The Wild One
Page 24
Stef’s the only person in here, and he’s sitting at the bar. He’s cute, though a little simian for my liking. Overconfident and overintense with the eye contact. You know the type.
“What’s up?” I greet him with a triple cheek kiss, the way Stef always does.
“Nothing, my angel,” he says, running his hand through his hair and lighting a cigarette. Wow, this must be a secret bar if they let you smoke inside. “How’s life with Cornie? It’s so cute that you work for her. Does she say yoo-hoo every morning when she sees you?”
“She’s away.” Stef is part of that Upper East Side Manhattan rich kid crowd that all know one another, always have and always will, and so is Cornelia. “I need to make some money, fast.”
“You wanna split an Adderall?”
“Sure.” I look around. “So who do I have to blow to get a drink around here?”
“You’re funny. This is my buddy’s place. It’s not open to the public yet, but the bar’s fully stocked. Help yourself.” Stef takes out his wallet, looking for his pills. He has a sort of cracked drawl, so he sounds permanently amused and slightly stoned. He probably is. “Fix me something while you’re at it. I’m going to the bathroom.”
Two dirty vodka martinis and half an Adderall later, the world is a lot smoother.
I like Stef, I really do. I think he’s a nice guy underneath the slightly sleazy exterior. There’s nothing between us, either, which is so refreshing.
And he’s been good for meeting guys. That’s how I met Mani last year. He’s the one who bought me this dress, actually. He liked shopping. He also dumped me without a second thought or a follow-up phone call. I really thought we were in a serious relationship, so I guess I was, um, stunned by that. The previous guy, Marc, had been married, and messed me around for a long time, but I thought Mani was the real thing. He wasn’t. I sort of partied my way through November to get over it. Then just before Christmas I began sort-of seeing another friend of Stef’s called Jessop, from L.A. But he only called me when he was in New York, which was rarely, and it fizzled out.
My love life is like a cheap match. Lots of sparks but the flame never catches. I pretend I don’t care, of course. Even when I’m dying inside, I just put a cigarette in my mouth and say something stupid and flippant, and no one can ever tell. Well, Pia can. Or used to.
“You are very good at making dirty martinis, Angie,” says Stef, taking another sip of his drink.
“One of my not-so-hidden talents,” I reply. Alcohol always makes me cocky.
“I’ll just bet.”
“Hey guys,” says a voice as two guys, one heavy and one skinny, walk into the bar.
“Angie, this is Busey and Emmett. Emmett is the owner of this particular establishment.”
“Hey,” I say. “Love the place. Does it have a name?”
“Not yet,” says Emmett, the skinnier guy, fixing himself a drink in that self-consciously arrogant way that guys who own bars always do. “Why? Got any ideas?”
“Name it after me,” I say. “The Angie.”
The guys laugh. “Fuck it, why not?” Emmett smiles, holding my gaze just a fraction too long. “Maybe I will.”
“Emmett, a word in my office?” says Busey. I look over. He’s racking up lines on one of the little round tables. Ugh, I am so over coke.
“Angie? Ladies first.”
“Not for me,” I say. “Not my bag.”
“I’m good for now, buddy,” Stef takes out a little leather purse. “Let’s have a smoke, and then I’ve got a couple of parties for us.”
“Okay,” I say. “What are we smoking?” It doesn’t look like plain old weed.
“That’s for me to know and you to enjoy.”
For a second, I wonder if I should. I’ve been drinking since, what, 2:00 P.M.? And Adderall sometimes makes me a little crazy.
Then I think about why I started drinking. And about the fact that my father still hasn’t called. I don’t want to feel alone right now.
“My folks are splitting up,” I say to Stef, accepting the joint.
“Mazel tov! Welcome to the club. Let’s celebrate.”
CHAPTER 3
I wake up naked. And alone.
The first thing I think is: forty-one days till I turn twenty-three.
The second thing I think is: something is wrong.
I’m not sleeping on my pillow. I always have the same pillow. It fits my head perfectly. This pillow is higher, firmer.
I open my eyes and sit up real fast, my heart hammering with panic. Where the hell am I? Big bed, square windows, taupe blinds, huge TV, desk, one of those weird phones with the Line 1 and Line 2 buttons.
A hotel room. NakedinahotelroomIamnakedinahotelroom.
Okay, breathe, Angie, breathe …
On the nightstand there’s a little notepad with SOHO GRAND printed on it. I know that hotel. It’s in downtown Manhattan. And the clock says it’s 10:00 A.M.
Fuck.
What am I doing here?
I try to remember last night.
We hung out in the bar with no name for a while, drank more, then we met some friends of his—an Italian guy? And was the chick Croatian? Something like that. Then we were in some new bar on Lafayette, or maybe it was Hudson? Or did we get a cab uptown?
Nothing. I remember nothing.
With a sick thud somewhere deep inside me, I see the indent of a head in the other pillow. I didn’t sleep here alone.
Maybe the pillow just does that. Or maybe I started the night sleeping on that side.
I head to the bathroom to pee. The wallpaper has cool little cartoon drawings of birds. Nice. It’d make a cute fabric print actually.
Then, with an even sicker thud than before, I see something in the bottom of the toilet bowl.
A discarded condom.
Stef, probably. We’ve had sex before. It was years ago, at a house party in Boston, and it was not pleasant, but shit happens. At least we used a condom.
Goddamnit. I always end up sleeping with my male friends. A couple of drinks, I think maybe I have feelings for them, they give me that look and then … boom. It’s totally wrong, I know. But I always seem to do it. I always think that this time it’ll be different. I’m a sexual optimist.
I quickly shower, lathering soap all over my body to obliterate the sticky drunk-sex-morning-after feeling, and use the hotel shampoo and conditioner. My hair is pale blond, almost white, and very long, and it responds well to almost any hair product. As does my liver with almost any booze. Ha.
I wish I had a toothbrush. I look like shit, but I can make a quasi–smoky eye by rubbing yesterday’s mascara and eyeliner around my eyelid. Part panda, part rock groupie. Fine.
It’s when I’m getting dressed that I notice it, right over on the TV cabinet.
My cell phone, propped carefully over a Soho Grand envelope with “A xx” written on the front.
First I pick up my phone. Two missed calls and a text from Pia wondering where I am. She didn’t even bother to get in touch until this morning. Thanks a lot, ladybitch. If she left the house drunk and upset, I’d sure as hell chase her. Though she wouldn’t do that, of course. Not anymore.
Then I open the envelope.
It’s full of hundred-dollar bills. Thirty of them.
Three thousand fucking dollars.
I count it again quickly, my skin burning strangely at the sight of so much cash. It’s such a tiny stack of notes, but just imagine what I could buy with it.… Holy shit, that’s a lot of money. That’s more than Cornelia gave me every month. When she remembered.
Three thousand dollars.
I pause, looking out the hotel window over SoHo. I can see over the downtown rooftops, some with those funny Manhattan water thingies on top, and a bit of West Broadway, and people walking and shopping and going to Felix for brunch and leading ordinary days that probably didn’t start naked, alone, and confused in a hotel room.
Why would Stef give me three thousand dollars?
It’s Stef.
Hey kitten! Great night. Sorry for bailing, but hope you two had fun.…;-) Heading to a party in Turks tomorrow if you want to come. xoxo
What does he mean “hope you two had fun”? Two who? Who two? And he bailed? So I didn’t sleep with him? And the money isn’t from him? Who is it from? Who the fuck did I sleep with?
I turn the envelope over again. No signature. Nothing else.
I feel sick.
I don’t want to think about it, so I quickly throw my white dress back on, tie my wet hair into a tight little knot and secure it with the Soho Grand pencil, put the “A xx” envelope in my fur/army coat, and leave the room. I hope I don’t see Mani. He used to hang out in the lobby here a lot. He was so— Urgh, why am I thinking about my ex-boyfriend at a time like this?
Five-inch heels before noon: not cool. The Soho Grand lobby, at least, is kind of sexy and dusky, so I don’t feel too out of place, but once I’m outside, the freezing white glare of the February morning is horrific.
I feel like everyone is looking at me and thinking, Slut. I try my usual walk-of-shame trick of dialing up the attitude and pretending I’m too gnarly for this shit, but it doesn’t work.
Deep inside my body I’m nauseous … in my soul, or heart, or brain, or something. Cold and itchy.
I always do the wrong thing. Always.
It’s always an accident.
But it’s always wrong.
A tall doorman with kind eyes puts me in a taxi, and I say, “Union Street, Brooklyn, please.”
And then as the cab starts driving, I lean forward, bury my face in my knees so the driver can’t see me, and cry.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gemma Burgess spent her twenties getting lost, drunk, dumped, fired, or in a state of mild hysteria, and still managed to have some of the best times of her life. She lives in New York City with her family. You can find out more at www.gemmaburgess.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY GEMMA BURGESS
BROOKLYN GIRLS
LOVE AND CHAOS
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Love and Chaos
About the Author
Also by Gemma Burgess
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE WILD ONE. Copyright © 2015 by Gemma Burgess. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Excerpt from Love and Chaos copyright © 2014 by Gemma Burgess
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover photographs © Cavan Images/Offset
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-00087-3 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5982-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466859821
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: November 2015