A/N: Hiii everybody! (LOL, that was a Dr. Nick from The Simpsons imitation.) Yeah, yeah, I'm re-posting this. I don't really know what happened, maybe it got buried under all those other stories or maybe I took too long to update, or maybe I just suck, but this sixth chapter came out to, like, half as many hits and only two reviews. TWO reviews. After, like,nine on a previous chapter. It breaks my heart. :( Did I do something wrong?

Anyway, I hope you guys can review this time...it would mean the world to me if you do! I promise I'll update faster if I get more reviews...I already have some spare chapters waiting to be released. :)

Thanks, guys:)

Chapter 6: Dry-Cleaning (Jeff's POV)

I watched as Christy landed on the ground beneath her and smiled and waved up at me. She looked cute and conservative in her loose green sweater and black skirt, but I knew better.

Christy Hemme is certainly no saint. She, with her dazzling red hair, delicate face, and small body, firm and soft in all the right places, was Lolita-esque in her pseudo-innocent girlish charm. She is, in the words of Paul Westerberg, "a half-angel, half-tart." I loved it.

As soon as I heard her Harley-Davidson roar out of the driveway, I pulled the blanket back into my room. It's funny. For someone who likes to live to the extreme, I have never been with a girl as wild as her. Now I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but she definitely lifted me out of my 6-month-long state of lethargy. I feel...alive, when I'm with Christy, and I don't mean that in just the, er, carnal sense.

Feeling particularly inspired, I took a moment to write in my notebook of Emoetry. While flipping through the pages, a line of one of my older poems caught my eye:

"You're beautiful, but strange...so am I."

How oddly appropriate for my situation.

As I set aside the notebook, I spotted the bright red cordless phone lying on the desk in front of me. It's been so long since I've been with a girl that I've totally forgotten how this whole dating process works. My thing with Christy certainly hasn't helped me remember. The sequence of events was totally jumbled up. Let's see...guy meets girl, guy gets girl's number, guy calls girl, guy takes girl out on date, guy kisses girl, guy and girl have amazing wild sex...am I right? See, with Christy, that last event went first. Not that I mind, really. I especially liked that it was really amazing and really wild.

My eyes refocused on the cordless phone. Damn, when am I supposed to call her? I recalled advice I'd gotten from my brother, my roommate, and my brother's ex-girlfriend (a friend of mine...until she cheated on my brother with another former friend of mine) on three separate occasions.

Matt: "A girl will go nuts if you take too long before you call her. Bro, it doesn't a rocket scientist to figure out that girls like it when guys care about them and think about them a lot."

Christian: "Whatever you do, Rainbow-Brite, do NOT call less than two days after getting her number. You don't want to make her think that you're an overeager sap, or else she'll either lose interest in you or step all over you like a doormat. Do I hear 'pussy-whipped'? Exactly. Better yet, wait until she calls you. That way, the ball's in your court."

Lita: "You're Jeff Hardy, bozo. Girls don't care what time you call, as long as it's you on the other end."

Okay, now I'm just confused. I'll think about it tomorrow instead.

I stepped out of my bedroom and switched on the television. Awesome, Springer's on! I flopped down on the couch to watch. Sometimes I wonder if everyone who goes on Jerry Springer's talk show is just an actor pretending to beat up all the other people, but acting or not, it's hilarious. Today's show has yet another girl whose boyfriend is cheating on her, but as it was just getting to the good part (where she's about to beat up the girl her boyfriend is cheating with), the TV is suddenly switched off.

"Will the orangutan behind me please turn the TV back on before I maul him like a madman?" I demanded, turning around to see Christian with the remote control in his right hand.

"Uh-huh. I'll give this" -he waved the remote control in front of me- "back once you explain to me why there's a black bra on your bed."

"There is?" One glance at the open doorway of my bedroom confirmed it. Why, oh why, did I leave my bedroom door open? I tried not to wince out loud.

"Now, there are two possible scenarios I can think of right now: one is obvious, and the other...well, God damn it, Jeff, I seriously hope you're not a closet transvestite."

My eyes widened in shock and disgust. "No, dumbass, I ain't a freaking tranny!"

He laughed. "Then you finally..."

No! I can't let him know about me and Christy. Not now. I shook my head, trying to come up with a passable excuse in record speed. "Nope. It ended up in my laundry when I got it back from the dry cleaners. In fact, I was about to ring them up right now to tell them about it."

"Well, I'm not stopping you." Christian leaned against the wall and leered at me, arms crossed. It was then that I realized that I was knee-deep in shit. It's moments like these that I hate my tendency to forget things like birthdays and phone numbers. I picked up the phone, now at a loss for whom to call. As I raised my free hand to brush my hair back, I noticed something scribbled on it. A-ha! Christy's number!

"Hello?" came a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Hi, this is Jeff Hardy."

"Oh hi, Jeff! Sure doesn't take you long to call...I like that."

It took me all my strength to hide the fact that I was turned on by her voice alone. I cleared my throat and turned my back on my roommate. "Yeah, there was a stray piece of underwear that came with my laundry, Mr. Lee. It's a, um, it's a black brassiere."

I could hear laughing on the other end. "I was hoping you'd find it, Jeffy. Hey, who the hell is Mr. Lee?"

"Would you happen to know who it belongs to, Mr. Lee?"

"Are you, like, pretending to call the laundry service while your roommate's watching? Oh shit---Christian saw my bra, didn't he?"

I watched as Christian sauntered over to my bedroom to examine the bra. "D cup. Niiice," he said before getting distracted by something on the floor---probably the Metallica shirt she wore. I covered the phone in hopes that she wouldn't hear my less-than-tactful roommate.

Before I went nuts and told him to keep his fucking hands off Christy's bra, I turned my attention back to the phone. "Well, I'll drop by tomorrow to leave it with you in case she comes back for it. Thanks. Goodbye, sir."

"...So?"

"Mr. Lee doesn't know who it belongs to, but I'm bringing that thing tomorrow in case the owner comes looking."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's great, man. Nearly believable."

My face paled as he mentioned those last two words. "Wh-what?"

"The last time you went to the dry cleaners to pick up your laundry was two weeks ago, so I find it a bit iffy that you'd only bring out that bra and call Mr. Lee today."

"Well, I..."

"You don't even memorize Mr. Lee's number."

"Yeah, but..."

"And I don't know how the six used condoms on your bedroom floor would fit in with your story. Did it end up in your laundry too?"

I covered my face with my hands as I sank into the couch. "Shit."

Christian was laughing his ass off as he joined me on the couch and gave me a pat on the back. "Buddy, I think it's great that you're finally boinking chicks again. No need to hide it from Dr. Love," he said smugly. "You've been celibate for so long now that I was scared your dick would fall off." In Christian's eyes, three months is a very, very, very long time to not have sex.

"Thanks a lot for that very insightful observation, Dr. Love," I muttered, my face still buried in my hands.

"I mean, six times, man!" he laughed. "Who's the girl?"

"Heh. I'm not telling you," I replied before I went back into my bedroom, shutting and locking the door.

Through the door I could hear Christian's muffled voice. "Some advice, bro: Chicks normally dig guys whose hair is a nice, natural color, NOT purple with streaks of lime green."

Ignoring him, I picked up the phone in my room and called Christy again. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's me, and yes, Christian did see your bra on my bed. And some used condoms on the floor."

The laughing on the other end of the line lasted a good five minutes.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the souvenir, though. Christian now knows you're a D cup."

"Oh no, now he might be able to track me down by analyzing my bra size," she noted with sarcasm. "Babe, there are, like, two girls at most in both the WWE and TNA who aren't size D."

I laughed. "Anyway, I hope you're free after the show next week."

"And I hope that this time, you'll buy me dinner before we screw."

"Well, there goes Plan A. I was planning to bring that Metallica shirt along, too."

"Either way, Jeff," she purred, "I'm looking forward to it."

If there's anything I'm sure of, it's that that woman is something else. After we ended the conversation, I folded up the black lace bra and carefully stored it away in my cabinet. I fell back onto my bed, finding that she was on my mind---again. I couldn't stop thinking about her ever since the night we first met. I had initially dismissed her as a stranger who just happened to care a little too much, but one thing led to another, and...I mean, come on. What guy could resist her? There's something about Christy that draws me to her, and I'm not really sure of what that is.

It could be the way she smiles---she had a smile that could light up the entire East Coast. It could be the way she moves, or how she laughs, or the way her red hair glistens in the sunlight, or simply her body, but I know that's not it, either. I've turned down a lot of very pretty girls with great bodies before, but I just couldn't say no to Christy. It's something intangible, something indescribable. Maybe it's a special immediate connection that we share. I don't know. Hell, it's not like I've decided whether or not I believe in the existence of soulmates yet, anyway.

Damn, Springer's over.