Sexy In NYC: How To Get Lucky Part 1

s.e.xy in NYC.

How To Get Lucky.

Erin McCarthy.

Allison Parker never trusted men who looked better in pink than she did. Especially when they were telling her that despite eight million people living in New York City, half of them men, there wasn't a single guy alive who might want to be with her.

"I don't get love from you, honey, nope, sorry. There's no man on the horizon," Beckwith Tripp, transgender psychic extraordinaire, said. "Just totally not happening. Like, just let it go."

In case she hadn't gotten the correct impression that she was Not Finding Love, he definitely made sure to drill it home. She rolled her eyes at him. "Got it."

"But I do see financial independence."

She stared across the high top table at Beckwith, the alleged psychic. Her roommate Jamie had befriended him a year earlier and Allison had to admit, she'd grown quite fond of him and his exuberance for life, but she wasn't sure she believed in the whole seeing the future thing. "So basically what you're telling me is everyone else finds love and I am going to die alone in a bas.e.m.e.nt apartment in Queens with a bunch of money stuffed under my mattress. Awesome."

Beckwith paused with his martini gla.s.s halfway to his lips. He was wearing head-to-toe Chanel from a rent the runway website along with a disapproving stare. Even old ladies on the Upper East Side couldn't compete with the patronizing disdain he could display when his predictions weren't taken seriously. Usually by her. Everyone else seemed to be willing to swallow the concept of a six foot four ex-con having knowledge of events that hadn't taken place yet. Her? Not so much.

"Well, aren't we bitter, hmm?" he asked. "Don't worry, I don't get Queens from you." His eyebrow raised. "Which is ironic, when you think about it. Me not getting Queens? Lord, I amuse myself. Anyhoo, I see a condo in Jersey City. So at least you get a view. And didn't I just say financial independence? h.e.l.lo, most people would kill for a little cheddar in the bank."

"That sounds wonderful," Jamie said, her head bobbing significantly enough to make her auburn curls bounce. "See, I knew talking to Beckwith would make you feel better."

Said her best friend who was living with a millionaire boyfriend in Tribeca. Jamie had forfeited her right to be positive about Allison's love life when she had moved in with Jonathon and spent record amounts of time blushing over how happy she was and how good their s.e.x was and how sweet and kind and generous he was. Blah, blah, blah. Was Allison deeply and genuinely happy for Jamie? Of course she was. But it made her attempts to cheer Allison up feel vaguely like pity, and that was a h.e.l.l no.

"He just told me there is no love in my future." This wasn't news, precisely. But if someone was going to blow smoke up her a.s.s, it should be a G.o.dd.a.m.n London fog. Like gushing promises of Mr. Hottie Hot Pants and how he was going to whisk her away to Paris for fashion week and let her pick out anything she wanted. Not "everything is totally going to suck, but you'll have a good friend in Morgan Stanley." Beckwith could at least have the decency to make s.h.i.t up.

Maybe having this conversation on a Sunday night was a bad idea. She had worked all weekend again, as usual, and she was tired. Tired of her boss, tired of battling rude people on the subway, tired of the rain, and tired of walking past storefronts filled with beautiful clothes she could not afford and most likely never would. Wait a minute. Maybe old Beckwith was on to something. If she gave up the idea of a boyfriend, would karma reward her with a fat paycheck? She could sleep surrounded by Michael Kors handbags. That was almost as good as s.e.x.

"He didn't say ever," Jamie corrected, "just not now." Someone b.u.mped Jamie's chair, and she turned to readjust her bag hanging off the frame.

The bar was crowded, which was typical for anywhere that served decent drinks. Allison was drinking a Moscow Mule because she liked to hold the copper cup. It seemed appropriate for October. Jamie favored drinks that were glorified sugar water, but in recent months Allison had been going for booze that grew chest hair. If she was going to drink, she wanted to taste the liquor. Her days of downing them in three minutes flat were over. Now she focused on the taste of the c.o.c.ktail, nursing it slowly. She'd reached the age where she had learned to savor.

That was about all she could say she had achieved. She had learned to drink. Time to call her parents and brag.

She was twenty-seven and she had done nothing she had said she wanted to do. Where was the prestigious job in the fashion industry? Nonexistent. She worked retail.

The fabulous husband who adored her? Still looking, thanks. Which was a waste of time, according to Beckwith.

"I don't even really care," she said, which was only a half-truth. "I have bigger fish to fry. Like the fact that my cell phone is threatening to be shut off because of non-payment, I have nowhere to live, and last night I found a f.u.c.king gray hair on my head. These are real problems. Not worrying about happily ever after with a man."

"Did you just do a one-eighty?" Beckwith said, lifted his olive to his lips, and doing something so nasty to it with his tongue that it made her want to start a Save the Pimentos foundation.

He was right. She had. d.a.m.n it. "So I want a guy in my life, so what? It would be nice to get laid every once in a while."

"You don't need love to do that," he said shortly. "Trust me on this. I've done the research."

That made her smile. "Okay, I sound like a b.i.t.c.h, I admit it. I just had another run-in with my boss and I'm just over everything. I need a ma.s.sage or something, only that requires me to pay for it, which makes it impossible. It doesn't seem like love or money is in my future, and I'm just tired. Exhausted. I need a nap and a life plan."

"What you need is a lottery ticket." Beckwith reached into the center of the table for the goat cheese guacamole. "Lord, this s.h.i.t is like crack. I'm going to need to go up a size. But anyway, you're going to win the lottery." He tapped his head. "I saw it. Here. Big payout. You invest it, and voila, happy Allison."

If only. "I'll take it. Check, please." She grinned at him. "Come on. I don't even play the lottery."

"Well, start. I'm not making this s.h.i.t up. I've been right before."

"He has. Mandy and Damien. Me and Jonathon," Jamie said, sipping her martini.

"Those were matchmaking predictions. That's different." Allison had to yell to be heard. The volume in the room had gone up significantly, as had the temperature. There was a crowd around the surrounding tables, just an annoying lingering ma.s.s of... women. It was all women. "What the h.e.l.l is going on tonight, it's so freaking crowded here all of a sudden."

"Oh my G.o.d," Jamie whispered, her eyes suddenly going wide. She grabbed Allison's wrist and pointed slightly with her index finger. "Don't look, but that's Marco Lucky over there."

"Really?" Allison swung around.

"Don't look!"

"Why not, everyone else is?" She tried to locate the infamous rock star, but he was lost in a sea of groupies. "I can't even see him. Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Jamie said in a stage whisper. "And why else would everyone be over there? Not for an Irish cabinetmaker."

"Oh, honey, I would," Beckwith said. "You know I like me some hard wood."

That made Allison laugh. She gave up craning her neck and turned back to her friends. Okay, she could admit Beckwith was her friend now just as much as he was Jamie's. He had his charms, one of which was his ability to amuse her even when she was hard-core down and out. "Yes, we know your feelings on wood planking. But seriously, Jamie, an Irish cabinetmaker? Where the h.e.l.l did that come from? Who knows one of those?"

"I don't know," Jamie admitted. "It just popped into my head."

"Well, if it is Marco Lucky I wish he'd take his self-important b.u.t.t somewhere else, because his d.i.c.k-sucking harem is making it impossible for me to talk," she shouted, basically at the top of her lungs.

Then realized Jamie was making a face. One of horror. The cla.s.sic oh s.h.i.t face.

h.e.l.l. She knew what that meant.

He had to be right behind her or something. She turned. Oh, yeah. There he was. Two feet away. In the process of making his way to the door, which was no mean feat. His eyes locked with hers. He'd heard. That was obvious. Every single word. From self-important to d.i.c.k-sucking. Way to go, Allison.

She would have wanted to die, except she was too busy being shocked to the tips of her toes at how arresting he was up close. She'd only seen him on TV and the Internet, where he was tiny, or seemed... flat. Two-dimensional. Here he was alive and in the flesh and right in front of her. He was gorgeous. Rough and dirty and looking, like he hadn't slept in three days because he'd been making music in a mad frenzy of creativity. She could smell him.

It felt like all the air had been stolen out of her lungs.

The scent was cologne and success. Confidence.

He had short hair and beard scruff, and broader shoulders than she'd been antic.i.p.ating. He was wearing a plain heather-gray T-shirt, with a necklace that was a miniature version of the lock she'd had on her locker in middle school. He had several tattoos on his arms, and a studded cuff bracelet. His posture was weary, his eyes knowing.

She should have apologized. But she wasn't exactly sorry. She had spoken the truth, though she couldn't claim to know if he was self-important. The rest of her statement she stood by. Besides, it was so typical to scramble all over a celebrity. It wasn't her scene.

He didn't smile, not exactly. But he didn't look like he was going to have her thrown out of the bar either. "I'm taking my self-important b.u.t.t elsewhere," he said, leaning in close to her so she could hear him. "I can't control the d.i.c.k-sucking harem, but my a.s.sumption is they'll follow. That will leave you the opportunity to talk, and somehow, I doubt you're ever at a shortage for words."

Truth. She fought the urge to blush, just a smidge. Not because she was embarra.s.sed, but because, well, he was hot. She wanted to tear his T-shirt off with her teeth. The d.i.c.k-suckers couldn't be criticized, really. The man radiated s.e.x and he was famous. Who wouldn't want to roll around on his ridiculously expensive sheets with him? "Thanks. I appreciate it."

The corner of his mouth tilted up just slightly. "You're welcome." His eyes flicked over to Jamie and Beckwith. "Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too," Jamie breathed, eyes wide.

"Is it hot in here?" Beckwith asked, fanning himself with the c.o.c.ktail menu.

Marco Lucky's gaze came back to Allison. "You, on the other hand, have a miserable night."

Allison laughed, startled. She hadn't expected him to be funny. But that amused her. She saluted him. "Enjoy the harem. Beware of TMZ. Don't do drugs."

He pursed his lips. She was pretty sure he was fighting the urge to laugh.

Her work was done here.

He left then, moving toward the door, shaking his head slightly.

"What is wrong with you?" Jamie said. "How could you talk to Marco Lucky like that?"

Allison stared at his parting back, enjoying the view from this side almost as much as she had the front. That was a stellar a.s.s. "He's just a guy. Why should I treat him any differently than any other guy? I didn't say anything rude. I thanked him."

Beckwith eyed her. "Is it really such a mystery why you're single?"

That irritated her. "What? Because I don't kiss a.s.s?" Though again, it was a nice a.s.s.

"No, because you walk around like you're the star of a musical."

"I don't even know what that means." She didn't. No clue. "Famous people are only famous by accident. I'm sure he works really hard and everything, but so do a lot of people. So I don't think I should treat him like he's Moses about to part the Red Sea."

"Look," Beckwith said, pointing. "Holy Moses."

As Marco Lucky moved toward the door, people on both sides moved out of the way. In a city where no one ever got out of the way, it was an impressive feat. She couldn't even argue that America was far too obsessed with appearance and popularity, because didn't she want to be on staff at Vogue? Yes, yes, she did. Or at least a younger, more nave version of herself had. So really, yet again, she had no leg to stand on. Processing her hypocrisy was too much for a Sunday when her boss had gone on a rant about how Allison folded sweaters.

Marco paused to speak to the hostess and he gave her something. Money, most likely. Then he turned and pointed back at them. At her. Oh my G.o.d, he was pointing at her.

"s.h.i.t, he's getting us kicked out." Her heart raced. Her leg swung rapidly, up and down. She'd never been kicked out of a bar. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She hadn't been rude. Not exactly. Besides, she'd thought she'd amused him, just a little. Apparently not.

"Well, this is embarra.s.sing," Jamie said, covering her face and turning toward the back of the bar. "Maybe if we ignore the hostess she will let it go."

No such luck. "She's coming over here." Allison could admit, she was embarra.s.sed too. She didn't have much, but she did still have her dignity. Until now. "What a d.i.c.k."

But the hostess actually smiled. "Mr. Lucky wanted me to let you know that your drinks are on him. He took care of your tab."

"For real?" Allison asked, astonished.

"Holy s.h.i.t," was Beckwith's opinion.

"Oh, my G.o.d, y'all, that was so nice of him!" Jamie said.

"I know. You must have made an impression. Enjoy your night."

Allison looked toward the door, but there was no sign of Marco Lucky. "Wow. That was... interesting." The man was hot and generous. She was impressed.

"That was amazing," Jamie declared. "Al, do you remember when we were living in the dorm at NYU and I would listen to the White Rabbit alb.u.m over and over and over again? I thought Marco Lucky was so deep."

Allison dragged her eyes back from the front door. The guy was gone and she felt a little disappointed. It had been the most exciting thing to happen to her in a while, which was a sad testimony to the state of her life. "How could I forget? It was like seven hours straight. I wanted to strangle that f.u.c.king rabbit in that song with my bare hands."

Jamie laughed. "I just think his whole rags to riches story is fascinating. He lived in a van, you know, when he was a kid."

"No, I didn't know." Allison sipped her drink. "It looks like things have turned around for him. And for me, because this Moscow Mule I cannot afford is free." She raised it in salute. "Rock on, Marco Lucky."

"Cheers to that." Beckwith raised his gla.s.s. "I should have ordered two. d.a.m.n." He gave her a long look. "And you need to go buy a lottery ticket, Allison Agnes."

The fact that he used her middle name after she'd spent a lifetime guarding it like a military secret was a little odd. No one knew the Agnes thing. Maybe there was something to Beckwith after all.

"I think I will," she told him. "I'm feeling lucky."

She was. So after leaving she went and bought the suggested lottery ticket and went home to have a very hot dream featuring a certain rock star who smelled like sandalwood and sin.

Marco Lucky considered himself, well, lucky. For a guy who'd started out life bouncing from shelter to shelter, eventually living in his mother's old Chevy van, he had more success and more money than he could have even comprehended fifteen years ago. But it came with a price, as everything did, and tonight it was in the form of not being able to get a drink without being approached by girl after girl after girl, offering her number and her body. As he hit the sidewalk outside the bar, he realized the irony of finding that irritating. At twenty, he would have boned his way across the island of Manhattan. h.e.l.l, at twenty-five, when he'd still been in the honeymoon phase of stardom, there had been so much p.u.s.s.y thrown at him it was like grade school dodge ball. Put your head down and hope you survive. It had been everywhere, all the time.

The p.u.s.s.ypocalyse.

It had been exciting. Satisfying. A time or two it nearly broke him, keeping up the pace, but he'd been willing to go down fighting. Different girls in the same night an hour or two apart, twosomes, threesomes, foursomes. Strippers and preacher's daughters alike. Sometimes a stripper and a preacher's daughter at the same time, or all in one s.e.xy package. Women of every shape, age, and skin color, from twenty-one right on up to a particularly memorable night with a woman in her fifties who had a better body than women half her age, and a really stellar b.l.o.w.j.o.b technique. But now at thirty, as Marco looked back, it was all just a blur of skin, hotel room beds, mouths on his c.o.c.k, and empty bottles of Grey Goose. Lots and lots of Grey Goose. It had gradually gone from fun to uninteresting and routine to just desperate. He pushed harder and drank more in order to feel something. Anything. He had looked at the women and they had meant nothing to him. They were no different than the washcloth he used on his face, or the gla.s.s he poured his beer into. Serviceable, useful in that he'd notice if they were gone, but just all part of the landscape of his life.

They were nothing to him, and he was nothing to them, and it scared the s.h.i.t out of him. It came to a head one horrible night in Austin and since then, he'd been clean and sober.

And celibate.

That part hadn't been a requirement, but it had been a conscious choice. He wanted to wait until he'd left totally behind in the rearview mirror his view of women who approached him as merely there to be a vessel for his pleasure. They were using him, he was using them. It wasn't what he wanted. He'd been raised in an environment where women, in particular his mother, hadn't been respected, and he didn't want to emulate that. He wanted to respect and appreciate the women in his life, but he hadn't been doing that. No matter that they'd all be willing partic.i.p.ants and hey, he was a rock star, and what was a little (or a lot) of casual s.e.x? He wasn't going to beat himself up for those years, but he wanted something different now. He wanted to care. He wanted to be intimate with a woman. To touch her flesh and have it matter. He wanted to deny himself satisfaction and remember what it was like to crave, to be so f.u.c.king h.o.r.n.y you thought you were going to crawl out of your skin. It was the first time since his teen years that he'd had to wait for s.e.x, and he thought it was good for his character. Self-denial. Antic.i.p.ation. Having a goal. It hadn't been horrible. In fact, he'd enjoyed the privacy of waking up alone on tour, of not being hung over and smelling like a cheap brothel.

The awkward goodbyes that he'd increasingly grown impatient with, where women angled for another hookup, and tried to take selfies with him after he gave their phone back. He'd learned early on cell phones had to be confiscated or his Instagram would be a parade of tagged shots of him sleeping naked as women bragged they'd spent the night with him. Which struck him as ridiculous. He still felt like the same guy he had before he'd gotten famous, but now he was famous, and to people that mattered. So he'd walked away from s.e.x.

He hadn't even been particularly h.o.r.n.y after the first week or so.

Until tonight.

Marco strode down the sidewalk in the Village, jamming his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. It had been a night like any other. He'd been looking for respite from his bandmates, and he'd gone to a bar, because a bar was like a familiar friend. Like an old childhood pal, a twisted sort of Stand By Me relationship. The bar was always there for him. It never tempted him to drink, not really. He just liked where it was noisy and people were having fun. Where there was life, and even though you were anonymous, people wanted to talk to you. You didn't have to sit in social isolation if you didn't want to.

Except that wasn't true for him anymore, no matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise. So he'd gone there hoping for some quiet, maybe a conversation with the bartender, and he'd been outed almost immediately. Then he was surrounded by women. The d.i.c.k-sucking harem, the brunette had called it. He'd been shocked to hear her disdain. It wasn't nearly often enough that people told him what they truly thought anymore. Not that she had intended for him to hear it, but he had, and while it wasn't true now, it would have been true a year ago. He couldn't necessarily argue with the self-important thing, but h.e.l.l, everyone, famous or not, was self-important. Their thoughts primarily revolved around themselves. It was human nature.

But he didn't think he was arrogant. Nor did he expect special treatment. That was why he was leaving the bar. To go home, to his rented apartment, and not have women t.i.tter over him and guys compliment his guitar playing.

Hearing the brunette's voice, clear and confident, had shocked him. Then he'd been intrigued when she hadn't stammered and blushed and apologized. So he'd teased her, pushed her a little. And she hadn't reacted with anything other than a laugh. She hadn't cared about impressing him, and he found that very interesting and very appealing.

She was also beautiful, with long, slender legs that had been crossed under the high-top table. He suspected she was tall, nearly six foot, with a slim frame, and a small chest, not noticeable really at all in her sweater. Her lips were luscious, meant for kissing and sucking, and she had warm eyes, a deep amber color. Her hair was straight and sleek, the color of mahogany.

The desire to have s.e.x had returned when he had not only seen her, but heard her confidence. He had wanted to go head to head with her, verbally spar, then tear her clothes off and make her scream his name over and over.