Whiskey and Sin

The music occupied any and every space not occupied by the seething mass of gyrating bodies, all alcohol-fueled libido and swagger. Reston was as out of place as a possum in a cotillion, but they had a surprising stock of Jack, Jim, and Jameson behind the neon-lit bar. He needed a drink, or two, or three, or seven, so this place would have to do. A tap on his shoulder interrupted his enjoyment of said liquor, pity be to the punk what had done it.

His mood shifted from annoyance to a jarring mix of confusion and arousal as he turned to find a cute little thing behind him, straight blond hair to her chin and a dress that screamed, “I like to party.” She was saying something about his boots.

He considered his worn out boots, beat up old things more dust than leather. She caught him on the way up, said something about a real man, then kissed him hard on the mouth, full and lustful-like.

Lips parted but still close, Reston rasped, “Girl, you taste like whiskey and sin.”

He didn’t know how right he was.

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