A Fish Called Jameson

“Will you seal that promise with a kiss?” Jameson puckered his lips in what he hoped was an alluring way. Privately, Becca thought he looked kind of like a fish. A cute fish, but still.

“Don’t hold your breath.” She turned to leave.

“Wait! So when do you want to have this date?” Jameson called after her retreating figure.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the Houdini Bar at 6 o’clock on Friday. Leave the sleaze-ball, bring the phone,” she replied, still walking away. She didn’t even turn around, just waved with her back still facing him.

Then she was gone and Jameson was left with the unmistakable taste of morning-after-Tequila in his mouth. But that same mouth was spread in a smile so wide, that not even a monstrous hangover headache could crack it.


“Dude, you’ve got to tell me what you did to Becca. What did you do to make her hate you so much?”

The boys were playing ball down at the court. Paul stopped to catch his breath before shooting the ball. He missed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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