Disclaimer: I'd like to do something cute for the disclaimer, but I ran out of ideas . .

A/N: I'd like to say this gets better in later chapters, but I really don't know.

Heart of Barbs

Chessa's favorite song blared from the DJ table. She wove her way through the crowd of thrashing bodies with her drink carefully balanced, head bobbing to the heavy beat. Chessa found a chair and sat down, taking a moment to down her shot, then leap back into the heat of the dancers in the nightclub. She was making a decent size circle around her with her dance moves, and attracting a lot of the guys' attentions, when appreciative whoops came from the other side of the dance floor.

Chessa bobbed over where a huge circle had cleared around a guy—an amazing dancer. He had all the best moves, flexibility to match, and a sexy body. Chessa found herself wolf-whistling as he backflipped, his shirt coming up and revealing a radial tattoo in the small of his back. She smiled suggestively at him as he straightened, his dark hair swinging, framing his sharp features. He smirked back at her as a curvy Italian woman with a pronounced boob job took his arm and dragged him to get a drink.

Probably to grease him up so she can go after him in the alley. Chessa thought snidely, going for another shot of whiskey. She slid onto the bar stool, slapped the counter, and the bartender sent her drink whizzing down the counter. She caught it, downed it, and slapped the empty glass back down on the counter, signaling for another. She knocked back her second shot as the sexy guy fell onto the stool next to her. He had a sloppy casualness about him, the long dark hair that looked indigo in the dim light, untucked shirt that didn't do him justice, and the confidence he radiated.

Chessa noted he had ditched Snooki. She looked sideways at him through her wavy brunette hair. He winked at her, swallowing the shot of rum that had materialized in front of him. As he turned to slip back into the crowd, his hand brushed her arm. Chessa glowed and followed him through the mob, other girls and even hookers looking at her with pronounced loathing.

The guy found them a remote table, out of the line of sight of jealous or possibly enraged gals. He leaned back in his chair, a lock of hair falling over one of his eyes.

"Where y' from?" Chessa asked casually.

"Around." The guy had a really thick accent.

"I used to live in the Bronx, then I moved ou' here," Chessa said. "Chessa Pryde, by the way."

"Kurt Wagner, freshly imported from Bavaria," Kurt smirked across the table at Chessa.

"Air mail?" she smiled.

He leaned over the table, smirking his trademark smirk, "Stowavay."

He's bad, Chessa thought, her mental self tripping over herself for this hot guy.

"You seem fun. Call me sometime." Kurt pushed a scrap of paper across the table. His number was scrawled on it in slanting, spidery handwriting.

"Count on it," Chessa beamed as Kurt stood and walked away.

Count on it? Count on it? Kit, you gotta say something cooler than that. There's a reason you like to be called Chessa over Kitty, and it's not to attract hot guys and get their numbers just to say "count on it!" You're such a nerd. Chessa slapped herself mentally, shoving the paper into her pocket to go back onto the dance floor, the music and lights blaring in her mind.


Chessa groaned into her pillow as the light hit her eyes. Why did the sun have to rise at six? She rolled over, the embroidery on her sweat-soaked shirt making her stomach itch. She didn't have a hangover, thank God, but she was so tired.

Chessa Pryde, also known as Kitty Pryde, opened her eyes and tried to glare murderously at the sun coming through the fire escape outside her apartment, but only succeeded in giving herself a headache and making her eyes burn. She staggered up and stumbled through her apartment to her bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror.

Hair messed up, heavy eye makeup all over her face, bleary-eyed, and still in her clubbing outfit, Kitty lifted a brush and tackled the rats' nest that was her hair, combing most of the hairspray out before stripping and taking a long, warm shower.

After she had dried off and twisted her hair up into a turban, she changed into a tight tee that read "Kiss me I'm not Irish but I'm hot" and a pair of faded straight leg Levis. Kitty grabbed her outfit off the floor of the bathroom, a scrap of paper falling out of the pocket. Kitty picked it up and read the number, remembering Kurt from last night.

"I should call him, shouldn't I? Or should I wait for him to call me?" she wondered aloud, chucking her dirty clothes in her closet and walking over to the phone. She glanced at the clock first, and upon realizing it was six thirty in the morning, hurriedly put the phone down and grabbed the tape. She taped the number to her forehead so she wouldn't forget it. It was more of a joke on Kitty by Kitty, but she didn't care.

Kitty waited four agonizing hours before dialing Kurt's number with a trembling finger. Why did this one guy make her so goddamn nervous?

Kurt answered on the second ring.


"Hi, Kurt? This is Ki—Chessa Pryde, from the nightclub last night?" Kitty made it sound like a question and grimaced at herself.

"Uh, vich nightclub? I vent to a lot, and a lot of girls have my number . . ." Kurt said.

"Oh! I'm sorry . . . I guess I'll go . . ."

"No! Just joking! I only gave my number to you. You vere the only girl who vasn't a complete stereotype in zat club." Kurt said it so seriously, Kitty almost flinched.

"Should I be flattered?" she asked, half joking. "Well, anyways, I was going to call earlier, but I didn't want to wake you up or anything."

"If I vere you, I'd take zat as a compliment. How early is "earlier?" Kurt asked.

"Six thirty-ish," Kitty said quietly.

"Zat's your early?" Kurt laughed loudly. "You've got to be joking, Chessa."

"What, that's lunchtime for you?" Kitty asked, somewhat waspishly.

"No, I get up at five to do yoga."


"Ja, so . . . vat did you call for?"

"Oh, um, nothing really, I guess . . . I just kinda wanted to see if I wasn't dreaming and you hadn't given me the Rejection Hotline . . ." Kitty said uncomfortably.

"You have been given ze Rejection Hotline?" Kurt laughed. "I couldn't keep my eyes off you!"

One thing about Kurt Kitty gained from this conversation was that he was almost brutally honest.

"Oh." Kitty squeaked.

"Do you vant to meet at ze café near ze bookstore? Vat street vas it . . . Heart Street and Barb Spear Avenue? Noon good to you?"

"Yeah, totally." Kitty twirled her hair around her finger.

"See you then. Tschüs." Kurt hung up, leaving Kitty wondering what the last word meant. She shook her head and put the phone back in the cradle.

I have two hours to sort out an outfit and my hair and makeup. Better get to work. It's worth it: hot guy Kurt over a book and doing nothing any day.

So finally and update on time! And it's only 1 am! Yayz! Reviews much appreciated, FYI. :)