By Xenia King
I strut towards the bar, flaunting my curves and long legs.
I know I look good. Red’s a good color for me.
A few women click their tongues in distaste.
Men follow my direction, lingering gazes burn through my back.
I wink in return.
A little sway on the hips.
A little smirk on my lips.
Someone catches my bait.
A few words exchanged.
A little touch on his toned abs.
A little cleavage, to tease.
A little laugh, to entertain.
We lean—lips too close for comfort.
An irritatingly familiar mad voice shouts my name.
I wipe some drool.
“Detention.”
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