French Pressed by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online

Esther had a preferred playlist—one that seemed much more aligned with her feminist sensibilities. “What happened to your Fiona Apple, Liz Phair, Siouxsie and the Banshees mix?”
    Esther shrugged.
    “What does that mean?” I pressed. “You like rap now?”
    “My boyfriend’s into it. He brought the CD over special and everything, you know? The least I could do was play it for him.”
    Hold the phone. “Boyfriend?” Ever since I’d known Esther, she’d dated here and there. But never before had she used that “antiquated, Leave It to Beaver term”—as she’d once deemed it.
    “He’s right over there.”
    Esther pointed across the room toward that wiry young blond man; he was still bobbing his head to the rap. Just then, he looked over at us. He stared for a moment, then winked at Esther and gave her a little wave.
    Esther sweetly waved back. “Isn’t he cool?” she murmured out of the corner of her mouth. “He’s waiting for me to get off.”
    I raised an eyebrow, more than a little curious about the young man who’d finally cracked Snark Girl’s hard-as-a-hazelnut shell.
    “Where did you meet him?” I asked. Something about the combination of his angular face, stiff posture, and outer-boroughs clothes told me this little guy was way too street hardened to be an NYU student. And I’d bet the contents of tonight’s register drawer that underneath the dude’s black leather blazer was a mass of tattoos.
    “I met him a few weeks ago,” Esther said, “at a Park Slope poetry slam. He read, too. He was awesome.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Actually…he hasn’t told me yet.”
    “What?”
    Esther shrugged. “He wants me to call him by his handle.”
    “Which is?”
    “BB Gun.”
    Good Lord. I stepped around the counter and pulled Esther aside. “How much do you know about this guy?”
    Esther shrugged. “Enough.”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    “Oh, boss, you’re way too suspicious of people. I appreciate your concern, but you don’t have to worry. He still lives with his mother.”
    “Esther, that’s no recommendation! Serial killers live with their mothers!”
    What is it with these girls? The more mysterious the “dude,” the more irresistible they find him! Joy was no different. And, although it pained me to admit it, neither was I—at their age, anyway. When I was nineteen, I’d known next to nothing about my ex-husband, yet I’d let myself fall completely in love with him.
    I’d been spending the summer in Italy with my father’s relatives, making a study of Renaissance art. Matt was a few years older. He’d been traveling through Europe, visiting friends along the way. When our paths crossed on an Italian beach, that’s all I’d known about Matteo Allegro. Still, I let him take me to bed, again and again—until I’d come home from my European vacation pregnant with Joy and agreeing to wed a young man who believed the “fidelity thing” was an optional rider to any marriage vows.
    “Esther, are you hearing me? Am I getting through?”
    “Boss, get a grip.”
    I glanced at the young man again. “Don’t you think a nickname like BB Gun should send up a red flag?” I whispered. “Don’t you think that boy could be violent?”
    Esther rolled her eyes. “It’s just a handle. On the Internet, I call myself Morbid Dream Girl, but I don’t go around dispensing nightmare-inducing hallucinogens.”
    “True…but you do like being morbid.”
    “Goth’s my human condition. I can’t help it. Anyway, BB thinks I’m deep.”
    I frowned. Not sure what to say to that.
    “Listen, boss…” Esther put a hand on my shoulder. “BB’s been crushin’ on me since he heard me recite at the slam. He’s been taking me to dinners and movies and paying for both of us—that’s a first. And tonight he brought me the CD. I appreciate your concern and everything, I really do, but would you butt out of my love life? It’s really not your business.”
    I bristled for a