MZS: Boston: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella by K. D. McAdams Page A

not seem like the type of girl who would get busy on a first date , but hey, no regrets here.
    I smile, knowing that I have saved the day yet again.
    “Hey Jess, coffees underneath, in the drawer by the wall,” I rasp out.
    A howitzer blasts back at me. “Who the fuck is Jess?”
    I guess this isn’t Jess.
    “I’m sorry. I think I’m still drunk, I know you’re not Jess.” Technically that’s the truth, I know she’s not Jess and I probably am still a little drunk. What I don’t know is who she really is.
    “Is Jess your girlfriend? Or are you a scumbag who’s actually married and has a little fuckpad in the city? Did you just forget you weren’t banging your wife last night?” Whoever she is, she spits fire.
    I wonder how many married guys keep fuckpads in the city? Seems like a lot of work and I agree it’s totally a scumbag move.
    “Definitely not married.” Time to work the char m. “Jess is this awesome girl I’ve known since like the fifth grade. She’s gorgeous and she’s way too cool to be friends with someone like me, but we’re still buddies. From what I remember from last night you seem a lot like her. It’s just that being this hung-over means my mouth isn’t working right.”
    “Then what’s my name?” Her eye daggers let me know she sees right through my lies.
    “Come on, how can you think I don’t remember your name?” Stalling.
    “You are the worst fucking kind. When I go home with a playa I know he’s a playa. It’s my choice because I want to get with a hard body or a giant cock. You’re pudgy and pasty white. I bet even your mother wonders what happened to your face. But you play the nice guy card. Tired of games and one-night stands. Making big changes to grow up and settle down. You lie through your fucking teeth and don’t even have the decency to remember my name!”
    Her screaming pounds on my sore head.
    “That’s not fair –“
    “Five seconds. What’s my name?” She’s not going to let this name thing go.
    Deep breath. Guess.
    “Renee.” I speak with confidence , knowing that if I’m right I’ll sound great and if I’m wrong it won’t matter.
    “Asshole.” She storms out of the kitchen space and across my small studio.
    After a brief scan of the floor, she shakes her head and picks up her pants. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but I turn my head slowly as if I might be able to help her find it. The pants go on one leg at a time like everyone else. She may look even hotter with clothes on.
    Her phone comes out of her pocket and she scans the screen quickly. Bending over to show me her perfect ass one more time , she grabs her shirt off the floor. Without another word, she heads straight for the door.
    If she thinks she’s leaving with my Ray Borque shirt , she’s dead wrong.
    “Wait, let me buy you breakfast to make it up to you.” I fumble out of my loft.
    “It’s one-thirty in the afternoon. If you can get my name right, I’ll let you take me to the Capital Grille for lunch and I won’t trash you to every single woman in Boston.”
    This is my Ray Borque shirt we’re talking about her e. I need every ounce of my brain to function. What is her name?
    “Let me get dressed and we can go.” Maybe she’ll get sick of waiting and put on her own shirt.
    Her little headshake makes her ponytail flip around in the way that I love so much. Why do I have to fuck things up with smart hot chicks?
    “Julie!” I call out the open door.
    She doesn’t stop. I have to get that shirt back. I wore it for every game of the Stanley Cup in 2011; it’s special.
    I don’t even have a closet ; why can’t I find a pair of jeans in this shithole? I throw on my Grit and Balls t-shirt and the shorts I wear when I’m just sitting here sweating. It’s definitely not my “win chicks over” A-game, but at least I won’t frighten women and children down on the street.
    Keys, phone, flip-flops; I’m good. The first step is jarring and reminds me how