The Wild One by Gemma Burgess Page A

And then deal with the rest when you get home.”
    â€œOkay,” I say.
    There is something so old-fashioned and delicate about the way Joe is handling this, it’s incredibly kind. If it had been Julia or Pia or Angie, they just would have screamed with laughter and made it even more of a thing.
    He’s back within thirty seconds, carrying scissors, and knocks politely at the door.
    â€œUm … are you still in there?”
    Where does he think I’ll go?
    I open the door an inch and he gives me the scissors, handle-first.
    â€œThank you!” I call.
    â€œAnytime!” he calls back.
    I suddenly start giggling helplessly. Anytime?
    Still giggling, I carefully snip in a sort of H shape.
    By the end, my underwear is in rags, there’s a belt of elastic hanging uselessly around my waist, and I’m sweating slightly from stress, but I can finally pee.
    Is there anything better than peeing when you’ve been waiting a long time? It’s, like, painfully good.
    Then I put my jeans back on, wash my hands and the scissors, and walk out. I currently have the remnants of a pair of underwear stuck to my vagina with hard wax. But I don’t need saving. I don’t need anyone to look after me. If I can handle this, I can handle anything.
    I can sure as hell deal with Ethan when he turns up. That little asswipe.
    I walk—no, I swagger, with the kind of arrogance someone with underwear rags stuck to her junk should not feel—back to the bar and slide the scissors down to Joe, who accepts them with a nod and a wink, just as the band starts its first song.
    It’s “Leader of the Pack,” that hilariously dramatic song by the Shangri-Las. The drums and guitar dominate the opening chords, and Madeleine faces the crowd with a confidence that I’ve never seen in her before. Amy walks over and leans into the microphone.
    Madeleine opens her mouth and starts to sing.
    â€œBirds flying high, you know how I feel … ”
    It’s “Feeling Good,” the Nina Simone song. But with a rock-pop edge. Everyone is mesmerized.
    Pia whispers: “We should put this shit on YouTube. She’s a superstar.” I nod. She totally is.
    Tonight, more than ever before, I’m blown away by Maddy’s voice. When Madeleine sings, you smile.
    I look over behind the bar and see Joe checking his phone and uttering a soft “fock” under his breath. That’s how “fuck” sounds in his accent: fock .
    â€œEverything okay?” I ask.
    I feel like we’re war buddies after what we just went through together. He probably has post-traumatic stress disorder. I know I do.
    Joe shakes his head. “My bartender was late and just texted to tell me he quit, and my boss has been hinting about selling the bar. Another shitty night and no staff would be the last straw. The end of Potstill.”
    I look around. Would anyone care if this placed closed? But I don’t say that. “I bet you could easily get a job in another bar?”
    â€œThat’s not the…” Joe sighs, picking up a lime and slicing it swiftly. “Potstill has been a bar, more than that, an Irish bar since 1891. It’s got stories, you know? Nothing in Brooklyn has a real story anymore. Everything is new and shiny. I know Potstill is a shithole, but … it’s got soul. It’s worth fighting for.”
    I look around at the bar through new eyes. Maybe he’s right. This really is a good bar. It just needs a little love and attention, that’s all.
    â€œI could do it.” The words are out before I’ve even thought them through.
    â€œYou?” Joe looks up at me.
    â€œI could be your emergency bartender tonight.” This time, my voice is louder, stronger. I almost believe it myself.
    â€œReally? Wait, what’s your name again? How old are you? Do you have any bartending experience?”
    â€œMy name is Coco Russotti. I’m