The Wild One by Gemma Burgess Read Free Book Online

anyone.
    Okay. Maybe it needs a little work.
    â€œIt’s not old enough to be old-school-adorable shitty and not new enough to be hipster-chic shitty,” says Pia.
    â€œIt’s not even ironically shitty,” says Angie. “It’s just … it’s a piece of shitty shit.”
    â€œThanks, ladies,” speaks up a deep voice, seemingly from nowhere, and we all shriek.
    A guy appears from practically underneath the bar. Very tall. Messy dark hair. Stubble. Eyes that are too bloodshot to see what color they are.
    Pia and Angie shriek again, enjoying their hysteria. I think they’re a little tipsy from our makeover drinks.
    â€œJesus,” the guy says, pronouncing it Jaysus. “I’ll get you a drink if you promise to stop screaming. And stop swearing. You’re like drunk sailors.”
    â€œYes, sir,” says Angie obediently.
    â€œWe’ll have three vodka, lime, and sodas, please, young man,” says Pia. She must be a little drink to be flirting like that.
    â€œThis is a whiskey bar.” His accent is Irish maybe, or Scottish, I can never tell the difference. “I can offer you a whiskey, more specifically an Irish whiskey, or a whiskey-based cocktail. Or beer. But beer is boring, don’t you agree?”
    â€œBeer is cheap, you mean,” says Pia, arching her eyebrow. The bartender winks at her.
    â€œHere,” he says, grabbing some shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Let’s drink these and see what happens. On the house.”
    Pia and Angie glance at each other and shrug. “Sure thing.”
    We all do the shot, including the scruffy bartender. He smiles wolfishly as we all make the predictable “oh, my God WHISKEY!” sounds.
    â€œTell you what, sugarnuts, why don’t you rustle up a whiskey cocktail surprise for us,” says Angie. “Something refreshing that’ll take the edge off.”
    â€œYou got it, princess. But the name is Joe Nolan. Not sugarnuts.”
    â€œRight on.” Angie is looking at her phone now, ignoring poor Joe entirely. I guess when all guys give you special attention, you don’t need to care.
    â€œAre you from Ireland, Joe?” asks Pia politely.
    â€œIreland by birth, Cork by the grace of God,” Joe deadpans, grabbing bottles and ice and glasses, moving with the fast efficiency of a professional. He slices, pours, and shakes with a sort of cool, detached precision, and we all find ourselves mesmerized, watching him.
    â€œMy boyfriend is half Irish,” Pia says. “But he didn’t grow up there.”
    â€œPoor bastard,” says Joe. “Ripped from the motherland.” He glances at Angie to see if she’s listening. She’s not. He slams down four icy-cold mason jars full of a pale yellow liquid. “Cold Hard Toddies.”
    â€œWhat’s in this?” says Pia, sniffing it.
    â€œJameson Irish whiskey, apple cider, ice, lemon, and a slice of apple.”
    â€œMason jar. Nice touch,” says Pia.
    I see her make a note in her phone: Mason jars. Recyclable. Discount on next order when you bring it back. Pia is always working. I can’t imagine loving a job that much.
    We all take a swig of the Cold Hard Toddy. It tastes worryingly unalcoholic. The kind of drink that you devour with thirsty abandon and then realize you can’t see straight. Or think straight. Or walk straight.
    â€œMay I please have a glass of water?” I ask, but I’m drowned out by Pia and Angie.
    â€œThat is amazing!”
    â€œWhat’s in it again?”
    â€œWhiskey, cider, apple, lemon. Do you want me to write it down?” Joe fills up a glass with ice and water, handing it to me.
    â€œThanks,” I say in surprise. I didn’t think he heard me. He’s barely taken his eyes off Pia and Angie, with the kind of lazy grin that you see only on New York City guys who have a lot of casual sex.
    â€œI’m going to the