“You are never going to get anything youreallywant in life until you start standing up for yourself, taking a risk, and claiming what’s yours.” She points at me with the phone. “This piece of the company is yours. You single-handedly run it, and they make hundreds of thousands of dollars off of it for every single event this company manages. They’re underpaying you and selling you short by not promoting you.”
My shoulders sink in resignation. “I know. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Ugh.” She drops the phone back on the desk in front of me. “You just don’t get it.”
“I just don’t care anymore.” I absently drum my nails on the screen of the phone. “Want to skip out early with me and go get a Mexican martini?”
Zoey drops her head back and groans at the ceiling. “Fine.”
I attempt to smile mischievously at her, but she’s already marching back out of my cubicle, so I turn my attention back to my phone.
People are still fighting about politics on my newsfeed.Blah, blah, blah.I don’t know why I even read this stuff, but it’s like a train wreck I can’t look away from. I’m halfway through reading a random person’s tirade when a notification pops up on my screen.
*Lucky De Luca replied to your comment on their post.*
My heart does a fluttery backflip and lands way up in my throat, and I hastily smash my thumb on the notification to see what he said.
Lucky De Luca: @Ava Herald Can’t wait to see you, too!
A content sigh expels from my lips.
Lucky is definitely the best distraction on the internet. I’ve been following this sexy-AF jazz pianist for longer than I’ve even worked at my crappy job. He became a viral video sensation with vintage covers of contemporary pop songs and is now a bona fide music star. His retro, 1920s-style band tours all over the world with a show that’s a Great Gatsby-esque spectacular-spectacular, complete with dancers and backup singers in roaring twenties costumes, while he tickles the ivories and offers dry, bawdy jokes between songs.
His band has yet to make a stop here in Austin, Texas, so I’ve never been able to see his show in person—until now.
Or at least, until two days from now.
With all the crap going on at my job, Lucky’s musical extravaganza is a true escape, and I absolutely cannot wait to see it.
I read his comment over and over and over again, allowing myself an extended mental escape before I have to tackle my last work task of the day.
Lucky replies to every comment I leave on his posts. He doesn’t do that to everyone. He’ll leave a “like” or reply to a handful of people, but healwaysreplies to mine, and—silly as it sounds—it makes me feel like I’m his favorite fan. I realize that still makes mejust a fan, but sometimes, especially when I’m really frustrated with work—and by extension,lifein general—it feels more significant than that.
And yes, I know that’s silly. I also know, given how popular and successful he is, Lucky’s probably got a social media manager who’s the one interacting with all my comments. Despite that, I can’t help feeling a sense of hope.
But… hope forwhat?
That we’re going to fatalistically collide, and he’s going to fall in love with me, and then I’ll suddenly figure out a magic solution to finally getting the promotion I’ve been wanting for years, and then all my problems will miraculously disappear?
That’s stupid.
Stupid hope, and all that jazz.
Nevertheless, I stare at his latest reply and forget about work for a few more minutes before begrudgingly dragging myself back to reality.
* * *
“Okay, I was wrong,”Zoey hollers at me above the cheering crowd, which is packed like sardines into the old jazz club in Austin’s Warehouse District. “That was amazing, and that guy is hot ashay-ell.”
I laugh at her intentional drawn-out twang that tells me she’s probably drunk, but also having a blast, but I don’t look away from the stage. I’m only about fifty yards from Lucky, and he is even more sexy and swoony in person.
Tonight, he’s dressed in a pinstripe, charcoal, three-piece suit, his espresso-hued hair slicked back and as shiny as his black Oxford shoes. When he stands up from the equally shiny, black grand piano to take a bow, it’s apparent that he’s a lot taller than I realized. He’s lean, too. His suit is perfectly cut and tailored to his form in a way that it’s clear he’s got one of those long, svelte physiques that’s nothing but chiseled, ideally proportioned, stone-carved muscles—muscles that you can’t help but fantasize about how they’d feel under your fingertips…or even your tongue.
I fan myself with the concert program at the mere thought of it. The cavernous, over-air-conditioned venue suddenly feels as hot as the core of the sun.
Zoey bumps my arm and leans closer to my face, but still has to shout. “Now what? Are you gonna go talk to him?”
I scoff. “No way.”
