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Everyone who’d had the good fortune to encounter her courteous demeanor patted Daniel on the back and congratulated him on a fine catch. ‘Congratulations, young man,’ one tipsy reveler blustered with conspiratorial glee as he grabbed a reluctant and irritated Daniel by the hand and pumped vigorously, ‘You’ve managed to land yourself the prize filly of Wake County. Looks, brains, money, charm and experienced: what more could a fella ask for in a woman?’ Daniel shrugged off the back-handed compliment with more than mild annoyance. He understood how these parties ended on the Fourth — everyone eventually had a little too much to drink and everyone inevitably said something they’d wished they’d never said. He watched with mild interest as Justine ‘worked’ the crowd. She shook hands when presented with the raw paws of older gentlemen with lecherous eyes. She laughed appropriately, concealing a distinct discomfort, when confronted with awkward, inappropriate jokes from red-faced drunkards. That night on the couch, their making out had become heavier than ever before. Clara's top was open, her bra loose, and Peter was at her breasts like a famished four-month-old. Clara knew it was time. The bedroom door was ajar. The bed within was calling to her, louder every time Peter gathered her breasts together. She moaned and said, "Peter, God that feels so good." Peter moaned back. "You know…..oh yeah, do that some more, right there…..I think I'm really beginning to fall for you." Peter's mouth left her breasts and he kissed his way up to her neck. He ran the tip of his tongue around the hollow of her throat and then very deliberately dragged it, the touch light and tantalizing, to the side of her neck. "I know, Clara," Peter whispered. "I feel the same way." Clara groaned and Peter brought his mouth back to hers. Between kisses Clara said, "I really want to find out where a relationship between us could go. I'd love to find out where a relationship between us could go." Peter.
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He was unshaven for what looked like several days. He stood slightly hunched, probably 5'9” or so at full stance, wearing tartan pajama bottoms and no shirt. The definition of his chest and stomach was incongruous with the photos he had sent me though I gave him the benefit of a doubt given his posture. The smell of stale beer wafted from his mouth and clothes. My only relief was that he certainly wouldn't care about my cleavage sweat. “Well I didn't mean to surprise you,” I replied somewhat passive aggressively. “No, it's cool. Come on in Layla.” “Leilani,” I corrected him. Truthfully most of my friends called me Leila anyway. He stepped to the side and allowed me inside. The apartment was dark but for the minute beams that peaked through the vertical blinds, but it was still light enough for him to get a good look at me as I crossed into living room. “Damn, you look good,” he said, drawing out his interjection. He was right. I did look good. I looked fucking great. My long tanned.

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