How To Get Lucky by Lauren Blakely



Or really, he greets me with a goofy smile and a face lick.

After I take him outside, I toss him his new stuffed playmate, hit the sack, and put the air guitarist out of my mind.

It’s not as if I’m going to see her again.

And if she did come back to the revue, well, that might mean I’m not her type.

Since, ya know, I’m not a stripper. And strippers are generally the reason people frequent the club every weekend when the guys are in all their, as Sam likes to say, abilicious glory.

I do have good abs though. I blame LA for that.

Or really, I thank LA for that.

And as I hit the hay, I don’t think of Miss Air Guitar for one second. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Women only mean distraction—and I sure as hell don’t need that in my life right now.





Ever listen to a song you’ve never heard before on the radio and then go home and hear that same song on a TV show? Or a commercial?

I have a theory about that.

It’s not that everyone in the entertainment industry is listening to the same five songs. Though a lot of them are.

The theory is about synchronicity.

It’s happening all the time, all over the world. Meaningful coincidences.

We might not always be aware of it.

But I bet we’re walking past the same people every day at the farmers market, the park, the coffee shop.

We don’t always notice them though.

Unless, like that song on the radio, that person is already on our mind. I’m already thinking about her. I want to be looking for her.

Evidently I’m looking.

And evidently I’m a lucky fucking guy.

Because my theory proves out Sunday afternoon when I unleash Bowie and open the gate to the Silverlake Dog Park.

In the corner under the shade of a tree, a woman with red glasses chucks a tennis ball at a Chihuahua mix, who takes after it like his feet have wings.

Hello, synchronicity, and thank you very much.

The air guitarist wears a vintage Beverly Hills, 90210 T-shirt that says “Senioritis” above a shot of the cast.

Another coincidence—I just started streaming that show.

What are the odds I’d see her again so soon? Not only that, but she’s obviously a fellow dog lover.

This is the universe making everything easy. She’s not a patron of the club right now. This is neutral territory. Ergo, it’s time for my pooch to earn his treats.

I look down to enlist my furry wingman to help snag an introduction, but Bowie spots a pair of playful huskies and abandons me. Can’t say I blame him. My dude loves the chase. Looks like I’m on my own.

I casually make my way up the dirt hill toward the wavy-haired brunette I haven’t stopped thinking about since last night.

She’s even prettier in the sunlight.

My step turns a little hesitant as I get closer. It’s been a while since I’ve approached a woman. In the club my confidence is sky high, but I’m in my element there. Safe behind the DJ booth, perched aloft, looking down on the action.

Here I’m just a guy who hasn’t been on a date in almost a year. But that won’t change unless I get back out there, and I’d never forgive myself if I let this opportunity slip by.

Before I can second-guess myself anymore, I’m sharing her shade and making eye contact.

I gesture to the ’90s throwback tee she’s wearing. “This may be an unpopular opinion, but I always thought Andrea was the cutest one on that show,” I say.

She smiles back before reaching down to pick up the tennis ball, a hint of recognition in her eyes, like she’s trying to place me. “You’re not just a fan of the crew, but of the girl who never gets picked first?”

I hold up a hand as if I’m taking an oath. “I am all that. Though technically I’m a new fan. I’ve only streamed a couple episodes, but I definitely dig the whole glasses-and-curls vibe she has going on,” I say, and the brunette gives me a keep going nod. “Plus, the show did have an epic soundtrack, before that became the thing for TV shows.”

“So, my shirt is retro, but the show was ahead of its time. Yay me,” she says with a playful glint in her eyes.

I grin. “Hard to go wrong with R.E.M., Elvis Costello, and Chris Isaak.”

She plucks at the fabric and smiles. “That was the slogan on the other shirt I was going to get. Darn. Should have snagged that one.”

“I’d wear that shirt too.”

She laughs, and I want to pump a fist. Then she screws up the corner of her lips, studying me. “I saw you at the club last night, didn’t I? You were the DJ and erstwhile air guitar expert.”