Free The Wild One by Gemma Burgess Page B

the time,” says Julia. “Coco can, though.”
    I can? I instinctively want to say, “No, I goddamn can’t, I have a life too,” but I don’t know why. So I just nod. Anyway, she’s right. I have nothing else to do with my days. And extra cash sounds nice.
    Samantha swaps numbers with me. “Excellent! Thank you so much. I can’t wait!”
    â€œTake it easy, little Julia, okay?” says Vic, standing up. “No more all-nighters.”
    When Vic and Samantha leave, Angie comes back out to the deck and lights up again.
    â€œSmoking will kill you,” says Julia.
    â€œSo if I quit I’ll live forever?”
    â€œI can’t believe you fainted from too much sex,” says Pia. “Like seriously. How big is he?”
    â€œI didn’t!” Julia starts laughing. “I hadn’t eaten or slept!”
    â€œOh, mah Lord…” Pia puts on a Tennessee Williams voice. “Ah was overcome by the fluttahs of exhaustion after a nahght of lurve -may-kin’…”
    â€œAh’m shakin’ from pleasure lah-ke a magnolia bush in a summer storm,” adds Angie.
    â€œMagnolias grow on trees, you moron,” says Julia, grinning. “I’m fine. Drama over.”
    â€œWhen Ah’m around, the dramah is nevah ovah, ” says Pia.
    Then my phone rings.
    Joe. From Potstill.
    I quickly turn my back on everyone else, let it ring four times—the way Pia taught me—and then answer as coolly as I can.
    â€œThis is Coco … oh, hi, Joe!”
    Angie makes a whooping sound ending in an “ow!” as though Pia punched her.
    â€œHey, Coco. Can you work today around four?”
    â€œSure,” I say.
    â€œCheers, Coco. You’re the best. Well, after my mother. She’s the absolute best. But you’re a close second.”
    Moments later, I hang up, giggling, and turn back to the girls. They’re all looking up at me expectantly.
    â€œSounds like someone’s got a date!” says Pia.
    â€œBetter than that,” I say. “I’ve got a job.”

 
    CHAPTER 9
    The first thing Joe does when I get to work is hand me $20 and send me on a coffee run.
    â€œIced coffee, please,” he says. “And some cake. Something that tastes homemade but looks manly, you know?”
    â€œA manly cake,” I repeat. “What does that mean?”
    â€œNo frosting,” says Joe, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Maybe one of those crumb cake things you New Yorkers love so much. You know, the first time someone offered me a crumb cake, I was, like, a cake the size of a crumb, are you fecking mad?”
    On my way to get us iced coffees and crumb cake, I take a quick detour to the old hardware store on Court, the one that’s been around for generations, and buy the yellowest lightbulbs I can find.
    Then I head to the old Italian bakery near President Street. There’s no crumb cake, but I buy some biscotti, because they seem like the kind of tough cookie he was talking about. I return to the bar with my purchases, feeling exuberant.
    â€œBiscotti are manly?” Joe looks doubtful.
    â€œYup,” I say. “They’re practically butch. Now. You need to get a better cleaning service, and we need to change the lighting.”
    â€œWhy?” Joe bites into a biscotto. “Ouch. Are biscotti supposed to hurt ?”
    â€œYes.” I try sounding as self-assured as my roommates always do. “And Joe, girls want lighting that makes them feel pretty. This lighting is too harsh. We also like bathrooms that don’t feel like they might give you the plague.”
    Together, we change the lights in the bar, and suddenly, like magic, Potstill is transformed from bleak and ugly to warm and charming. Even the chipped bar looks chic. (Well, chic-ish.)
    â€œI feel prettier,” says Joe, batting his lashes. “I really do. Do I look prettier?”
    I