Spiked Lemonade: A Bad Boy Sailor and a Good Girl Romantic Comedy Standalone by Shari J. Ryan Page B
Authors: Shari J. Ryan
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bit, for more than one reason. “What happened to the mister part of my name?”
“I’m over it,” she says.
“And what do you want to know?”
“What’s your real name?” she follows.
“Oh, I don’t give that information out to just anyone. It could get out and then people would know what my parents call me. We don’t need that.”
“So, Jags isn’t your real name, then?”
I smirk. I suppose it could be, but what kind of name is Jags? I just wish my last name started with a ‘w’ so I could have been nicknamed “Jaws.” That would have been better. “No, it’s not my birth name, but it ended up becoming my call-sign, and now it’s what everyone calls me.”
“I don’t like it,” she says. What the hell? Who says that to another person about their name? I wouldn’t expect Sasha of all people, Miss Prim and Proper, to ever say something so rude to someone.
“How would you like it if I told you I didn’t like your name?”
“It’s my birth name, so that would just be rude,” she quips.
Her gaze is blazing into my eyes as if she’s trying to summon out all of my dark secrets by controlling me with her mind. “Well, what if Jags is better than my birth name? You’d feel pretty bad if I told you my name was Julep, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s not your name,” she says confidently.
“No, it’s Jackass,” Tyler says, covering her mouth as she giggles.
“Tyler!” Sasha scolds. “No way. We don’t use that language.” I guess I wasn’t completely out of line telling her not to call me names if Sasha is nearly shouting at her.
“Jags said it first,” she says, pursing her lips and looking back down at her tea cup.
Sasha’s angry mom-like squinting eyes look back at me. “I don’t remember saying that in front of her,” I say, holding my hands up in defense.
“You’ve got a dirty mouth,” she says to me under her breath.
“Don’t talk about my mouth that way,” I snap back in the same quiet volume.
Now she’s looking at my mouth. Is she wondering why my mouth is so dirty, or is she thinking about what it would be like to kiss it? I bet it’s the latter. She’s wondering if I’m a good kisser. Mirroring her action, I look at her lips too, and she immediately becomes uncomfortable as she adjusts her position within her seat. I love making girls squirm, and I especially enjoy making her squirm.
“You really think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?” she asks, clearly taking her anger out on me for causing her a physical discomfort—one I bet she’s suddenly not feeling so discomforted by.
“Not really, actually,” I tell her truthfully.
“How many women have you…”
“A birdie told me you can’t say that delicious three-letter word—se-x-x-x-x-x.”
“And what birdie is that?” she says through an angered lilt.
“The birdie with a broken leg, obviously.”
“Jerk!” she says loudly.
“Auntie said a bad word,” Tyler sings from the corner.
“How many men have you…” I stop right where she did, just looking to get more of a reaction out of her.
Her cheeks immediately burn red, and I’m thinking if I stick around here, her face might permanently change colors. She nervously twists the loose strands of her blonde waves around the back of her ears and grunts, “That’s none of your business. Rude .”
A roar of laughter escapes me. She is aware that she just asked me the very same question, right? “Really, doll-face? You just asked me how many women I’ve fucked, then I ask you the same question in return, and you scold me?”
“Keep your voice down,” she says. “Tyler…”
Shit. I forgot about that little parrot in the corner. I turn to her, hoping she didn’t hear what I just said, but when I look over she’s staring right back at me. Don’t do it, kid. Your mom will kill me.
The corners of her lips curl into a slow, devious little grin. She stares me down for a long minute and then glances back at the book she’s
“I’m over it,” she says.
“And what do you want to know?”
“What’s your real name?” she follows.
“Oh, I don’t give that information out to just anyone. It could get out and then people would know what my parents call me. We don’t need that.”
“So, Jags isn’t your real name, then?”
I smirk. I suppose it could be, but what kind of name is Jags? I just wish my last name started with a ‘w’ so I could have been nicknamed “Jaws.” That would have been better. “No, it’s not my birth name, but it ended up becoming my call-sign, and now it’s what everyone calls me.”
“I don’t like it,” she says. What the hell? Who says that to another person about their name? I wouldn’t expect Sasha of all people, Miss Prim and Proper, to ever say something so rude to someone.
“How would you like it if I told you I didn’t like your name?”
“It’s my birth name, so that would just be rude,” she quips.
Her gaze is blazing into my eyes as if she’s trying to summon out all of my dark secrets by controlling me with her mind. “Well, what if Jags is better than my birth name? You’d feel pretty bad if I told you my name was Julep, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s not your name,” she says confidently.
“No, it’s Jackass,” Tyler says, covering her mouth as she giggles.
“Tyler!” Sasha scolds. “No way. We don’t use that language.” I guess I wasn’t completely out of line telling her not to call me names if Sasha is nearly shouting at her.
“Jags said it first,” she says, pursing her lips and looking back down at her tea cup.
Sasha’s angry mom-like squinting eyes look back at me. “I don’t remember saying that in front of her,” I say, holding my hands up in defense.
“You’ve got a dirty mouth,” she says to me under her breath.
“Don’t talk about my mouth that way,” I snap back in the same quiet volume.
Now she’s looking at my mouth. Is she wondering why my mouth is so dirty, or is she thinking about what it would be like to kiss it? I bet it’s the latter. She’s wondering if I’m a good kisser. Mirroring her action, I look at her lips too, and she immediately becomes uncomfortable as she adjusts her position within her seat. I love making girls squirm, and I especially enjoy making her squirm.
“You really think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?” she asks, clearly taking her anger out on me for causing her a physical discomfort—one I bet she’s suddenly not feeling so discomforted by.
“Not really, actually,” I tell her truthfully.
“How many women have you…”
“A birdie told me you can’t say that delicious three-letter word—se-x-x-x-x-x.”
“And what birdie is that?” she says through an angered lilt.
“The birdie with a broken leg, obviously.”
“Jerk!” she says loudly.
“Auntie said a bad word,” Tyler sings from the corner.
“How many men have you…” I stop right where she did, just looking to get more of a reaction out of her.
Her cheeks immediately burn red, and I’m thinking if I stick around here, her face might permanently change colors. She nervously twists the loose strands of her blonde waves around the back of her ears and grunts, “That’s none of your business. Rude .”
A roar of laughter escapes me. She is aware that she just asked me the very same question, right? “Really, doll-face? You just asked me how many women I’ve fucked, then I ask you the same question in return, and you scold me?”
“Keep your voice down,” she says. “Tyler…”
Shit. I forgot about that little parrot in the corner. I turn to her, hoping she didn’t hear what I just said, but when I look over she’s staring right back at me. Don’t do it, kid. Your mom will kill me.
The corners of her lips curl into a slow, devious little grin. She stares me down for a long minute and then glances back at the book she’s
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