Free South Row by Ghiselle St. James

wasn’t a hot babe. He tried to reassure me that I was. Lydia even spoke about how great my ass looked in my super sexy dress, which would usually cheer me up, but failed to hit the spot.
    Even when the cab driver casted a leery gaze at me and said, “Of course you’re a hottie, baby. I’d fuck ya,” I didn’t feel the least bit better.
    I just cried harder and said, “See, the creepy cabbie thinks I’m hot, why can’t he? He thinks I’m a stupid kid!”
    Needless to say, it was a depressing journey home. Now here I am, nursing a hangover from drinking two too many Red-headed sluts and feeling like a red-headed slut.
    After downing aspirin for the headache, I take a shower trying not to think about the horrifically embarrassing moments of last night. Toweling off, I change into grey sweats that hang off my waist and a white tank top, showing way too much cleavage and my belly button. I throw my hair into a pile on top of my head and head into the kitchen for some OJ.
    My broken doorbell buzzes then pings and I make a detour for the door. Peering through the peephole, my stomach drops to my toes. Standing outside in all his manly glory is Collin, looking absolutely sinful in fitted jeans, vintage Henley’s and sneakers. He is leaning against the railing in front of my door and staring at it with a cocked eyebrow and a ghost of a smile on his lips.
    I want to eat him.
    “I know you’re there, Red,” he says. “I can hear you breathing.”
    Hear me what?
    It’s then I realize how hard I’m breathing. Seeing him, all sexified and hot, is making me hyperventilate.
    With shaking hands, I unlatch my locks and crack the door open. He pushes off the railing and approaches. That’s when I remember what I’m wearing. I squeak and slam the door in his face and dash for my room. I hear his deep chuckle as I go.
    No time for makeup, I throw off my tank top and peel off my pants. With my lack of coordination right now, I fall face first onto my bed, half naked and ass up. God, I’m a clutz. How I became such a good dancer is beyond me.
    I am digging into my drawer for something to put on, throwing things in the air behind me as my hand touches them. My hands freeze on a pair of hot pants with the word Juicy written across the ass and I spin to put it on. And freeze.
    I go red from head to toe. Collin is standing in my doorway, covered in my clothes, while I stand like a deer in headlights, clutching my shorts to my naked upper body. This is not going well at all.
    Collin picks the clothes from his head and shoulders and steps toward me. He is trying his hardest not to look down at my chest, but I want him to. I want him to see my breasts. I’ve grown into them. They’re nice and supple, fucking juicy.
    Collin th rows his head back and laughs…at me! The fucker! I realize that I’d said everything out loud and a flush of embarrassment creeps over my cheeks, heating them. Mortified and a little pissed off, I scowl at his laughing form and like the little hellion I am, I punch him in the stomach. He wheezes out a breath and coughs, clutching his stomach. Serves him right.
    I drop my hands, raise my chin, and stomp past him. At least I try.
    His hand snakes out and he pulls me into him.
    “That hurt, Red,” he wheezes.
    “ You deserved it!” I protest, huffing in annoyance.
    “ Fuck, you’re a mean little thing,” he mutters.
    “ I’m not little!” I stomp on his toes and he releases me.
    Not caring anymore, I take up one of the t-shirts that fell on the floor and throw it on, dropping the shorts from my hands. I realize it ’s one of my favorite shirts, my ratty Guns ’n’ Roses t-shirt. I convince myself every time I put it on that it smells like Axl. Yes, I’m delusionally in love with Axl and will have his spawn one day.
    In the kitchen/living room, I throw the fridge door open in search of orange juice. Collin strolls in and sits on one of the stools at the small i sland, silent. He looks so much larger