Big Shot [Blake Griffin]

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Chelsea

They say hell lived in a white woman. In that case, Chelsea was a dime-a-dozen.

Admiring her slim figure in the body mirror of the bathroom, she checks her backside for creases. Grace, charm, and beauty—Not to mention money.

Her generous family always assured her bank account was stacked to the highest figure before blowing it all on alcohol, coke, or designer clothes the poor wished they'd have. In spite of all of this, Chelsea was lonely. So lonely, she used sex to recreate the thought of someone holding her close. It was a destructive outlet, not to mention her catty remarks and malicious behavior. Chelsea built that reputation; she'd learn to live with the punches.

Exiting the women's restroom, the bombshell's curls bounced graciously as she sashayed to the library across campus. Her blue, corduroy vest compliments her chic Louie Vuitton hair clip and brown loafers as she pulls at the library's double doors.

The entire lot filled with an abundance of books. Times like this, Chelsea would love to indulge in a good novel. Not the cliche, tropes either—just a story she could get lost in. Chelsea began with Lemoney Snicket and worked her way down to Franz Kafka. Her hands now filled with a barrage of publications, an avid reader Chelsea would call herself.

Not long, she shuffles past the computer lab, and into the open space of the study hall. The books towered over her line of vision as she found trouble maneuvering to the check out station downstairs. Not long after, a loud thud fills the silent room, Chelsea tumbling down while her books in disarray. She groans in annoyance before scowling, "Could you watch where you're going next time?"

She didn't bother to care who she was yelling at; his back was about-faced with a knapsack cinched tightly. He was tall, but something about his hair that soon came into Chelsea's line of sight caused her to eyes to widen. Blake was now facing her while she was still recuperating from such an awkward encounter.

"Blake." Chelsea managed to say, nearly breathless. She blinks in disbelief, during their hiatus of separation Blake grew an inch, his haircut complimenting his chiseled jaw alongside his rock, hard body.

Blake was dressed in a white t-shirt, denim jeans, and some Nike's. His books in his hand, with a neutral look on his face, as if he were unfazed at Chelsea's impromptu cameo in his itinerary. 

"Chelsea." His deep voice projected briefly, before setting down his laptop to help pick up her books; despite how they ended, he was still a gentleman at heart.

Chelsea didn't even bother to wait for him to extend his hand, she helped herself up instead. Blake handed her the books she'd plan to check out before clearing his throat.

"Thank you." Chelsea,  still staring as if she'd seen a UFO.

"Be more careful next time."