Never Been Kissed(3)

By: C.M Kars



I swallow and look down to fumble with my keys.

“Hunter, baby? Where are your keys?” the girl pants.

I struggle not to let out a moan. I live next door to a sex god, whose name is Hunter. The sexiest name a man can have. How did I miss him since move-in? Simple, really, I don’t pay attention to the world around me, like any good little reader. Even then, if I noticed him, a part of my brain would’ve declared: he’s not for you. Because really... what would a hunk like that ever want with a fat-ass nerd like me?

Their combined breathing is faster, like they’re trying to catch their breath. I don’t want to see what he looks like. If the back-view was fine, what’ll his mug do to me? Ovary damage.

“Baby? Are we going to go inside? Please?” the girl asks.

Whining. She’s whining for him to give it to her. A spike of green jealousy lances its way through my heart at the sound of her voice. It’s fine to want that, to want to experience that need and lust for a man. The truth of my reality is I’m judged on what I look like all the time, and no one has ever wanted me. I’ve never been chased by anyone; I wouldn’t even know what to do. I don’t see it changing in the future.

Shaking my head, I open my door, shut away my little dose of excitement for the day. I lock it, waddling to the bathroom even as my bladder decides to give up on me. When I’m done, I raise my hands in the air, and do a Rocky Balboa victory run around my bathroom. This is what my life has been reduced to.

I’m really glad I didn’t see Hunter’s face. Super glad. Liar, liar pants on fire!

Moving to the mirror, I pull my hair out of my bun, massaging my scalp. I’m sub-average, with a giant ass and thighs. I wear nerdy shirts, jeans and Converse. I wear glasses, and somehow I’ve lived twenty five years of my life and never been kissed. Whatever, these are the cards I’ve been dealt and it’s not an awful hand.

Moving back to the kitchen, I pull up my ‘Suck it Up’ playlist on my iPod dock. Pop songs only, anything from The Wanted, Backstreet Boys, N*Sync, and lots of tracks from Glee. I let my giant ass move the way it wants to the beat, trying to stop imagining what the sex god next door looks like. Are his eyes dark or light? Hair long or short? Tattoos?

Sometimes life isn’t as you expected it to be. That’s okay because my life’s pretty good. Books are just books and stories are just stories. They have to stay on paper. And Hunter and I... what cracked universe would we live in if he and I ever got together? In Neverland, maybe. Or the alternate universe where Peter Bishop is originally from. Maybe in another time and place where the Doctor has kept Rose Tyler and another version of himself.

Not here, not now. Not ever.

And I’m okay with that.

I’m such a champion liar, I almost convince myself.





“Nice shirt.”

I’d been scrolling through my ‘Suck it Up’ playlist, waiting for the elevator to come down, looking for something particularly happy. I glance up at the source of the voice.

“Huh?” Shit. Double shit. It’s him. The sex god from next door.

I’ve managed to avoid him all week, knowing that most people start work later than my own seven to three shift, thus missing him both going in to work and coming back home. Now he’s here, in front of me, saying something about my shirt.

Since it’s the weekend, I get to wear whatever I want. Namely, a pair of loose Adidas shorts that aren’t so loose around my ginormous bon-bon, and a nerdy shirt. I have an extensive collection and I’m really proud of them. Synapses firing as they are, my brain is simultaneously dealing with his question, trying to remember which one I’ve worn, while the sound of a pterodactyl shrieking in alarm echoes in my head. I’m not sure I can speak.

“Your shirt. I like it. Most people would say thank you.” Hunter’s grinning at me. The kind of grin a hot guy gives a girl, knowing exactly what kind of effect it has on her. Oh, I hate him. Somebody should tell him jackpot genetics don’t really make us who we are.

Snapping my mouth closed, and making sure I don’t have a look on my face like I just found out Tom Hiddleston knows my name, I don my armour against him – my ability to be snarky.

Which is hard to do when the guy in front of you is as hot as Hunter is, and the plain black tee with that same hoodie and dark jeans look indecent on him instead of casual street-wear. His skull-trim makes him look even more dangerous, total badass, and I’m ashamed that my body is reacting to his good looks. In another dimension and I if didn’t look like I do, I would give him a seductive smile, invite him back to my place for some sweaty hours of sexercise.But my ass is big enough to be seen alone on the Marauder’s Map, and Hunter would never want me. So I’m going to treat him like a friend, and a creeper.

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