Made it, at last, to this infamous, waterless pool. Charli was correct, it is rife with roving-eyed men.

Krissie: “Oh, here come those sexy boys from Hull.”
Charli: “Has my makeup melted off? You’d tell me, right?”

I want to share in their enthusiasm, and I try to muster some for at least one of these men in my scope. But, I’m. Nope. Not dazzled.

But then, Eureka! He saunters up and sits right next to me, nearly in my lap. He has ‘the bad one’ written all over him — literally, he is covered in doodles: guitar frets, flames and one that reads: “bad to the [picture of cartoon dog bone].”

“Hey, I’m Jake.”

The way he says this. Bells and whistles.
Like how the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls makes your mouth water.  Psychic secretion.

Oops, I think later, as we make out under the harsh glow of my porch light. Is this the guitar player? The one Charli was swooning over on the phone?

I tell myself I’ll abort mission before anyone’s pants hit the floor.