Pregaming Like A Champ (AKA Only Bitches Go Sober)

[GameMaker†]

((JJ Sturn continued from Decisions, Decisions))

Joose. 10% malt liquor, and an energy drink to top it off. It tasted fine to JJ, too.... sort of like cheap wine. The taste wasn't what he was looking for, though, just the feeling. Drunk; drunk off his ass, actually. He picked up the can, and chugged the last of it, enjoying the burn on his throat as it went down. He tossed it to his feet, and it scattered with the other cans on his porch.

He was sitting on the swing in his front porch, and watching as the sun slowly made its way down. The sky was lit up in purple, magenta, and crimson, and a still quiet tension has seemed to set all across the street. There was no one else outside, and JJ's parents were out at... something. And so like many recent times, JJ was alone.

He thought of her, in his mind. Her beautiful auburn hair, her piercing amber eyes, and the way she made him feel like everything was going to be alright when she smiled. He wondered what she would be wearing. Something gorgeous, he'd think. Something beautiful. She was always beautiful.

JJ sighed, and reached in his pocket for his pack of Wild Sevens. He put the cigarette to his lips, and lit it with his Zippo. She hates smoking, he thought absently minded. Yeah, that was true. But she hated everything about him, so what was one more thing? He pulled the cigarette out, and exhaled, blowing smoke in front of his face, and felt his eyes water. Because of the smoke, or because of... He didn't think about that any further, it was already too hard.

It wasn't for her that he was drinking, that sounded wrong, but it was because of her. He couldn't... he couldn't deal with another rejection. Not sober, at least. She'd know he was drunk, he didn't doubt that. And she'd hate the fact he was. But if he wasn't drunk, he wouldn't be able to do it. He wouldn't have the guts to go up to her and ask her to dance.

'And if I'm sober, I might even forget it if Claire turns me down' JJ muttered to himself, taking another puff of his cigarette. No, you won't. No, he wouldn't... Why would he even entertain an idea like that? If she turned him down, he'd remember. He'd been completely slammed the night he'd tried to ask her out, and he remembered everything about that night. Every. Little. Detail.

He threw the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out on his porch, and as he did so, he saw the limo begin its steady climb up his street. He straightened his tie, and brushed his tuxedo, making sure there was no little piece of lint or dirt clinging to it. Then he ran a hand through his hair, and practiced a smile. If everybody there was going to think of him as an asshole anyway, he might as well be a classy, gentleman asshole, no?

((Continued in Let The Dance Begin))