Brody's first cognizable thought of the morning was an awareness of the feeling in his mouth. Dry, coarse and fetid. Like the taste of an ancient dorm room utility carpet, would one ever be inclined to eat it.
Christ. Not again. My mouth feels like a fucking whorehouse. Why can't I just remember to drink a fucking glass of water before I go to bed?
He smacked his lips together and moved his tongue over his teeth and gums, hoping to stimulate the salivary glands enough to moisten his mouth. Even a little would help. He succeeded only in moving the stale, rancid breath out of his throat and up into his nostrils.
The next wave of consciousness brought the operation of the most basic bodily functions. His blue eyes opened slightly, registering intense morning light coming through the window. As his head lifted off the pillow, it was followed by his arms, which held his muscled upper torso up and slightly off of his 500 thread-count Pratesi sheets.
Fuuuck.
Fucking mother of fuck.
Red Bull and vodka should come with a fucking warning label.
Basic registration of his pain followed. His head began giving an indication of the throbbing that would commence upon full consciousness. The sinus pressure in his temples made his head feel like it was in a vice.
Movement brought awareness of his bowels. As though on cue, they began churning the miasma of bile, liquor and taurine metastasizing in his lower abdomen, preparing it for an inevitably torturous and prolonged expulsion. His bladder and urethra began calling with neural messages of painful ache and intense pressure. The soreness in his pectoral and triceps muscles from a workout two days past surged through his body, the lactic acid reacting with nerve filament to demand a return to a more relaxed position.
I feel like a bag of ass.
Full comprehension of the surroundings came next. The blur to his immediate right, he realized after wiping the sleep gunk from the inside corner of his eyes, was probably Courtney. Yeah, definitely Courtney. Long brunette hair in a tangled mess on the pillow. Her long, angular body pressed up against his wall. The green hypoallergenic comforter that Brody liked, instead of the conventional feather, was coiled tightly around her. It looked like a cotton anaconda, preparing for her to exhale, waiting for the opportunity constrict the remaining life out of her.
The events of the night past came rushing back to him.
Great. This is just fucking great.
Another night in paradise.
Brody pushed himself off his bed and shuffled to the bathroom, where, after scooping several handfuls of water into his mouth and then filling his blue University of Kentucky basketball cup with water, he stood over the toilet and simultaneously relieved and rehydrated himself, judging the location of his urine stream by the varying pitches it makes in different areas of the bowl, his eyes focused on the back of the cup he was drinking out of. When finished, he propped himself over the still flowing faucet, numbingly splashing water on his face and running wet hands through his short blonde hair until he heard the faint noises of impending consciousness coming from his bed. He refilled his cup of water, and brought it over to her.
"Here. You'll need this."
She looked up at him, then down the bed, then around the room. Brody watched her eyes gain awareness and scroll through her memory as she reached for the cup he was holding out.
"Thanks."
"How are you feeling?" Brody inquired.
"OK." As she raised the cup to her mouth with one hand, she ran her other hand through her hair, removing it from her face and straightening out the major tangles. She drank half the water, and handed the cup back to him.
"So...you sure you OK?"
She smiled and adjusted the covers so that she was no longer entangled in them, spreading them over him first, and then herself, carefully straightening the sheets over his legs with her hands. She moved her thin, taut body next to him, cuddling her nakedness up to his. Her breasts were soft on his chest, her legs warm against thighs.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for the water. You're very sweet."
"I try." Courtney was not picking up the indifferent condescension in Brody's tone. Brody rubbed his face, and stared at the computer on his desk. He wanted to check his email.
"Do you have to be at work or anything?" His tone suggested the intent of the question.
"No silly, I told you I only work nights. I just had last night off." She smiled and hugged him harder.
"Oh. OK. I probably need to go to the gym soon."
"No. Stay here for awhile. I don't want to let you go yet." She looked up at him and then gave him a hard squeeze.
"Yeah, well, you know how it is. I'm a busy man. I've got appointments and the like. You only had me booked for last night, not today."
"You silly goose...So, what's for breakfast?" Courtney asked, ignoring, or not totally comprehending, his tone of voice. She looked back up at him, her eyes shining with anticipation, picturing the joyful possibilities ahead. Possibilities that went far beyond eggs and bacon.

Brody didn't know what to do next. He wanted her out, out of his apartment, out of his life, out of his thoughts. There was nothing wrong with her. She was a sweet, decent girl. But, to Brody, she represented everything in the world that was wrong with women. And with him. He had known she wasn't right for him three days after meeting her. For most girls, this would mean that he would just stop calling. But Courtney had defied his tactics; she just made it so easy to be with her. She was incredibly beautiful, she almost always initiated all their dates and times together, she fawned over him, laughed at all his jokes, either ignored or didn't see his faults, and subjected every bit of herself to him and his wishes. She gave her herself totally to him, and he found it too convenient to let go.
These attributes delayed the inevitable, but the inevitable is inevitable because it always eventually catches up. Courtney could not ultimately satisfy him. Brody hated the way she looked at him, the surrendering eyes, the slight hint of a smile that told of her almost blind affection for him. He hated how stupid she was, and how he tolerated her stupidity because she was hot and in love with him. He what he saw as her lack of self-esteem that drew her into him, her void seeking filler from his soul. He hated her obsequious behavior, how she deferred to everything he wanted, no matter how ridiculous or inane.
One time when they were showering together, on a whim, probably for no other reason than he was bored and just wanted to see what she would do, Brody peed on Courtney. Literally let loose a warm, yellow stream of urine right onto her leg. She acted like she was upset, and for a minute Brody actually thought she was, but he played it off and she dutifully accepted it.
He hated how she placed her soul in his hands, and let him do with it he pleased. Play-doh is fun for a while, but eventually it gets dirty and greasy, and has to be thrown away.
The problem was that he, for all his bravado in other settings, could never muster the courage to directly address this issue with a girl. For all the girls that he had dumped, he had never done it directly. The face-to-face discussion, the we-need-to-talk, I-don't-think-we-should-see each-other-anymore talk was a skill not in his arsenal. Forced into a situation he didn't really know how to deal with, Brody reverted to his safety blanket, the defense mechanism that he employed when unsure of his situation. He was just an asshole.
"Who told you I was going to make you breakfast?"
"You did. You said so last night." She gave him a light kiss on his chest. "You said that, and a lot of other sweet things."
"Yeah, well, Brody says a lot of things when he's been drinking."

Courtney laughed at first, but stopped when she realized Brody wasn't laughing with her. Though Brody considered Courtney dumb, she was a woman, and women tend to be more tuned to issues of mood and temperament than men. Brody was not being subtle enough to misconstrue.
"Uh, OK." She pulled slightly back from him and propped herself up on his pillow. Her legs were still wrapped around his, and Brody found himself oddly aware of the warm they transmitted to his skin. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Something's wrong."
"Why do think something's wrong?"
"I don't know. You're acting weird."
"Uh, alright." She pulled back from him, confused as to why he was acting this way. "Do you want me to leave?"
"You don't have to leave."
"I don't have to leave? What does that mean?"
It was becoming too much, even for him. Brody got headed to the bathroom. "It means you can do whatever you want. I don't care."
He closed the bathroom door, kicking her clothes out of the way so it could latch shut. He turned on the shower and immediately got in, not even waiting for the water to warm up. Brody began scrubbing his body. But scrubbing can only remove dead skin, dry sweat, and some dirt.
When he was finished, twenty minutes later, her clothes, and her along with them, were gone. He sat on his bed for what seemed like days, soaking wet, head in hands, before finally drying off and heading into the kitchen to fix breakfast. For one.

Chapter Two

"I've never understood why anyone would drink non-alcoholic beer. That's like dating a woman without a vagina."
She paused for a second, then burst into laughter, tilting her head slightly away as she laughed, momentarily exposing her neck. Brody, understanding this as a subconscious signal of attraction, continued.
"I mean, come on, why subject yourself to the bad parts of beer without even getting the one benefit, the one reason, that anyone drinks it? Who thinks this is a good idea?"
She turned fully towards him, the residual smile still apparent from her initial laugh. "You'll have to ask my friend. I bought this for him. The sour apple martini is mine."
"Him? Yeah, it had to be. Only men are dumb enough to drink a foul-tasting brew that doesn't even get you drunk. I hope this 'him' isn't your boyfriend."
She reached up and brushed a few strands of hair off her ears, smiling. It was the type of smile that women reserve for those situations where they know something that the man doesn't.
"No. He's just a friend."
She continued smiling, this time to herself, as she picked up the two drinks and headed to her table. Brody watched her long enough to make sure he knew where she was sitting. And, of course, to evaluate the male "friend" waiting for her. His hoop earrings, iridescent sky-blue shirt, and excessively gelled hair told the story that she hadn't.
Brody chided himself for not realizing it from the drink she was bringing him. He walked back to the booth where Taylor Parsimian, known to all his friends as Junior, was sitting.
"So? You in?"
"I'm money." As he sat down, Brody Milner casually scanned the rest of the bar area of the restaurant, looking for nothing in particular.
"What did you say to her?"
"As soon as I got there, I heard her order a non-alcoholic beer. So I asked her why anyone would drink that, that it was like dating a woman without a vagina. She laughed--I was in. Any woman that laughs at that has got to be cool."
"That's awesome." Junior stared at a woman walking by the table. She didn't return the stare. "She's pretty cute too."
"Yeah. She's hanging out with a gay guy." Brody paused contemplatively and took a drink. "I wonder which one sucks the best dick. You think they compare notes on that sort of stuff? Comparing technique and the like? I'd bet that conversation is at least mildly disturbing to listen too."
Brody Milner's most distinctive feature are his eyes. Clear, crystal blue, and subtly engaging, they are accentuated by an endearing, welcoming smile, that, when he uses it, reminds one of acolytes from the distant Sundays of a religious youth. Other than his eyes, his appearance did little to distinguish him from the throngs of young attractive men that all seem to emerge, fully dressed with hair pre-disheveled, from any of the ubiquitous vanilla clothes catalogs that appear, unordered, at the door steps of the American middle class.
"There's Gary." Junior waved his cousin over as he laughed at Brody's thoughts. Junior lived with Gary, and often felt obligated to let him tag along. Although he was related to Junior, Gary bore little resemblance to him other than the olive skin they both wore, a result of the Persian grandfather they shared. Junior was a little lighter due to his mother being American, and lot better looking, due to his father being the more handsome of the two brothers that sired Junior and Gary.
"Great. This is going to be fun. Why don't you just chain a dead, rotting fish to my neck and see if I can pick up girls? How about that? It can't be any worse than having your cousin around. You get pussy no matter what--I have to work for it, and having a handicap like him around doesn't help." Brody was not one Gary's bigger fans.
The three of them greeted each other, and Gary took the seat next to Junior. He had a lazy glow in his eyes.
"Have you started already?" Junior inquired.
"Yeah. My girlfriend got mad at me for something, so while she yelled I had a few Mandarin and tonics." Gary always had a girlfriend of one sort or another. Though his current one was much cuter than his normal fare, she was also in much more desperate need of counseling. This fact didn't stop Gary from latching on to her, as he had all the previous ones.
"That's healthy." Brody's tone was even more condescending than normal. Gary either didn't pick up on this, or didn't care. Brody continued. "Alright gentlemen, this is going to be a good night. It is only 9 p.m., the ladies are willing, the liquor is cheap, and we have all of South Florida at our disposal. Where should we go?"
As they discussed their plans, Brody continually looked back over at the girl he had talked to at the bar, picking up cues. She laughed a lot, seeming to be amused by the flamboyance of her friend. Her reddish-blonde hair was straight and bobbed just above her shoulders, obviously done by a professional. The color looked natural, but at his distance the lighting in the bar made that a difficult call. Her makeup achieved exactly what it is supposed to do: accentuate her features and cover her flaws, while at the same appearing as if she had none on. Judging by the way they lay on her chest and moved when she laughed, her breasts were probably real. She not only dressed well, she understood fashion. Manolo Blahnik shoes cannot be faked.
Her gay friend got up and started to the bathroom. Brody didn't hesitate. "Alright, I'm going to go hit on that girl. I'll be back. Just hang out around here for awhile. This won't take long."
He got up, leaving his drink behind, and cut through the crowd so as to arrive beside her. He stood there for a second, examining her profile, waiting for her to turn towards him. Her skin was fair and without noticeable blemish. She was wearing light rouge makeup that emphasized her high cheek bones. Her nose was petite, and clearly real, it's slight pugish asymmetry offering the best proof of that. She looked up at him.
"Do you mind if I flirt with you while your friend is gone?"
She smiled. Her eyes smiled with her. "Go ahead."
Brody sat down without being explicitly invited. "I understand now why you smiled when I asked you if 'him' was your boyfriend. I probably should have guessed from the drink."
"Yeah, Tom is one of my best friends in the world."
"What's your name?"
"Dana."
"Dana, nice to meet you. I'm Brody."
"Brody? That's definitely a unique name."
Dana's eyes told Brody a different story than her appearance. They were the eyes of a woman who was alone, not because she wanted to be, but because she had never been able to find and sustain a long-term healthy relationship, but respected herself too much to settle for an unhealthy one. She was mired in the revolving door of casual dating limbo, consigned to an endless stream of failed attractions, until either she changed her life or someone changed it for her. Or until she realized that it was too late to do anything about it. This was her fate, and even though her conscious mind wasn't quite experienced or wise enough to realize it yet, her eyes did.
"My parents named me after a neighbors dog. Well, they got the idea from the dog's name. I hope they didn't actually name me after that dog. That would be pretty depressing. What would that say about me?"
"My parent's named me after my grandmother. Pretty boring."
"No. Dana is a beautiful name. And it's not that common." She's laughing. That's a good sign. But who has a grandmother named Dana?, Brody thought to himself.
Dana smiled at Brody. "Thank you."
"At least you don't have to spend your life telling people you were named after a dog. Though I guess Brody is better than Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin."
Dana's gay friend walked up. Dana managed the introductions.
"Hey Tom, this is Brody. He's the one who asked about the beer."
Brody got up and shook hands with Tom.
"Well, I basically date women without vaginas, so I guess you were right on." Brody took a half second to get Tom's joke, and then gave a surrendering laugh. It was the wrong time to parry with a gay guy, so Brody decided to surrender.
"Touché."
"So, what do you do Brody?"
"I shamelessly flirt with beautiful women."
"A shame, Brody. You are delicious."
They continued like this for a few minutes. Dana appeared to be enjoying this verbal match, so Brody decided to go in for the kill. "Alright Tom, you're gay, let me ask you something: Why do gay guys always hit on straight guys?"
"Because all straight men have at least some level of homosexuality in them, they just have to find it. We sometimes think we can bring it out."
"OK buddy, whatever...well come to think of it, I do often dream of sucking my own dick, but I think that's more about my immense egotism, not any latent homosexuality." Point, Brody.
Tom laughed and picked up his drink. "I'll leave you two alone. Besides I want to go talk to that yummy guy over at the bar." As he left, Tom gave Dana an unspoken affirmation.
"He seems pretty cool."
"Yeah, Tom is great."
"You told him about what I said?"
"How could I not? That was impressive. I've heard more lines than I can remember, but that was original."
"That wasn't really a line."
"Yes it was."
"Did it work?"
"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"
Her answer surprised Brody. Dana had a better sense of humor than he anticipated. Brody, at age 26, is, like most of his generation, an avid Simpson's fan, and quoted from the show at will. Mr. Burns was his second favorite character, after Ralph Wiggum, and this was clearly a Mr. Burns moment. Brody placed the tips of his fingers together, forming a pyramid with his hands just below his face.
"Excellent."

Gary was on his third vodka cranberry when Junior got back from the bathroom. Brody was immersed in his conversation with Dana, and the trio still had awhile before they left for Las Olas, so Junior scanned the bar looking for a target of his own. He had a much different game than Brody, and thus hunted for a different quarry.
"Look at that one. She is so my type." Junior had something bordering on an obsession with trashy looking women generally, and strippers specifically. Brody understood the significance of this infatuation and explained it to him all the time, though Junior never really listened.
"Yeah. She's hot . Go for it. That's all you." Gary was already slurring his speech.
"I'll be right back."
Boca Raton is a relatively small community situated on the beach midway between West Palm Beach and Fort Lauderdale. It became popular in the late seventies as an alternative to Palm Beach Island for uber-rich Northern snow-birds. As it grew, Boca evolved into something like a mini-Beverly Hills; an enclave of voyeuristic reverie for the very rich and pseudo-famous, but without the traffic, the beggars, or the movie-star fantasy world. If you had money and wanted privacy in South Florida, you lived on Palm Beach Island. If you had money and wanted everyone to know it and see you spend it, you lived in Boca. It is a community comprised of a few immeasurably wealthy, some measurably wealthy, and the ample multitudes of bottom-feeders that scrounge for the crumbs from those immense tables, like so many dung beetles scavenging the Serengeti for wildebeest droppings. Added to that mix is a very large and very rich Jewish community, almost exclusively from New York. This element, combined with the nuevo-riche that tended to settle in Boca, ensure the sort of high-culture gaudiness that the older and more Protestant money of Palm Beach strives to avoid. In practice, this strange amalgam of money and mooching creates a fairly stable symbiotic relationship between those that have and those that want. The local rich and assorted glitterati are catered to by a cottage industry of specialty boutiques, full service salons and wealth management professionals, each scampering over the other to harvest the effluvium left behind by the flow of ephemeral whims of those who can afford to be pampered.
Completing this parasitic picture is perhaps Boca's most defining characteristic: the perpetual mating game played between the hoards of gold-digging women searching for the rich husband pay-off, and the predacious men that feed off of the illusory desires of these women. All different types play the game, to all varying degrees. On the women's side, some are divorcees, looking for a man to provide steady income and social prestige. Some are young and buxom, looking for their first big husband score. And some are just everyday, run-of-the-mill sluts. For the men, some are rich and single, looking for a woman that is in love with them and not just their money. Some are married, looking for anything besides their wife. And some are young and horny, looking for anything willing and attractive. For all their cosmetic differences, the women share a common underlying desire to extract money and social status from the men, while the men attempt to extract sex, and sometimes companionship, from the women. Two predators feeding off of each other, locked in a destructive game that has no winner, an endless struggle that rarely results in any meaningful triumph, and never in real happiness.
The woman Junior decided to hit on was typical of the creatures found prowling the Boca Raton night life. She was a leggy 5'6", with recently dyed platinum-blonde hair that had the slightest hint of a wave and lay six inches below her shoulders. The attempts to cover the age and sorrow lines on her face were for the most part effective, but although the lines can be hidden, the attempts to hide them cannot. Her backless leopard-skin top covered D-cup breasts that had all the tell-tale signs of an expensive, but well-done, augmentation: they were perfect globes of symmetry, entirely round at every point and from every angle, they sat high on her chest without the assistance of a bra, and no matter which way the body moved, they stayed resolutely in place. Her tight black pants covered a 34 year-old butt that had been burdened with too many Cosmopolitans and not enough hours on the EFX machine, a butt that yearned for her youth, when the constant drinking that accompanied her whorish forays was moderated by a more active metabolism. She is beautiful in the same way that Madonna is, except she has no real style, is not independently wealthy, and does not possess any genuine self-awareness to temper her meretricious behavior. She is, in a word, Boca."You are really pretty."
"Thank you."
"What's your name?" Junior was gorgeous enough that he could deliver bullshit lines effectively. And of course, he usually picked appropriate targets.
"Cynthia." She examined him in the way that all women examine men who begin unsolicited conversations, except she subconsciously focused her search on his outward indicators of wealth. This was more habit than anything else; he was good looking enough that poverty could be acceptable. At least for awhile.
"I'm Taylor." He motioned to the bar. "You want anything?"
"Yeah, I'll have a Cosmopolitan." She smiled thinly, though not insincerely.
Junior caught the eye of the bartender, Kevin, a good friend and co-worker of his. Kevin smiled and went through the same process he had gone through a thousand times, only the faces changing each time.

"What kills me about Boca are the old people," Brody continued, "Don't you just love driving behind them? I'm happy that they have nowhere to go, but some of us do. Apparently, this has not occurred to any of them. I know that old people have to get around, but there has got to be a better way than giving them cars."
"I totally know what you mean. I still haven't gotten used to driving in Boca. Or anything in Boca. San Francisco is such a different place."
"Yeah, San Francisco is a great city. How long have you been here?"
"About 3 months. I still hardly know anyone outside of work. Tom is pretty much my best friend around here."
"He seems pretty cool."
"Oh, he's great. He has really made my transition so much easier. I feel almost like a local because of him. He's introduced me to lots of people, shown me around, helped me settle in, that kind of stuff. Plus, he's really fun to go shopping with."
"I bet. He's straight out of The Birdcage or something. So, you came to Boca for your job?"
"Yeah. I work for Tyco."
"Really? That's cool. I know the CEO, Thomas McCain. He's a great guy. What do you do there?"
"I am a risk manager. Nothing exciting."
"Not exciting? You must be kidding. You are the most exciting woman I have met in Boca in months. Once you get past the fake breasts and make-up that looks like it was put on with a shotgun, the women here are about as intelligent as drywall. In fact, I'd rather talk to drywall than most women in Boca. At least drywall won't say dumb things and ask me to buy it stuff." Brody smiled meekishly and laughed. He didn't think he had gone too far, but it was always good to counterbalance just in case. She's laughing. I didn't cross the line.
"Yeah, Boca is a different world."
"You have no idea. Anyway, tell me about what you do."
He spent the next half hour probing the physiognomy of her soul, listening to her talk about herself, extracting the necessary tidbits of information, making the right comments at the right time. Brody was playing his game perfectly. He had been enough of a nice guy that Dana felt comfortable around him, but kept enough edge that she found him exciting and engaging. He didn't entirely sheath his caustic wit, instead employing it judiciously, using it to make her laugh at those things she was confident enough to laugh at, while at the same time providing a vehicle to display his humor and intelligence, and hint at his arrogance. The cute, nice guy with the edge. It was his game, and he played it very well.

"I can't believe you're single. As beautiful as you are, you should have no problem finding men." At the same time, Junior was working his entirely different game.
"I can find men. I just can't find a good man who isn't married or a jerk."
"I'm not a jerk, and not even close to being married."
Cynthia just smiled. Junior continued.
"So what do you do?"
"I run a hair and nail salon."
"Really? Where?"
"Salon 609. Over in the Pink Plaza. Right past the sushi place."
"Yeah, I've heard of it. That makes sense. As pretty as you as, you are probably good at helping others become almost as pretty." Junior seemed to go into cruise control when talking to women like Cynthia. He would put his mind in 5th gear, and let bullshit flow naturally.
Gary sauntered up, and addressed Junior. "Hey dude, let's get out of here. I'm going to go get Brody, and then pull the car around. Find him and meet me outside."
"OK, I'll be right there. So where were we?"

"Brody, you ready to get going?" Every once in awhile, Gary had good timing, and this was one of those instances. Brody was trying to figure out how to get her number and then leave without seeming like a jerk, and Gary was that avenue.
"Yeah, dude, go find Junior and give me five minutes. We'll meet you outside." He turned back to Dana once Gary was out of earshot, "That's my best friend's cousin. I would introduce you, but hopefully for you, you won't ever have to meet him again." Brody smiled. "No, I'm just kidding, he's a good guy. Anyway, I'm stuck driving my friends down to Las Olas tonight, but I'd love to have dinner with you sometime."
Dana smiled, and her face softened slightly. She sat up, arched her back slightly, and looked down briefly before looking him in the eyes.
"Yeah, that'd be great. I'd like that."
As Dana wrote her number on piece of paper, Brody examined another woman at the bar, talking to what appeared to be her boyfriend. He looked back at Dana before she had a chance to notice.
"This is my home number, but I'm never home, so either leave me a message or call this number, it's my cell. That's the best place to reach me."
"Cool. I'll give you a call this week. It was very nice meeting you, Dana."
"It was nice meeting you, also."
"Talk to you soon." Brody gave her one last boyish smile and a light touch on the shoulder as he left to go find Junior. [Brody already knew where this was going, already saw the path this relationship was going to take, even though he wouldn't admit it to himself at the moment. He knew that they would go out a few times, he knew that Dana would become attached to him, and he knew that he would eventually admit to himself what he implicitly knew at this moment; she wasn't what he was looking for. He realized this, but like a moth inevitably and irreversibly drawn to light, he would still explore her, still try and convince himself she was right for him, still sleep with her, and still hate himself for it.]

When Brody found him, Junior was in his usual location: neck deep in whore. Brody had seen this pitiful skit played out more times than he could count. He didn't even look at Cynthia.
"Dude, you ready to go?"
"Cynthia, meet my friend Brody." Brody forced a smile and shook her hand.
"Hi." Cynthia gave him a cursory glance, saw that he was not as good looking as Junior, and turned back before she had even released his hand.
"Cynthia was telling me about her business."
"As exciting and compelling as I'm sure that conversation is, we have places to go. Like away from here." Brody had little tolerance for people in general, and even less for a Boca Jezebel that was dumb enough to fall for Junior's game, a game that was utterly transparent to Brody.
"Alright, you've got my cell number, give me a call. I'll see you later." Junior smiled at her as he left, following Brody outside. They walked to the valet stand to wait for Gary to drive around and pick them up.
Brody began immediately. "Great Holy Jesus. You really landed one there. She's fucking stellar. You must have a goddamn radar for them." One of the reasons the two are such good friends is because Junior isn't bothered by Brody's raw, sarcastic humor or his tactless opinions. He understands this as nothing more than Brody's style, and likes it most of the time, even when he is the subject of ridicule. "God lord, look at her. She's got more hard miles on her than a '73 Pinto."

The drive to Fort Lauderdale was surprisingly quick. There were no accidents on I-95 that night, so they were able to go 80 mph the whole way, making it only a 20 minute drive from Boca. On the drive, he tuned out the inane conversation in the front seat and the rap music on the radio, opening the window slightly and letting the cool breeze flow across his face. The smell of rubber and asphalt mixed with salt, and reminded him of nights spent driving back from South Beach.
There are several different night scenes scattered along the South Florida megalopolis that begins in West Palm Beach and extends down along I-95 about a hundred miles to South Beach. Each one is a fiefdom onto its own, with its own rules, its own regulars, and its own style. And like all of Florida, with a few notable exceptions, the further South you went, the more sophisticated and cultured the area becomes.
Las Olas Boulevard, and Himmershee street which bordered it, are home to several different bars, clubs, restaurants and shops that combine to attract a wide-array of people. Our three characters opted for the bars along Himmershee street. It is a narrow street, only a few blocks long and two blocks off of Broward Boulevard, the main thoroughfare in downtown Fort Lauderdale. It had been a favorite drinking spot during the prohibition era, going to shit with the rest of Florida during the Great Depression, spending many years as a ghetto before being gentrified in the last decade, following the trend of the rest of downtown Fort Lauderdale. It is now home to an eclectic mix of modern bars, chic clubs and trendy restaurants that catered to the young, good-looking semi-professional crowd and of the immediate area who were willing to spend four dollars per beer a few times a week in order to meet people like themselves. It has the energy and activity of West Palm Beach's Clematis Street, without its boorish attitude and near redneck quality. And though it lacks the sophistication and style of South Beach, it also lacks it's pompous attitude, exorbitant prices, and insufferable, though generally beautiful, people.
It was around 11 o'clock, and the numerous bars that lined both sides of Himmershee Street were in full swing. Gary parked right off the street in a public lot, and Brody made a mental note to never let Gary drive drunk again, at least when he was in the car. They began the night at Tarpon Bend, the first bar on the corner, mainly because it had a second floor with a patio that allowed a view onto the street. On weekends, which generally include Thursdays on Himmershee Street, the bars became so crowded that the overflow spills out into the street, and the Tarpon Bend patio provided the best place to scope for targets.
Brody ordered a vodka and Red Bull, his standard drink, and got the same for Junior. Gary had disappeared on the way to the second floor bar, which didn't worry either of them, as it was a standard Gary maneuver. They collected their drinks and headed to the balcony, taking seats on bar stools overlooking the street below.
"Dude, your cousin is shit-faced. We can't let him drive home."
"Yeah. I'll drive home. I won't drink much tonight." Aside from being able to hold his liquor, Junior had an almost uncanny ability to drive under the influence. Alcohol seemed to focus and prioritize driving in his mind, whereas when sober his mind delegated few cognitive abilities to the task.
"Cool. So, how's the rehab going?"
"I don't know. Every time I think it's getting better, it just fucks up again. I don't know what to do. I guess I'll just keep at it."
Junior was a professional golfer who had spent time on several of the lesser known mini-tours, and even spent a season on the Nike Tour. Even though he had received sponsors exemptions for some PGA events, he had never gotten out of Qualifying School. Always on the verge of becoming a true PGA pro, but never quite getting there, he tore his rotator cuff six months ago, and was in the process of working his way back into playing shape. In the mean time, he worked as a bartender at the landmark Boca restaurant they had started the night in, Tibby's Grille.
"Yeah. That sucks. You'll be back soon, though. You know you should work on your short game while you are down. You don't need your rotator cuff to putt. And considering what a shitty putter you are, you can only get better." Brody was an awful golfer, having a far too volatile sports temperament, not to mention a seemingly uncorrectable baseball swing that produced a mind-boggling slice, to ever be a decent golfer. But despite his inability to strike a golf ball with any consistency, he could stay within a few strokes of Junior on a Putt-Putt course, and loved to subtly remind him of this.
"Yeah, I should, but I just can't get into it. Plus I'm always too busy."
"Too busy? Doing what? Screwing some nasty whore? Give me a goddamn break. You have all this talent, but because you never focus it, you don't excel, you just get by. It's the story of your fucking life, in one sentence."
"Yeah."
"Speaking of not focusing, where is your cousin?"
"I don't know. Probably passed out in the gutter. Or hitting on some ugly girl." They both laughed at that, recalling his recent girlfriends.
"Dude, remember that one he brought home a few months ago? I honestly wasn't sure if she was going to fit through your fucking door. I am normally a heartless motherfucker when it comes to making fun of people, but holy shit, even I couldn't ride that girl. I thought she was going to have an aneurysm any minute with that huge vein popping out of her head. What the hell was that? It looked like she was constipated and perpetually trying to take a shit." Brody paused momentarily. "Well, at least she had big tits."
"Yeah. Beth was her name. She was kinda cool too."
"Yeah, she was. Unlike his last girlfriend. What the hell was he thinking? That girl was just worthless. Completely, utterly worthless. She had no personality, an ugly face, no breasts that I ever saw, and a fat ass. What exactly was her reason for living? When you can't offer one positive in any of those four crucial female categories, you just need to kill yourself."
"Check these two out. They keep looking over at you." Junior nodded slightly to Brody's left, where ten feet away stood two attractive young ladies, one of which was staring in their direction.
As Brody turned, the one staring began walking over towards them, her friend reluctantly following.
"Yeah, right. She's staring at you. If she's coming over here to talk to me, I'll buttfuck Captain Kangaroo." Though Brody was a fairly attractive guy, women rarely approached him, especially in bars. In contrast, most women found Junior's olive skin, dark hair, green eyes and sharp features irresistible. Though this didn't make Brody jealous of Junior, he nonetheless would have liked to have as easy a time picking up girls as Junior did.
Brody's main difficulty in picking up women was not his look, it was that his look and his game often did not match. Brody's appearance and mannerisms are of the archetypal nice guy, but this initial impression that his appearance radiated often stood in stark contrast to his actual behavior. Brody could be at varying times be stiflingly arrogant, obnoxiously sarcastic and even downright rude. But he could also be extraordinarily kind, considerate, sensitive, and caring. These behavioral contradictions manifested themselves in fairly predictable patterns only to those who knew him well, and could be expressed in a clear maxim that all his friends understood: If he liked you, he was awesome, if he didn't, he was awful. Those few he kept close to him knew a Brody that others rarely saw, and found themselves defending him, usually vigorously, against those who had felt the bite of one of his unforgiving vitriolic diatribes.
When it came to women, these behavioral tendencies had some peculiar effects. The average girl, because of his outward appearance, expected him to be a nice guy. But if that girl wasn't up to his standards in either looks or personality, then he was everything but a nice guy. As a result, Brody ended up with two distinct types of women. On one hand, those women that liked the nice guy look, but had self-esteem issues, flocked to him because he could and did expertly play the 'nice guy with an edge' game. Thus in him they could fulfill their conscious desire to be with the nice guy that he appeared to be, yet still satiate their self-worth issues by subjecting themselves to the jerk he often was. On the other pole, girls that were smart and savvy enough to see through his asshole tendencies to the sensitive, caring guy underneath were also attracted to him. But they usually had a hard road to climb to get to his soft, caring self, a self that he protected closely. Many of these types of girls had tried to get close to him, but few ever made it.
"Hi." Brody was saved from having to become intimate with the rectum of a dead children's TV star as the woman introduced herself to Junior first.
Junior half smiled at Brody, and then turned to her, "Hey, how are you?"
"Good. I'm Janine. This is my friend, Cathy."
"I'm Taylor, and this is Brody."
As all four parties introduced themselves, Janine maneuvered such that she was standing almost between Brody and Junior, and her friend was standing half behind her, half facing Brody. Brody didn't need to be told what to do. He turned to Cathy.
"Hey Cathy, how are you?"
"Good." Her cute, but slightly round face was a combination of boredom and unease. Junior and Janine were too engrossed in conversation to notice anything other than themselves.
"You the wingman tonight?" Brody asked.
"What?"
"Wingman. Your friend obviously wanted to talk to my friend, and so you had to tag along and talk to me, to run interference of sorts.
"What are you talking about?"
"When two fighter planes go into combat, one leads and the other flies off of his wing, watching and protecting his back. Thus the term 'wingman.'"
"Oh. Yeah, I guess. Really I was just hanging out with her and she came over, so I followed." Cathy eyes were not expressing much interest in Brody, or anything else that he could determine.
"So where are you from?"
"Here."
"Tarpon Bend?" That should at least get a smile, Brody thought.
"Uh, no. Fort Lauderdale."
Nothing. This girl looks like she'd rather gargle broken glass than talk to me. She is not good-looking enough to be this much of a bitch. "So you have no desire to be here right now, do you?"
"Where? Fort Lauderdale?"
"Is this a Laurel and Hardy routine? No, right here, talking to me right now."
"No, whatever. I don't care. I'll talk to you."
"If you want to talk to me, then why do I keep getting monosyllabic responses?"
"I don't know."
"Let's try something new." Brody paused, staring at her briefly for effect. You get one more chance to stop sucking. "Do you like movies?"
"Yeah."
"Have you ever seen the movie Meet Joe Black?"
"Yeah."
"You know the part where Brad Pitt gets run over by a car?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess."
"Is it wrong to watch that scene over and over again? In slow motion?"
"Excuse me?" Cathy did not appear to be amused.
As Brody was laughing, at his own joke, he looked over the railing and was presented with a group of attractive young women walking towards the Voodoo Lounge. They can't be any more boring than this one.
"Alright Cathy, this has been great. We're going to have to do this again sometime. How about the 8th of Never. Does that sound good?" He turned to Junior without waiting for a response. "Hey man, I'm out of here, there are women to be seduced."
"Cool, I'll eventually find Gary and then try to catch up. If we get separated, just call my cell."
"Got it." Brody wasted no time getting to the street and the beauties he spied from above. Thankfully the open container laws in Fort Lauderdale were not enforced on Himmershee Street. He stopped at the outside bar beside Tarpon Bend and bought another vodka Red Bull, except this time getting well vodka instead of Ketel One. The four girls were standing in line at the Voodoo Lounge when he approached.

"What happened?" Janine asked Cathy.
"Why is your friend such a fucking jerk?" Her question was directed towards Junior.
"He's not a bad guy, he just has a low tolerance for some people." Junior was also adept at making fun of people, but his tactic was several degrees of magnitude subtler than Brody's.
"No...he's an asshole."
"What did he say?" Junior, recognizing this as another of example of Brody becoming fed up with idiotic girls, wanted desperately to laugh at Cathy, but didn't.
"I don't know. Something about running over Brad Pitt. I didn't understand." Junior smiled and looked at Janine, who was unsure whether to smile or not. Cathy continued. "I think he thought he was being funny. He wasn't. He was just rude."
"You aren't the first person to think that."

"I'm sorry ladies, I don't mean to interrupt, but I wondered if it would be OK if I borrowed your friend for a minute." Brody lightly placed his hand on the upper arm of the tall pretty blonde girl, and glanced quickly into her eyes. "I really want to flirt with her, but I'm too shy to do it in front of all of you."
The four girls stood there for a full second, processing what was said and not knowing exactly how to react. The short Jewish-looking girl with too much glitter on her chest starting laughing, and the rest followed in.
"Go ahead." She apparently spoke for the group.
"Thanks. We'll just be right here."
Brody stepped away from the interior of the group, and the blonde girl followed.
"Do you like vodka Red Bull?" Brody asked.
"Uh, yeah."
"Good. This is for you."
"Uh, OK." She took the drink from him, and held it, wondering, among other things, who this guy was. Her friends continued talking amongst themselves, while also watching that was going on.
Brody suddenly realized that no sensible girl would drink something that some random guy on the street handed to her, thanks to whatever asshole discovered date rape drugs. Oh well, maybe she'll give it back to me. I'll still drink it.
"What's your name?"
"Lisa."
"Lisa, I'm Brody."
Lisa just nodded her head. The drink was a bad idea, you idiot. There you go again, trying too hard.
"I'm sorry about that approach, but I really wanted to talk to you, and I couldn't think of any other way to do it."
"That's OK."
"I thought about faking a seizure or stroke or something, but then I realized that you might not knowing anything about CPR, and I'd have some bald fat man pumping my chest and putting his lips all over me."
"Yeah...that wouldn't be fun." Lisa's tone was aloof.
Brody frowned slightly. OK, that wasn't a great joke, but it was at least somewhat funny. And I got no credit for the approach. She's giving me nothing.
"So what do you do?" Brody directed the conversation to a new area, hoping to strike a chord of interest.
"I'm still in school."
"Really? Where?"
"PBCC." Palm Beach Community College is the last resting place for the intellectually miserable of South Florida.
"Super." I landed a fucking idiot. No wonder she's not laughing at anything. I'm probably testing the limits of her vocabulary. "What are you studying?"
"To be a nurses aid."
"A nurses aid? Not even a nurse?" D'oh! Well, that sealed it.
"Uh, no."
"You like that?"
"Yeah. I guess. Whatever."
Fuck it, go for broke. "You really have a dynamic personality."
"Uh, my friends are going into the club now."

When Junior found Gary, he was at the downstairs bar, drinking something clear, and talking to a guy that looked like he could very well be welded to his bar stool.
"Where the hell did you go?"
"I couldn't find you guys, so I got a drink."
"Brody pissed off this girl so much she made her friend leave. It was pretty funny."
"What did he say?"
"She didn't tell me. Something about running Brad Pitt over."
"That's awesome."
"Look at her." Junior was staring at a woman across the square bar on the first floor of Tarpon Bend.
"Ask her if she has any friends around." Gary said, almost reflexively, as Junior walked off.
Junior couldn't help but notice the tattoo on her pierced belly button. He walked right up to her, and stared at her for two seconds before talking to her.
"You look like the woman I dream about every night." Junior offered his best boyish smile. The woman smiled back at him.
"Well. Thank you."

Though the approach had worked well enough on the tall blonde, she was boring and stupid, a fatal combination for any girl talking to Brody. But more importantly, she was not very attracted to him, and didn't find him funny. He didn't consider his attempt a complete failure though, because he did get his drink back. He finished it before he made it to The Porterhouse, the next bar on Himmershee street.
Upon entering, Brody took the circuitous route to the bathroom, casually surveying the bar. The place was full of beautiful women, many of them without boyfriends in tow. He went towards the bathroom, mainly to collect his thoughts, and make sure he had nothing dry and crusty hanging from an exposed orifice. As he opened the door, he winced. Most bars in South Florida, especially on busy nights, had a bathroom attendant, and this one was not an exception. Brody hated them. It had nothing to do with tipping them. He had plenty of money. He just hated how he felt compelled to utilize their help, whether he wanted it or not. That, and they were pathetic. What job could be more useless and unnecessary than handing out towels and unwrapping gum? If these guys were so essential to a bathroom as to require tips, why did everyone have to fend for themselves the rest of the week? He relieved himself and left without washing his hands.
Brody went to the bar to get another drink, intentionally selecting a spot next to a stunning Hispanic girl. The slight sienna tint to her skin and her light brown eyes probably indicated that she was Cuban, though possibly Colombian. He liked to think he could discern the slight differences that sometimes show up between the many different peoples of Latin and South American origin.
She was facing the same way he was, not doing anything in particular. He turned his upper body towards her.
"Are you flirting with me?" Brody's tone was a mix of inquiry and aggression.
She turned fully towards him and raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly forward and down in the process.
"No."
He immediately shifted his whole demeanor, turning his whole body towards her, standing straight up, throwing his shoulders back, tilting his head and giving his best beguiling smile.
"You should be."
She gave a slight laugh. "OK, I'll flirt with you. Until my boyfriend gets back with my drink."
"Boyfriend?"
"Yeah, boyfriend."
"Sweet. How's that working out for you? Good relationship?"
"Yeah, very good. He's great."
"Well, I guess that's the end of this."

"I used to date a Hooter's girl. She worked in the Hooter's down in Kendall." Junior was staring at her breasts when he said this.
"Really, what's her name, I used to work down there."
"Kendra Stevens. Short, blonde hair, real sweet."
"I'm not sure. Sounds familiar."
"It doesn't matter. Gina, you are definitely cuter."
"Thank you."
Gary had wandered off again, but Junior had yet to realize it. Large breasts attached to a flirtatious woman are kryptonite to his peripheral vision.

The vodka was beginning to effect Brody. He walked up to a tall brunette girl wearing a shirt that couldn't show any more cleavage without revealing her nipples. She had twice looked over in his direction, the second time letting her eyes linger just long enough to show interest. Brody was sufficiently drunk that he neglected to notice her arms crossed and legs crossed, and her sideways posture towards him.
"Do you want to talk to me, or are you just staring at me because I have something in my teeth?"
"Excuse me."
Great line asshole. Press your luck, Brody, that's the only possible way to salvage this. "Did you not hear me?"
"No I heard you just fine."
Well, maybe not.
"OK. I'll be over there if you need me." You are really doing well tonight, jackass.

"You know, if hell ever freezes over, I'm gonna get a lot of ass," Gary muttered.
Junior doubled over laughing. Gina laughed with him, but only because Junior's laugh was infectious, and because when one is attracted to another, she tends to imitate the posture and actions of the other, not because she thought Gary was funny.
"Gina, this is my cousin Gary."
"Hi, Gary."
"Hey."
"Gina works at the Boca Hooters."
"That's cool. The food sucks there, though. But I guess they don't put you in the kitchen."
Gary signaled for another drink. Gina just stared at Junior, hoping Gary would go away.

Brody made his way to Rush Street, a bar on the end of the block. He looked around the room, but kept coming back to a cute, but not stunning, brunette girl with hazel eyes standing at a bar table near the window. She was about 5'4", and was wearing a black sleeveless top over a gray thigh cut skirt. Her tasteful jewelry and fashionably applied makeup said that she was well maintained and possessed of at least some taste, but her purse, a Prada knockoff, and her shoes, probably Nine West, spoke to her decidedly middle class income. The guy she was talking too wasn't with her. He was trying too hard for him to be already acquainted with her, her body language was uninterested, and she continuously scanned the room, looking for nothing in particular. She possessed good style, but not much money, and was bored of the guy hitting on her. His fifth vodka and Red Bull gave Brody the necessary courage. Brody walked beside her, put his arm around her, and looked at the guy talking to her.
"Are you having fun talking to my girlfriend?" The girl immediately swung her head towards Brody, her look of astonishment turning quickly to an immense smile.
"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I didn't know, she, uh, never told me she had, uh, a boyfriend."
"No problem." Brody gave her a slight peck on her cheek. "I missed you baby."
"Well, it was nice meeting you." The guy disappeared into the crowd. The girl turned towards Brody, but didn't remove herself from under his arm.
"I cannot believe you just did that."
And I cannot believe this worked. "Well, you looked like you were having about as much fun as a Mormon getting a lap dance. Which I can understand, looking at that guy talking to you."
"Thank you so much. Oh god, I know. I mean, he was a nice guy, but he just didn't get the picture. What is it with most guys?"
"I don't know. Guys are stupid. Especially the ugly ones. They never understand the signals."
She smiled at him again.
"I'm Brody."
"Very nice to meet you Brody, I'm Stephanie."
Brody stared into her eyes. She stared back for a few seconds before she felt compelled to break the silence.
"So, Brody, are you here alone?"
"No, my friends are at another bar. They were hitting on some skanky girls, so I left. What about you?"
"I came with two friends, but they are over there, talking to some other people."
"That's cool."
"Yeah...So, Brody, do you actually have a girlfriend?"
"I thought you're my girlfriend. At least until that guy leaves the bar." Brody smiled and watched Steph smile with him. He took his arm off of her, and she pulled up two bar stools, placing his just a bit closer than was necessary to hear her over the ambient bar noise.
"Well, we can see about that."
Yes we can.

Gary got his drink and left Junior and Gina to their inane conversation about how her cat insists on having her period in Gina's closet. He walked over to a table with six chairs, only two of which were occupied. He sipped on his drink, intermittently shifting his blank stare between his drink and the intoxicated bustle of activity around him. The two other occupants of his table didn't even notice him pass out.

"Actually, I was going to be a pro-baseball player, but I ended up as a real-estate developer instead."
"Why? What happened?"
"I wasn't very good at baseball."
As she laughed, Stephanie brushed back her hair, even though none of it was on her face or shoulders, arched her shoulders back, and lightly rubbed her arm. Brody continued.
"No, in all seriousness I tore my rotator cuff in high school, and that pretty much ended whatever career I could have had. But no big deal, I've done pretty well anyway."
"You really are interesting. That's an amazing story. I bet there's even more to you than you've told me."
"Yeah, well, maybe. I can't show you everything in the first hour. What's there for later on?"
To that insinuation, Stephanie smiled and turned her head slightly away from him, quickly shifting her eyes back at him. Brody continued to stare at her. She began stroking the stem of her wine glass.
"So what is it exactly you said that you do? Real estate?" Stephanie broke the momentary silence.
"I guess. Really I do pretty much nothing."
"Nothing? You don't do nothing."
"Yeah, you're right, I don't do nothing. I sit around all day and watch Four Weddings and Funeral. Except last time I just got half way through, so I only saw three weddings and a wake."
"What? Do you really?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Why?"
"I'm hoping Andie McDowell will learn how to act."

"I bet you'd be a great mom. How many kids do you want to have?"
"I don't know, like two or three. I want at least one boy and one girl. I want to name the girl Kaylee. I always liked that name."
"That's a very cute name." Junior was using the same voice he talked to his two younger siblings with. One was two, and the other was four.
"I haven't decided on a boys name. I like either Dillon or Michael. Or maybe Heath. I never had a brother, but if I had I would have wanted him to be named Heath. So I don't know if I'd want to use that name for a son. It might be weir--isn't that your cousin."
Junior looked behind him to where Gina was pointing, and saw one of the bouncers trying to wake up Gary. Gary swiveled his head several times with his eyes closed, unintentionally doing a poor impersonation of Ray Charles. He then began swatting wildly, as if he were being attacked by a swarm of bees, and accidentally slapped the bouncer in the face. The bouncer picked Gary up by the shirt sleeves, pinning his arms at his side, and began dragging him towards the door. Gary awoke fully upon being heaved out of his seat, and frantically grabbed what he could reach of the bouncer's shirt to try and stabilize his jarring ride through the bar. Several people at the bar laughed at the harried, confused look on Gary's face. Junior ran through the crowd and got in front of the bouncer.
"Wait, this is my cousin."
"You can claim him on the street."
The bouncer pushed his way through Junior and then the door, sitting Gary down, rather gently all things considered, next to a small tree on the sidewalk. Junior looked down at him.
"What happened?"
"I don't know man. I was sitting there drinking, and all of the sudden this guy comes up and starts hitting me. I don't feel good man."
"Alright, uh, hold on. Wait here, don't go anywhere."
Had Gary been sober, he might have laughed at that. Junior turned to find Gina standing by the door.
"I'm really sorry, I've got to get Gary out of here."
"It's totally OK. I understand. Is he alright?"
"Yeah, he'll be fine."
"I know a good diner around here where he could get something in his stomach."
"I've got to get him home. He probably needs to lay down." Junior paused, considered what he was saying, the situation in total, and switched gears. "But I don't want him to throw up in his car. I should probably get him to that diner, get some coffee into him. That's a good idea. Which one are you talking about? You want to come with us?"

"What do you do really?"
"I own my own real estate development firm."
"Really?" Stephanie's tone made the question rhetorical.
Brody's phone startled him. Even though he'd had it for three months, he still had yet to fully get used to the vibrating ringer.
"Hey man, I'm taking Gary to that all-night diner at the end of Las Olas. He's fucked up and got kicked out of Tarpon Bend. Where are you?"
"I'm busy dude. Call me when you leave that place, and then we'll see from there. Later." Brody hung up without waiting for an answer. Junior understood what was left unsaid.
"Apparently, one of my friends got really drunk, and is in bad shape, so they're taking him home. Guess that means a nice cab ride for me back to Boca. Whatever." Come on, take the bait.
"No," Stephanie reached out and placed both her hands on Brody's leg. "I'll give you a ride home. I go that way anyway to get to my place in Delray. Where in Boca do you live?"
Hook, line and sinker. "Mizner Park."
"Oh yeah. You live there? Wow. Those are pretty nice condos."
"They're OK. They're not that great. "
"Maybe I should check it out. I've always wanted to see what they looked like on the inside."
This is a big one, somebody get a net.

After at least half an hour of logistical organization, Gary, Junior and Gina ended up at Luna, a new all-night diner. Though trendy, chic all-night eateries are commonplace to New York or Los Angeles, the idea is relatively new to the Fort Lauderdale scene, and was taking awhile to catch on. People just weren't that used to going out late and then being able to eat somewhere nicer than Denny's. The trio walked in to find only about a quarter of the tables full, just enough that the waiters didn't look bored, but not enough that the place felt busy. A marginally attractive hostess seated them in a booth next to a window.
"How are you feeling?" Junior was asking Gary a question with his words while trying to tell him to lay down and be quiet with his tone.
"I'm OK. Just get me some coffee."
"Do you want some hotcakes, or maybe some orange juice?" Gina was trying to help in the only way she knew how, but was only being annoying. Gary just sat there without answering. A couple sitting several tables away couldn't tell if he was deeply contemplating some solemn question, or just staring at her chest. After he didn't move for a time, they figured he was drunk.
"No, he'll be fine." Junior would later contemplate the irony of that statement.

After a few hours, several drinks, and numerous playful touches later, Brody paid their bar tab, which ended up being around fifty dollars. Though some women can hold their liquor, Stephanie was apparently not one of them. As they left the bar she held Brody's arm tighter than necessary. Whether this was from attraction or inebriation, Brody was not sure. She handed her keys to him without him even asking. Once on I-95, he decided to go in for the kill. It might have been a little too early, but he was naturally an impatient person, and they were both sufficiently drunk anyway. He stared deeply into her eyes, and gave her hand the slightest squeeze.
"You really are beautiful."
Stephanie's neediness finally got the best of her judgment. She leaned over, placed her right hand between his legs, and her left hand behind his head as she started kissing his ear and neck.
Brody sped the car up to 90 miles an hour.

FINISH THIS TERRIBLE STORY HERE