Free Jaz & Miguel by R. D. Raven

with many a babe before. He knew he was saying the
right things at the right times (probably out of habit), so he stopped himself.
If this had been years ago, he would've turned and gazed into her eyes and
asked her some lame question that all chicks dug and which would make her feel
like he was completely interested in her.
    But this was not a few years ago. And he wasn't going to take fate
and destiny in his own hands for this one. This one—or, the one—would play out as the gods (or whoever) chose. Miguel was not
interested in a fling. The next
girl he'd be with would either be the one or would come damn near close
to being the one. And finding that one would mean he'd have to be as "unflirtatious"
as ever (was that even a word?) He'd have to put all that charming crap he and
Sandile had used all those years before, aside.
    So he wiped the smile off his face, and became cool—not cool like L.
L., but cool like reserved .
    "Let's get out of here," he said.
     
    Jaz was light-headed from the beer when she got up, and tripped
slightly over the wooden chair. She giggled and Miguel held her up. She was
more than light-headed. She was downright tipsy. Alcohol had never really been
her thing, and she made a mental note that it probably never would be (legal
drinking age of twenty-one or not).
    The unsteady floor was what gave it away: the charming smile and
twinkling glint in Miguel's eyes were, probably, more the result of her altered
perception of reality rather than an actuality. She excused herself and went to
the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, noticing that she hadn't
plucked one hair of her right eyebrow and hoping that Miguel hadn't noticed. Do
boys ever notice these things anyway?
    She wondered if she should have put on more make-up, but it was
clear in her mind when she'd gotten ready that morning that she wasn't going to
do anything with this Miguel guy, even if that clarity had begun to fade after
the two beers. Although, a touch of lipstick would've
maybe gone a long way. However, to put it on now would've made her only look like—what
had he called it?—some bimbo .
    In a way, she was a little uneasy about the rest of the day. What
would they do now? And now that he'd proven that he wasn't a total ass (and, in
fact, quite sweet), had she lost her chance by having dressed like a complete
prude?
    Jaz turned to look at her boobs in the mirror, first from the right,
then the left. She faced forward and pressed on either side of them, then gave
a disappointed sigh. They'd never been her best asset—and what good was a
push-up for a 34B anyway?
    You're just a late bloomer, honey. It's normal! That's what her mom had always said. A more irritating statement
there could've never been. She wondered if they'd grown since she'd been in
South Africa, but she knew that was only wishful thinking. Whereas Rae had
sprouted pretty much overnight from ironing board to damn near blow-up doll,
Jaz's progress had been much slower. She'd first started noticing their growth
when she'd been about fourteen, although they stayed at bud-stage for all of
that year. At sixteen, she finally made it up to 32A. Rae usually measured them
for her, although she'd learned to do it by herself because her paranoia made
her measure them almost daily for a while, and she didn't want Rae to know
that. She remembered when she finally made it up to 34B (an eternity of
waiting) at seventeen. She called Rae and they partied all night. But Jaz just
told her that she was in a good mood, the whole subject of breast size having
been long since gone for Rae by that time. Although, she recalled, Rae had seemed
like she'd grown a bit herself when Jaz saw her that night. Always a step (or a
cup) behind the other girls—that was how Jaz felt about herself most of the
time.
    It was on that night that she gave up on the push-up (she'd
immediately gone out and bought one on discovering her new measurements and worn
it all night). A push-up on Rae made