With a belligerent pout, she reached behind her back--flick!--cast the bra off with the salted breezes, a silk whisper into the night. She was drunk, but--so what? I don't even care if someone sees.I hope someone sees, what of it? Miami Prague was one knockout of a 19-year-old, standing there, drowsy and delightfully unsteady, smiling wickedly at the midnight ocean. She was supposed to be at work, her stupid little part-time job on the boardwalk, at the stupid little "Hermit Crab's Used Books" beach bookstore. Finishing up her shift. But...Hey. Whatever. She stood there--topless! que scandalous!--in the curtains of midnight, at the ebbing edge of the ocean, as diamond glitters of sand sifted through perfect toes. She supposed if she had to, if she wanted to, she could get the job back. A little flirting with the assistant manager--that little ska-surfer wannabe--yeah, he'd hire her back. Probably on the spot. Guys were like that. Especially dumb ska-surfer ones.Imagine what he'd do for me if he could see me now, she mused with a lopsided giggle.
