Boomer noticed Bubbles tense up as his fingertips came so close, he could almost feel the stitching of her jeans. When he looked down, he saw there was no almost about it. A slight mistake in measuring had him touching her very lightly. His first instinct was to pull back and go find rubbing alcohol, but he didn't. That would compromise him and his brothers and besides, it really wasn't all that bad. Maybe he would let it stay in contact for a moment longer. uh, because she didn't like it, of course. Wh-why else?<br/><br/>He followed her in more casually, bu his eyelid twitched as she asked his name. "<em>Son of a bitch,</em>" Boomer thought at the mundane question. He'd thought up responses to all kinds of questions she might have asked him, but this, the most everyday of inquiries was something he hadn't considered. Telling her it was Boomer would blow his cover faster than she could throw a punch, which was pretty fast for a girl. "They call me...Jack," he said, saying the first thing that came to mind that was Boomer. That seemed a good enough answer, but to his dismay, his mouth kept going. "Naw, I'm just messin' with you. Name's Boomer."<br/><br/>So many swears flew through his mind like debris in the hurricane the FCC dreaded most, all directed at himself.