Oh! You Pretty Things by Shanna Mahin Read Free Book Online Page A

talk to Kyle. There’s a credit card in the silver box on the ottoman. I always tip thirty percent.”
    â€œPerfect,” I say. All this, and a big tipper.

Eight

    T yler is a dream boss. We ate burgers, took the dog for a walk, looked at Kilim fabric swatches from George Smith for the new sofa Tyler wants. It was kind of a magical day.
    When I pull up at the door to my apartment, I lock my bike and dash into the One Life to buy real food to cook myself a proper dinner, something I haven’t been motivated to do for weeks. I buy a bunch of organic dinosaur kale, a perfectly ripe avocado, a can of Italian white beans, a shallot, and a handful of roasted pepitas. It’s like I can’t commit to feeding myself more than one meal, but it’s definitely a start. I even dash across the street to the liquor store and pick up a twenty-dollar bottle of white Burgundy. I mean, why shouldn’t I treat myself like a grown-up? I’m feeling pretty sassy, I have to say.
    As I’m hauling my bike and my groceries off the antiquated elevator, my phone rings, lighting my screen with a picture of my friend Scout and me in a thrift store in Echo Park. I’m holding a shirt up across my chest that reads I’M WITH STUPID , the arrow pointing toward her, and we’re both laughing. For the record, Scout is way less stupid than I am.
    Scout works as a tour manager for a couple metal bands. Not A-list, like Motörhead or Metallica. I’m talking about bands on a level where they sometimes turn down shows because they can’t afford to pay for transportation to the venue. It’s a harsh gig. Not many girls could hack it.
    â€œI’m getting too old for this shit,” she says in lieu of a greeting when I answer.
    â€œWhere are you?” I say.
    â€œYou don’t want to know. A random Motel 6 in Texas. How’s your job? Today was your first day, right?”
    â€œDude, it was like the best blind date ever. He has a Weimaraner named Zelda and Dupioni silk drapes in his living room that cost more than the house I grew up in.”
    â€œDude,” she says, mocking me.
    â€œToday? I drove around in his Carrera and picked up fabric swatches for the sofa he wants to buy.”
    â€œSwatches?” Scout says.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWell, good. Maybe he has a straight brother.”
    â€œI think he’s straight.”
    â€œYeah, the hot guy with a Weimaraner?” she says. “What did you say his curtains are?”
    â€œDupioni silk.”
    â€œSingle straight guys don’t have curtains, let alone doopy-whatever.”
    â€œWhat do you think, they tape cardboard over their windows?”
    â€œWhat windows?” she asks.
    â€œYou are hanging around with the wrong single straight—”
    There’s a huge crash, followed by the unmistakable sound of puking. Which sort of proves my point.
    â€œShit, I have to go,” Scout says. “We’ll hang out when I get back.”
    â€œSounds good,” I say. “I’m around.”
    I cut the connection with a smile on my face. Fucking Scout. I met her on my first day at the Date Palm counter, and we almost got into a fistfight.
    I’d only been behind the counter for ten minutes when she came striding in with her tattoo-sleeved arms and her ironic red pigtails and her size-14 skinny jeans that are so body conscious they’re a thrown-down gauntlet challenging you for even looking. Her whole persona screams,
Go ahead, say something about my body
. People either love Scout or hate her. She’s like cilantro or Chris Brown. For the record, I love cilantro.
    She was wearing a skintight white wife-beater over a purple lace bra that day, and she’d twisted an old-school white bandana into an ad hoc headband that was part Bettie Page rockabilly chick and part Aunt Jemima. She had big black platen headphones clamped on her ears, and I could hear something feedback-filled and angry