The Pick-Up Artist

Alina Lopez and Abigail Mac are on the couch in Abigail's living room. Alina exhales, then blurts that the first time she saw Abigail she thought she was gorgeous. Abigail slaps her hand between them like a traffic cop. 'Hold up,' she snaps. 'Never compliment first. Didn't you read my book?' The paperback on the table glares: How To Pick-Up Chicks, For Chicks, By A Chick. Alina admits she bought the course instead of the book. Abigail sighs, cracks her knuckles, and says they're starting at Chapter One: Taking Stock. Alina's just paid for a brutal test of her natural game. Roles reverse. Abigail pretends they're at a dim bar. She plants herself, gives nothing, eyes fixed on a far wall. Seconds drag. Alina fidgets, tries to speak. Abigail slices through it. 'Can't hear shit in here,' she says, then points to Alina's eyeshadow. 'Pretty color. Takes attention off your nose.' Alina's cheeks flare. 'Thanks?' Abigail drops the act. That move, she explains, is called Ignore and Call Her a Whore—Chapter Five. Step one: look through them; step two: undercut value. Makes the girl hungry for approval, lowers defenses. Alina argues the logic: how do you ignore someone who’s already ignored you? Abigail shrugs; the point is the sting, not the stare. Next drill: Be the Alpha Female. Once the target feels smaller, you pounce. Abigail inches across the cushions, voice turning velvet with steel. 'What are you making me for breakfast tomorrow?' Alina freezes. 'You just decided you're fucking me,' Abigail smirks, hand sliding up Alina's thigh. 'That’s what breaks resistance.' None of it lands. Alina still feels like quarry, not prey. Time for You Gotta Touch. Abigail's fingers drift along bare skin—calf, knee, inside thigh—then comb through Alina's hair. Casual, continuous, invasive. Alina recoils. Feels like a creep copping a feel. Abigail doubles down: the book once hit #127 on the list. Alina snorts, begins the math, then gets cut off. One last play: Go Big or Go Home. Abigail lunges and plants a hard kiss. For one startled beat Alina melts, then yanks back. 'What the hell?' Abigail smirks; stats say it works. Alina calls bullshit—sleazy, possibly illegal, definitely not her style. She wants to flirt, laugh, lead with honest want, not lines pulled from a manual. Fire builds in her chest. She calls Abigail a scared girl hiding behind armor. The words hit like a dropped pin. Abigail blinks away. Alina presses the advantage—palm on thigh, thumb tracing jaw. She lists the soft spots she's glimpsed, vows to touch them, then leans in and kisses Abigail properly. Abigail gives, hungry. Dresses peel, teeth graze nipples, fingers slip under lace. The teacher forgot she was supposed to be running this class.