the man I’d
only glimpsed from the other side of the bar. Jeans hang low on his
narrow hips, a simple dark thermal hugs his broad shoulders. Ink
peeks out from the pushed-up sleeves on both forearms. When my eyes
finally reach his face, I find he’s been watching me watch him. He
arches an eyebrow and sings the next verse into my eyes.
You'd be a fool to stop this tide
Spread your wings, and let me come
inside
I blink myself out of my daze. Flynn Beckham
has a way of gliding his eyes over every woman in the room, yet
making you feel like you’re the only one he’s actually looking at.
As though he just found
the one
in a crowd of women, and not
just the one he’s going to take home tonight…
the one
he’s
been looking for since the first day he got on stage.
“Jesus. He sings another song and I’m
straddling the speaker,” Avery says, leaning her forearms on the
bar. “Bet I can orgasm just from the vibration of his voice between
my legs.” She’s speaking to me, yet she never tears her eyes away
from Beautiful Man. Together we gaze at the stage with the
adulation of teenyboppers watching Justin Bieber. “That man wants
you. Pretty sure you wouldn’t have to straddle the speaker. He’d
bury his head and sing right into your vajayjay if you wanted. I
totally vote you upgrade in the rockstar boyfriend category. Where
is Sleazy Ryder tonight anyway?”
My best friend doesn’t care for my
boyfriend. Dylan Ryder is the lead singer of Easy Ryder, but she
has a dozen alternative names for him and his band. “He got stuck
in Philadelphia…missed his connection back. Called to say he
wouldn’t make it here tonight.”
“That’s too bad.” She smiles slyly. “One
man’s loss is another man’s luck.”
“It’s ‘One man’s loss is another man’s
gain.’”
“That too.”