AMY

Ian Kabra. Usually described as aweful (-ly handsome), annoying (-ly perfect), and a new definition of the word 'jerk'. (Also a new definition for the term 'love of my life'.) Stop it right now, Amy! Ian doesn't care for you, remember? He ruthlessly used you for a clue and then left you for dead. In a cave. With your brother. And your uncle.

Gods, now I'm just talking to myself.

Even worse: I actually can't stop thinking of him! Ugh! It's so annoying. I mean, the Jerk of Jerks heartlessly left me and my only family in a cave to die, and all I can think about is that little kiss he 'caringly' gave me right before that. It was a simple, tiny, peck; a brush of his smooth lips on mine.

Except that no matter what I do to the image I have of him in my head, I can't deny my crazy mind keeps picturing him, making him seem handsome. It's hard enough to control what you say, harder still to control what you think.

Ian is the worst thing to ever happen to me.

He is the one who made me cry because he had the power to make me smile.

He is the one who makes me feel good. I won't deny it; hanging out with him – even for a little while – made me feel confident. Well, maybe not confident, but safe somehow. Secure.

He is the one who stole my heart and broke it. But he never gave me back the pieces. He still keeps it with him, making me still his.

As a child, I used to laugh at those broken-hearted girls in the movies and books, thinking they were so weak while wondering why they just don't fix their hearts up and move on to somebody else. Now that it actually has happened to me, I think I can understand what they feel, the pain they go through.

Those jerks, heart-breakers, those playboys, took their hearts and broke it, but they never gave back the pieces. How is a girl to mend a broken heart without the parts?

I can actually sympathize with those girls now, something I never imagined possible. I never thought that some one would be interested in me in any way, friend or lover. I should have listened to myself. But I couldn't help who makes me feel that everything will be fine.

I can actually sympathize with that Twilight girl, Bella Swan. Like her, there's a huge hole that's punched through my chest. A huge gaping hole, right through the lungs so I can't breathe. (But I still don't like Twilight. Bella's so weak. First she dates a vampire. Next, she wants to run away with it. Then, when he breaks up with her, she befriends a were-wolf and wants to run away with it too. That's just wrong. She needs therapy.)

Oh God, I swear, I'll never be so idiotic again, if I ever get myself patched up. Which is doubtful, because I'm not pretty enough to get a rebound guy.

Rebound guy? Where did that come from? I swear, Ian's messing up my brain even when he's not here.

But it's Ian Kabra. He's so… Gosh, darn it, I have to stop thinking about him.

But he saved you form the Yakuza back in Japan. Surely that must count for something.

In my mind, I knew I was just looking for more excuses – anything that would work – to be with him. He saved me from the Yakuza, true, but he did it not because he cared about me – we didn't even know each other then – but because he needed me to get the clue.

And me, little, stupid, naïve me, had to fall for his British accent and smooth talk. That's what I get for being so shy. I don't know how guys really are because I've never really hung out with one – aside from Dan – so I don't know when they're being Mr. Suave or being Mr. User.

When Ian said the word 'lovely', he probably meant, 'Lovely, everything's going as planned. She's falling for me.' He probably thought that the stupid kiss would seal the deal.

The worst part is still to come.

The worst thing is, Dan already warned me and I didn't listen.

Dan warned me.

It was so obvious that Ian was just using me, that even my eleven-year-old brother could see it. Any one could have seen it coming. Every one except me, apparently. I'm such an idiot. I am so desperate for guys, any guy, that I would fall for any hickey that compliments me. Including murderers.

No, scratch that. Especially murderers. Ian is a murderer, right? Even if his first few murder attempts fail?

Yes, he is a stupid murderer-to-be.

I've spent the past ten minutes thinking about him. I should stop now.

Alright, maybe just five more minutes.

What haven't I covered yet? Ah, yes, his looks. Apparently, he's never had plastic surgery. His mom may be the one who keeps the London surgeons in business, but he's never even stepped inside the clinic, not even to accompany his mom. I find that highly impossible, but it's true. Plastic surgery can't make that evil smile, only Ian can.

Have I missed out on anything?

Oh yeah, his good points.

Does he even have good points?

Okay, he probably does. I've checked his ClickMe page, and it doesn't say that his favorite childhood activity was just kicking stray puppies or kittens. Or maybe he just didn't post that. Then again, I doubt it. Only Ian would not kick stray animals because his shoes would get ruined. Wait, isn't Natalie?

I'm getting confused with which Kabra is Which. But that doesn't mean I'm in love with Natalie. Ew, gross. Now I'm just giving myself a headache. Is it even possible to give yourself a headache just by thinking of shoes?

It's probably possible for Natalie.

Oh, God, I'm turning into baby Cobra!

I'm crazy. Ian actually made me crazy. I already knew he does, but usually, I'm only going crazy when he's around. Now, I'm going crazy even when he's not here.

Ian screwed up my life in so many levels.

Back to the topic at hand. God points, good points… hm, I can't seem to think of any, other than the one where he can be a gentleman when he wants to be. Too bad he never wants to be.

I know one. He didn't laugh when I was pretending to be Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music in Alistair's home in Korea. He actually defended me from Dan. Or maybe that was not a good point, just part of his plot to use me.

The door of the hotel room just opened. I didn't bother looking at who it was, since it was probably Dan. He and Nellie went to look for doughnuts.

Then something was poking my back. Something cold. The kind of cold you can only get from the barrel of a dart gun.

"Hello, love," a lovely, familiar British voice said behind me. God, his accent was heavenly. Not now, Amy. "Been thinking about me?"

You have no idea, Ian.