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Never Been Nerdy

By:C.M. Kars

Chapter 1


It's the curse  –  it's gotta be all the curse's fault.

The curse has everything to do with my bad luck. Everything. And for fuck's sake, I can't use the excuse of being cursed as a defense for vehicular manslaughter.

If the thing I hit is even human, that is. It could've been just a really big duck. Yeah, or one of those evil geese with their honking and hissing. See? Not so bad if I killed a goose  –  which means I've orphaned a whole bunch of geese babies.

I really really don't want to think about the alternative. Like, I could have seriously possibly hit a human being. Ah, Christ, I'm not ready to go to jail! I have so much to live for, and they're going to separate me from my Louboutins!

I have to think about letting go of the steering wheel for a solid thirty seconds before my hands do what I tell them to. I check in the rear-view mirror and pretend I see tumbleweeds in the distance since the road's completely deserted. I'm on a back street on my way back home, and dusk has painted the sky a fiery orange that reminds me of my favourite nail polish  –  OPI's Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It.

Which reminds me of jail jumpsuits. And the possibility of becoming someone's bitch because I'm not a physically strong person, and I know I'm pretty enough that like Vinny Gambini says in My Cousin Vinny, "one way or another, you're getting fucked tonight."

I punch the button to turn off the radio, Axl Rose's vocals being lost to the sound of my heavy breathing, as if the silence is going to make me focus better. I have the fleeting shameful thought that my hood is going to be ruined and I just fixed the fucking brakes. But I'll take the dent if it means I didn't hurt a person. Oh please, please don't let it be a dog, either. Please, please, please!

I pull in deep breaths through my nose, and ignore the squelching panic my stomach is currently feeling. I feel like I'm going to vomit, and shit my pants at the same time. Hell, even my fingers shake hard enough that I have to fumble to get my car door open.

Minghia, I hate you Nona Imelda! Who the hell curses their own granddaughter?!

When I ease my foot off the gas, I realize I'm still moving, and with a screech I pound the brake and get Roxie, my blue Mustang, in park. A shocked sob escapes my mouth, because seriously, if I didn't originally hit a person, I sure as fuck did it now!

The dread gnaws on my insides, and saliva pools in my mouth. But I have to see, I have to get out of the car and face what I did.

I don't want to look. I want to stay in my car, and stare at my reflection in the visor, and pretend that the smudge at the corner of my mouth of my practically Valentino-Red lipstick is the only problem I have right now.

Now that I've got the sweats, black spots float in the air which would probably mean I'm about to have a panic attack, or pass the fuck out.

Ovary up, DiNovro!

I gulp down air, and end up choking on my saliva. I feel my pumps connect with the pavement as I climb out of my car, but everything from the waist down feels like it's gone to Jell-O.   





 

So this is what a jellyfish feels like.

I start to pray  –  even though I'm pretty sure God doesn't exist and the cornetto I wear on my necklace is more to keep the malocchio away than anything else.

I use my laser-focus to look at the driver side tire, examining it without really examining it, forcing myself away from the reality of it all, and denying, denying, denying the mere hint of some dark stained liquid on the pavement as I slowly round my car.

I take a huge amount of time staring down at the pavement two inches forward from my toes. I think of stupid things, trying to ignore the blood pounding at my temples, and my rapid pulse throbbing in my wrists.

Really, DiNovro? You wore those pumps today at work? Black pumps don't suit you  –  even if they are red soles.

Swallowing hard, I force my head up with, I'm pretty sure, the pressure needed to cause a wrecking ball to demolish a building.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I let out a squeak at the sight of the body. There's a body!

The dizziness that envelops me has me swaying on the street like I've had too many shots of Nono's grappa, and the horizon has tilted on its axis. My ankles give up on holding me up, and I wobble almost gracefully until I hit the pavement with enough force to rock the very foundations of the planet. Or almost.

All I need now is for some fucker to dash into my car, put it in gear, and hello, I'm spaghetti Bolognese on the pavement next to the giant dude I hit with my car. Christ, there must be an asteroid-sized dent in my hood. Please let that be my only problem.

My eyes start to water, and I really just want to have a tantrum right now like I used to back in the day, but I'm an adult, and I need to face the consequences of my actions.

I drag myself over to the ... uh, body-person-thing, and keep my gaze tracked on his chest.

Because it is a he, like a he-he. A man. Full-grown and everything, and if the stretching of the fabric of his navy t-shirt is anything to go by, a man. Which makes it all worse, like I may have just killed one of the finer specimens of male in the whole entire city of Montreal, and fuck it, they're so hard to find.

Girls have enough problems finding out if a dude is gay or not, especially when they're stacked like this wannabe Viking sprawled spread-eagled next to me on the street. And I hit him with my car.

Focus!

Right. I'm going to have to touch him, aren't I? Check the beat of his pulse? As if I'm a freaking doctor or something and know what the burning hell I'm doing. I really wish I'd watched more episodes of Grey's. TV should have prepared me for this.

Did his chest just rise and fall? It did, it did! I'd put my right hand on the Bible and swear on it, God strike me down and all that shit.

He groan-grumbles, and my hands flutter around him like stupid ass butterflies trying to find a place to land. Well, at least he made a sound, which has gotta be good.

I swear to the Virgin Mary, if Nona Imelda were still alive, I'd chuck her in an old folks' home and make sure she'd never see the light of day. But revenge will have to wait, and I'll see her in hell when my time comes. Christ, stupid old hag, cursing her own grand-daughter! Stupid Italian bullshit!

The Viking lets out another groan, and both his giant hands come up to cover his face, then start rubbing at his temples. Fucker wasn't even wearing a helmet... then again, I don't see a bike, but it does mean I can't pedal-to-the-metal it out of here anytime soon. I do have something called a conscience. Maybe. Only on good days.

The fact is, I'm a bleeding heart for everyone and anyone, and after seeing what my best friend, Sera Delos, went through, well, let's just say that my emotions are stuffed deep, deep down inside of me, like, deeper than the Mariana's Trench (I googled that earlier today).

Could you pay attention to the hunk of man in pain three feet from you? Thanks.

"Hey..." I whisper, and clear my throat, because fucking hell, I am a grown woman and deal with anything the world throws at me.

"Hey... you okay?" I ask, and feel like such a tool. I hit him with my fucking car! Of course he's not okay!

"Please tell me you're okay. I'll wait."

The Viking puts his hands down back at his sides, and his eyes slowly creak open only to slam shut again. After a few seconds, he does it again, and this time it's permanent. And shit, I'm not wearing my sexy underwear today, because wow. Just wow.

Yeah, I totally would've felt bad about killing him.

His eyes are a peculiar green  –  the shade of budding leaves. His face is pretty much pure perfection, too. While this guy doesn't induce panty meltdown with just one look like MacLaine does, he is injured, and he just looks like he needs a warm-up. The line of his jaw is coated with dark stubble, and the length of his hair looks like it would graze his chin if he were upright. Pity I don't see any tattoos or piercings  –  I think Sera took the last hottie left.   





 

My heart beats a little faster when our eyes connect. Do I know this guy? Does he live nearby? Hell, how didn't I notice him, and invite him over? Chain him to the bed?

"What the fuck?" is all he says, and I stop my ogling. I've already saved his face in the database of my brain for my spank bank later.

"What the fucking fuck just happened?"

Wow. Even his voice is supreme. All deep, and almost-growly. I swear all my nerve endings stand at attention and my vagina quivers at the prospect of the Viking saying my name.

Then he really looks at me, but the kind of look that has my heart racing and blood pooling in my cheeks. Like, hello? I do not blush. Guys just don't have that effect on me anymore.

"Are you the genius that hit me?" The Viking asks, but basically says. He turns his head back straight and glares up at the darkening sky. October is here, and my ass on the cold pavement is making me shiver. He must be running at a higher temperature, otherwise I don't understand the whole t-shirt thing. I wouldn't mind being held in those arms.

I clear my throat and think of how I'm going to explain myself. I certainly will not tell him I was checking out my reflection, and looked away for all of two seconds, and he came gliding across the seemingly deserted street (probably, I wasn't looking), and caused a serious dent on my Mustang's hood. Because now that he's okay, I'm going to have to pay for that out of my own pocket, my insurance won't cover it. Too many claims in the past year. Too bad they can't insure against pure bad luck. Assholes!

"Yeah... that would be me," I say, glaring down at him. I know it wasn't smart looking away from the road, but people do it all the fucking time! Changing songs on an iPod, changing radio stations, hell, looking down to grab your coffee so you can take a swallow.

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