a/n: I honestly could not stop myself from writing this even though I already have like nine stories. Please forgive my overactive imagination.

My advice for girls who are waiting for their Prince Charming is to be open for anything. Be open to new experiences, be open to the idea that it may take longer than you want, but if you're open to meeting new people and new adventures, then love will come along.

-Lilly Collins

Full first name: Makira

Last Name: Don't have one

Date of birth: May 6, 3043

Age: I'm pretty sure you can determine that by my birthday. If not, learn to fucking count.

Gender: Does this even really matter? I mean seriously, who cares if I have breasts or not?

Status: Commoner. What's it to you?

Skills/talents: kicking people's asses

Position applying for: Royal guard

Additional comments/ info: This resume is really, really lame.

The feeble looking man behind the desk narrowed his eyes at me, seeming exceedingly displeased. He ran a hand through his hardly-there hair and pinned me with a stony stare.

"Excuse me Miss," he snarled, frail fingers compressed into a taut fist, "But I wrote this resume."

I quirked a brow.

And I was supposed to care because…?

"Oh really?" I countered dispassionately, because did this old goat really believe I was going change my tune because of that? "Then you should know better than anyone else how much it sucks ass."

Mr. Sickly's eyebrow twitched, his entire face shriveling into one of the ugliest frowns I'd ever seen, before he reached below the bulky desk for the dreaded stamp.

I groaned.

Me and my big mouth.

REJECTED.

Margo giggled at the bold lettering at the top of the page and I shot her a vexed look. This was, in no shape or form, even remotely amusing.

"Hey Kira," she managed between laughs, some best friend she was; "This is what, the fourth time this week?"

"Third." I amended, a tad miffed.

She laughed again, grating disagreeably against my already tense nerves.

"Same diff."

No, it's not the same!

I scowled, kicking dirt in her direction and she yelped when it covered her new knee-high boots.

"Hey!" she protested then bent to dust off her shoes while I smirked to myself. Admittedly, it did make me feel a bit better, but I was still rather irritated.

"Shut up Cow," I brooded, "It's not my fault all the royal officials have poles shoved up their asses."

Margo's eyebrows shot up.

"You sure it's all them Kira?" she tittered. A strand of red hair blew across her face and she swiped at it impatiently. "You're answers weren't exactly... professional."

If only she knew what I said afterwards.

Yeah, I'm not telling her that.

I snatched the resume from her hands, shoving it deep in the back pocket of my worn jeans. And by worn I mean really worn. There were patches on every visable inch of them, and amatuer sewing where I'd tried to fix a hole in the knee, but only succeeded in making it more apparent. Regardless, they were still my favorite pants.

They had character.

Which is another way of saying I couldn't afford anything better, not that I'd ever admit that to Margo. She'd try to take me with her on her next shopping trip. Which are never pleasant if you're low maintenance like me.

"Who needs professional?" I demanded and her eyebrows climbed even higher, "I was just being honest."

She snorted.

"Too honest."

"I resent that," I growled.

She shrugged, linking her arm with my own and proceeded to drag me through the busy streets, to my utmost annoyance. Margo knew practically everyone in town and felt the impulse to stop and chat with anyone who bid her hello. It didn't help that they were mostly guys that just wanted to hit on her, and occasionally, me.

But only the foolish ones were courageous enough to attempt that.

"You need to be more social," she chastised when she was done chatting up the grocer's son. He was staring at her chest the entire time, not that she noticed. I had ignored her as per usual. While they were yammering about mangoes, I was busy sharpening my knife and sending anyone who dared to look in my direction silent threats. We had already gone through this same conversation a thousand times. I didn't want a relationship; I wanted a prestigious career and to be respected.

Of course Margo couldn't fathom why. She believed every girl secretly desired to fall in love and have some sort of fairytale romance where a prince on a white steed came and swept her off her feet.

Not this girl.

One: white was so last century.

Two: I despise horses. They're insufferable creatures.

Three: I like my feet where they are thank-you very much.

And as far as the prince is concerned...

He can suck my left toe for having such crappy job officials.

Just thinking of the crinkly, ancient prune behind the counter made me want to hit something, preferably his face.

"Oh look! It's Brandon!" she exclaimed suddenly and my arm was nearly ripped from it's socket as she broke into a sprint towards the rickety barn, practically giving the entire town a view of her polka-dot panties when her skirt elevated. I tried to pry my arm loose, but she only held on tighter, and I was forced to keep up with her speedy pace.

Thank God I was wearing pants.

"Brandon!" she called and the stable boy turned from the black mare he was brushing to greet her with a wide smile. I made sure to keep my distance, eying the creature distrustfully.

"Margo," he beamed and was nearly bowled over when she ran into his arms and planted a loud smooch on his lips. I immediately averted my eyes at the scene. Personal displays of affection always left me feeling uncomfortable, especially if I had a front row seat.

There was a suction-like noise and I cringed.

Yeah, maybe I should leave.

I began quietly edging my way out when Brandon came up for air and caught me just before I would have escaped. His brown eyes twinkled, a boyish smirk forming on his lips when he noticed my flushed cheeks.

Dammit!

"Hey Kira-Kira," he greeted with that obnoxious nick-name of his, "Judging by that humungous blush on your face, I'm assuming you haven't gotten laid yet?"

I scowled, the burning in my cheeks increasing ten-fold.

"That's none of your buisness Brandy." I retorted, "Go finish cleaning up horse shit."

The black horse neighed as if insulted and I glowered at it.

"Shut up beast."

Margo shot me a warning glance from over her shoulder while her boyfriend just chuckled, holding his hands in surrender.

"Touche today aren't we Makira?" he commented.

I ignored him, instead continuing my staring competition with the boorish creature at his side. It didn't so much as blink, and I felt my eyes begin to water from dryness.

"Don't mind her," my best friend consoled him with a soothing rub to his chest, he grinned and kissed her temple, "Kira's just pissy because her job application got rejected again."

Brandon's eyebrows rose in the same manner his girlfriend's had only minutes before.

"Really?" he asked, amazed, "Isn't this like the fourth time this week?"

"Third," I snapped, finally blinking. Geez, was it that hard to remember?

He smirked.

"Same diff."

I had to physically restrain myself from hitting him, or worse, burning him, breath shallow as I concentrated on controlling my temper. The idiot obviously held no sense of self-preservation, or he wouldn't be provoking me like this.

I so needed new friends.

"I'm leaving," I muttered, fully aware that I sounded like a petulant toddler and not caring in the slightest. Badasses had the right to pout every once in a while.

It was a part of the badass code of conduct.

Or, at least a part of the one I made up anyway.

"At least you still have your job at the bakery," Margo piped from beneath her boyfriend's arm, no doubt trying to lift my spirits, but it only made me feel worse.

"Yeah," I mumbled, and left as fast as my legs would carry me.

"Makira, customer!"

"Yeah, yeah," I griped, slipping on my apron. God I hated this job.

It was always, 'Makira do this,' or 'faster Makira!' and my personal favorite; ' Makira, don't make me throw your sorry ass back on the streets!'

Yes, unfortunately, without this job I was pretty much homeless. Mrs. Keeble, the store owner, had taken me in when my brother died nearly a decade ago and ever since had treated me like her own personal slave. It didn't help matters that she also had two equally as bitchy daughters.

"Makira!"

I'm coming you ugly wench!

Mrs. Keeble was scowling at me when I emerged from the back room, jabbing her skeletal finger in the direction of the counter where a dark-haired man was standing. I resisted the urge to snap at her, smoothing back my unruly hair and walking obediently to where she instructed.

Cow.

"Welcome to Keeble's Bakery," I greeted in a dull tone, not even bothering to feign friendliness, "Would you like to try today's special?"

The man chuckled, a deep soothing sound.

"Well you don't seem too enthused to be working here."

No kidding genius.

I shrugged, giving him a discreet once-over from behind my hair. He obviously worked out, I'll give him that, and was all angles and lean muscles. He was also impressively tall, towering over my five-six frame by at least eight inches. What intrigued me however, was the black mask that covered majority of his face, leaving nothing visible but vibrant, cerulean-colored eyes.

I frowned.

Was he a bandit?

Did bandits even still exist?

Why was he staring at me like that?

"You've got, uh, flour on your face."

He pointed to my right cheek, blue eyes dancing in amusement. I flushed.

Well that's embarassing.

I swiped at the spot, intent on hiding my blush from the stranger as I tried to rid myself of the stain. Good grief, it would be just like me to embarrass myself infront of a customer. And just like Keeble not to point it out before I got over here. Hopefully he wouldn't come back after today.

"You missed," he stated, and before I could react his hand was on my face, gently wiping away the flour and dropping back to his side. I was speechless.

Obviously he wasn't from around here. Because around here no guy had the balls to do what he just did, they were all too afraid I would set them on fire if they so much as spoke. But this man had touched me without a second's hesitation.

It was irritating.

I took some time to regain my composure, making sure my voice was steady before requesting in my frostiest tone,

"May I help you?"

Masked-Guy raised an eyebrow at my harshness, but didn't seem intimdated in the slightest. In fact, I could have amlost sworn he was smiling at me.

Smiling.

"Just a cinnomon roll," he answered and now I definitely knew he was smiling by the way his eyes creased attractively at the corners. Just what the hell did he find so damn amusing?

Was there something in my hair?

"One eighty-five," I replied curtly and he handed me a twenty, his tan fingers brushing against my brown ones. I flinched, startled by the unexspected contact and the bill went fluttering to the floor.

He didn't say anything, but I knew he was amused as he bent to retrieve it and placed it forcibly back in my palm, much to my embarrassment. I studiously avoided his eyes, cheeks warm.

Would the floor just swallow me already?

"Thank-you Miss," I heard him say with just the hint of humor then, "Keep the change."

I could only gawp as he winked at at me, making the heat from my cheeks spread all the way to my hairline, then turned on his heel and sauntered out, a slight bounce in his step. An entire minute had passed in silence before I realized I was still gaping like an idiot.

I could feel my brows scrunching together.

Why that arrogant son of a-

"Makira! I do not pay you to flirt with customers," Keeble appeared beside me, snatching the twenty from my hand, "Now get back to work!"

"I wasn't flirting," I protested, but was ignored as she shoved a broom at me and stalked into another room.

Great. He got me in trouble.

Little did I know I would soon be getting into much, much more.

a/n: review, it makes me happy. lol