𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐈𝐈

• 2 •

If anyone asks me to choose between beauty and brains, I'll pick something outside of the choices and no, not personality. I will choose talent.

The best bonus would be a high-rating bed performance.

The world has yet to make an official term for people sexually attracted to skilled and talented people, so right now, I am under a nonexistent category. I guess that's why flings, for me, are just that: flings. I only see them as a series of booty calls for lonely nights and in some cases, days, because I can get real horny. Beauty can be achieved by natural or synthetic means, as long as you got patience and money. As for smarts, well, people have libraries in their hands in the form of handheld devices. As for talent, I believe that you truly need to push effort to achieve mastery of a field you're passionate about.

My current fling involves a twenty-seven-year-old accountant with dark blonde hair and decent stamina. I woke up to him in my bed earlier this morning before I kicked him out, all because I had to prepare myself for a big day. I woke up at eight and the meetings are from two in the afternoon to five. After I ate a heavy brunch, I rechecked the bag I packed the night before. Then, after a shower, got dressed in a cute number.

After a small pep talk in front of my mirror and a hell of a long time reading over questions I'll be asking Keenan, I headed for hallway. I slipped a note under Ralph's door, one thanking him again for the opportunity. Rushing down the stairs, I got into my car and drove off.

It's a cliche line, but I'll say it anyway: my heart is beating wildly. My hands are shaking, my legs are spiral marshmallows, and my brain is bungee jumping. If road laws did not exist, I would have gone bald, bulky, and asked to be called Vin Diesel, arrive at Mr. Keenan's home in under ten minutes.

I got more and more nervous after every kilometer. By the time I reached the gates of Keenan Travino's modern-gothic mansion, my heart was hot pudding on my car interior. There was a guard handling the gates, gesturing for me to roll down my window.

The man's scary blank face turned cheerful and friendly in a second, face morphing into a welcoming mask, "Good afternoon," he greeted.

I beamed back, hoping that the corners of my lips reached the same level of his enthusiasm, "Good afternoon. I'm here for the mentorship," I explained.

The kind fellow produced a post-it note from his pocket, neon pink and crumpled, "Name?"

"Gianna Alexie," was my answer, my voice utilizing higher octaves. His eyes settled somewhere on the paper, most likely my name. With a nod, he opened the gates for me and wished me good luck when I drove by.

When I parked Lemon in the driveway, right behind a white SUV, my hot pudding heart turned into dust, but anxiety made a new organ for me, pumping right between my ribcage. I ran my fingers through my brown hair, feeling like it's messy even though that I took a longer time than necessary combing it this morning. I pulled a small mirror from my bag and checked my appearance.

Even though I apply makeup everyday, I'm not its biggest fanatic. I only apply concealer, mascara, brow gel, and lipstick, sometimes gloss, though I hate when the wind blows and my hair gets stuck to my lips. The first that greeted my eyes on the mirror were my eyes. They're blue, like the shallow part of a clean ocean under the sun's mercy. The hue is like the blue of a rainbow against the blue of a bright blue sky, as blue as blue can be, saturation provoked.

My cheeks lack color and I wish I had brought blush with me. I snapped the foldable compact close and stuffed it back into my bag. I inhaled through my mouth and exhaled through my nose, eyes closed and shoulders releasing tension after each breath. Still, I was nervous. Around Keenan Travino, an idol of mine, I don't know if it will ever wear off.