Hi everyone! So, this is the first chapter of the new Clato AU I have been drafting for a while now. It's taken me ages to get written down because of school but now it is over for the summer (yay!) I should have more time to write and I can get this up for you! It's kind of becoming a tradition for a summer Clato AU from me (anyone remember Young and Beautiful?) and I hope that you guys will enjoy this story as much as I love writing it. If you do, or if you have any comments at all, you may want to leave a review because you know it will make my day :) I hope you like it!
Isabelle xx
It was a hot, sweltering evening late in July, the kind of evening that made your skin itch and the hair on the back of your neck prickle with sweat. That afternoon, the daylight had lingered for just a moment longer than it should have done but now, finally, the sun had disappeared under the horizon and the stars were coming out.
The pink moonlight hung in a thick, twilight haze over the city as a sleek black limousine pulled up outside of one of the most fashionable bars in Chicago. 'The Grapevine' had been open for just three weeks, but already it had built up a reputation as the most stylish spot to be in the whole city. It wasn't just the smooth, black glass panelling at the front, or the fragrant jasmine plants that wove their way from the rafters of the riverside terrace to inside the main bar that drew the fashionable elite of Chicago to the place, nor even the skills of the barman, who, rumour would have it, had shaken cocktails in the most exclusive of nightclubs in the world. What made the Grapevine so appealing, so attractive to the young and rich members of the city, was the clientèle and the company that gravitated towards it.
Out of the limousine stepped a young man. He was perhaps only in his mid-twenties, but already his suit was the most expensive that Armani had to offer, his shoes were made from Italian leather and as he straightened his jacket, the faint scent of the latest Dior aftershave fused the late evening air. He was dark, with skin the colour of coffee just after the milk had been swirled into it and close shaven black hair. Glancing over his shoulder, his amber eyes scanned the street warily, as if searching for someone but he turned back when his driver enquired when he wanted picking up. After settling on a time (12:30, half an hour before the bar closed for the night), the man stepped through the door and into the bar.
As soon as he had disappeared, a figure slid out of the shadows across the road. A girl, of about eighteen stood, her arms crossed over her chest, watching as the limousine slid out of its place on the kerb and drove out of sight around the corner. Once it was gone, she smiled. Opening her bag, she pulled out a small tube of lipstick and a small compact mirror, engraved with the letters 'C' and 'A' and, flipping the lid of the mirror, she began to apply the lipstick. Finishing with a flourish, she clicked the lid back shut and pocketed the lipstick, rubbing her fresh, red lips to a pout and sighed with satisfaction. She smiled again, suppressing a small, bubbling chuckle and stepped out to cross the street and enter the bar.
The hunt is on.
Once he was inside The Grapevine, Jackson Bourne tried to relax. He made his way easily through the small groups of his peers, dressed in smart suits and rainbow coloured cocktail dresses, already clustered at the exclusive black booth tables, and headed towards the bar, where he jumped up onto a leather bar stool. Since it was still fairly early in the evening, the place was still fairly empty. Jackson was the only person sitting there.
'What will it be?' He glanced up to see the barman, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, watching him carefully. His lilting accent told him that the man was Italian.
'The house special, please,' he ordered, to which the man gave a curt, but respecting, nod and pulled several bottles off the counters behind him.
Having ordered, Jackson shifted his weight from one side of his body to the other and tried to ease the heavy tension out of his body. He had no need to be fearful. They couldn't get him tonight, not here. He would be safe tonight.
Reassured, he began to glance around the bar. It had been designed as a kind of conservatory, with soft green walls with parts of red bricks showing through in strategically aesthetic looking places. The ceiling was made entirely of glass panes that opened, allowing for branches of jasmine to climb inside, giving the room a pleasant perfume. The tables and matching chairs were all mahogany wood, polished to a finish. On each table was a slim glass vase with a single red rose in it and two black menus, with white wording. As Jackson watched, a waiter escorted a couple to a table. The man held out the chair for his girlfriend to sit in and, as he pushed it in, Jackson saw him put his face close to hers. The woman laughed, shaking her blonde curls over her face as he took his seat opposite her. They began to hold hands over the table.
'One Lime Star, the special of the house.' The bar man slid Jackson's drink down to him. Jackson caught it and took a sip. The drink was light and fruity, but he could feel the sting of vodka when it reached the back of his throat and the fizz of mint up his nose. Jackson smiled and took another swig.
'Put it on my tab,' he requested and the barman gave his short nod again and turned to the cash register. 'Under 'Jackson Bourne'.'
'I'll have what he's having.'
At the sound of the female voice, Jackson's head jerked backwards. A girl had appeared next to him and lifted herself effortlessly onto the stool beside him, tossing her long, dark hair back over her bare shoulder. She was small, short and slim, but fairly toned. She was wearing a short black dress with a flouncy skirt and bright red stilettos, matching her blood red lip stain. As she caught his eye, she winked at him and he noticed that her eyes were the electric green of a pedigree cat. Jackson felt his body flush with heat.
The barman was less amused. 'Are you old enough to drink?'
The girl rolled her eyes at Jackson and fished an ID card out of her purse and handed it over to him. Jackson highly doubted this girl was 21 but whatever the ID said, it seemed to satisfy the barman.
'One more Lime Star on its way,' he muttered, handing the ID back to the girl. She put it back in her purse and beamed up at Jackson.
'I have to carry it everywhere,' she sighed, over emphasising the first 'e'. 'Seriously. Nobody ever believes that I'm twenty-two.'
Jackson laughed aloud. 'They never.'
'It's true!' She ran her finger down the edge of the bar. 'Until I was, like nineteen, my parents still paid child fares for me at the cinema. Of course, that meant I could spend more on popcorn so I wasn't complaining...'
Jackson laughed again. 'I guess there are perks to everything.'
'Exactly!'
The barman sent the girl's drink down to her. She caught it up in one hand and lifted it to her lips. Jackson felt his eyes drawn to her mouth as she drank. When she pulled away from the glass, there were red lipstick rings on the edge.
'So,' she smiled at him. 'Jackson Bourne, right? Why does your name sound familiar? And I'm sure I've seen that handsome face before...'
Jackson grinned. 'Maybe because they're on the packaging of almost every electronic device in Chicago?'
The girl's eyes lit up. 'Ah, so you're that Jackson Bourne!'
'Is there any other?' Jackson felt pleased that she was so impressed by him and his occupation. 'And you are?'
Unexpectedly, the girl hesitated. Then, 'Samantha. Samantha Hargrove.'
He gave a snort. 'Are you sure? You don't sound it.'
'I'm sure.' Almost as soon as it had vanished, her charm resurfaced. 'So, is there a Mrs Bourne in the picture?'
'Apart from my mother?' She laughed at that. 'No, no. My girlfriend broke up with me a few months ago.'
'Oh!' Her face became crestfallen. 'Oh, I'm so sorry.'
He shrugged, uncomfortable that he had upset her. 'It's not a big deal. She told me she couldn't handle the fame, packed a bag and left.'
It had been a big deal when it happened. He had not left their apartment for a week and had hardly left their queen-size bed, while it still smelt of her expensive perfume.
He cleared his throat. 'But, yeah. I'm over her now.'
Samantha smiled at him. 'Good.'
He took another sip of his drink, just to fill the silence. 'How about you?' he asked her.
Samantha raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. The action let one shoulder of her dress slide down, revealing the strap on her black bra. 'I'm still looking for the right one,' she said softly, keeping her eyes down, but a secret smile was creeping onto her lips. Taking a final sip of his drink, Jackson couldn't help himself but smile too.
After draining his glass, he noticed that hers was also empty. He nodded towards it. 'Can I buy you another?'
Samantha's eyes lit up and she bit one corner of her lip. Watching that one movement, Jackson's body surged with longing. 'I would be honoured,' she replied.
As Jackson Bourne pushed her through the door of the women's restrooms at The Grapevine at some time near midnight, Clove Anderson could have shrieked with delight. Too easy. God, tonight had been too easy and too much fun. When Jackson's face and profile had turned up on her desk this morning, she had groaned inwardly. He looked so smart and sophisticated and she had thought that there was no way he would have fallen for it.
Ultimately, it looked like she had been wrong.
She had barely had to do anything. One flip of the hair, one coy smile, a fake name and she had him eating out of the palm of her hand. Hook, line and sinker.
He had bought her drink after drink and, as he had steadily drunken all of his, she had been slowly dripping hers into the plant pot next to the bar. All the while, she had kept up the act: flirting, laughing and teasing him with her foot. Once she had decided he was sufficiently drunk, she had leaned over and kissed him. Moments later, he had started towards the restrooms, her hand in his and now here they were.
Jackson turned her around and started pressing fast and furious kisses onto her lips. Clove accepted them eagerly, allowing her body to beg for more. They stumbled back onto the door and Clove pressed her hands behind her back to lock them inside. The last thing she needed was to be disturbed now.
'God, you're so fucking sexy,' Jackson mumbled, his words slurring together as he kissed her neck, her collar, the tops of her breasts.
Clove allowed herself to moan, tilting back her head. 'Say it again.'
'You're so sexy, you're so fucking sexy.' Jackson smelt like alcohol and aftershave. Clove fought back the urge to wrinkle her nose and hold her breath and instead lurched herself forward into his arms. Jackson grunted and staggered, but lifted her up so they were at eye height and continued kissing her.
While he started running his hand up her leg, Clove glanced behind him. To her left was a row of toilet stalls and to her right was a wood bench with three white basins rising out. There was a window, a small one, on the wall in the middle. Mentally calculating, Clove approximated that it came out on the back lane, just before the river. Perfect. Triumphantly, she kissed Jackson's ear and wrapped her arms tight around his neck, forcing herself higher, and brought one leg up around his waist.
Together, wrapped around one another, they stumbled backwards so Jackson could sit on her on the wood bench. Clove kept her legs around his middle but let her body fall backwards, her hands splayed out behind her. Jackson lunged forwards, still intent on kissing her. Clove kissed back, making sure she looked as eager and drunk as he was. Pathetic.
'I want you to come home with me,' Jackson murmured, his chest heaving hard. His hands were feeling her body, her hips, her thighs, her back.
'Do you?' Clove breathed, leaning forward to cup the back of his neck.
'Yeah.' Jackson gave a small laugh. 'Yeah, I really do. Come home with me and I'll buy you nice things. Pretty dresses. Shoes. Diamonds. Anything. Come home with me.'
Clove shook her head. God, he was so fucking desperate it was almost funny. 'Not yet,' she purred and reached behind her for her purse.
'What's that?' Jackson asked, his hot breath a burning brand on her neck. 'A condom?'
Clove pulled back to look at him. 'Not quite,' she smiled sweetly and twisted the knife into his back.
Jackson's eyes bulged, his body tightened. Then, his eyes glazed over and his limbs went slack and he slide, soundlessly, to the tiled floor. A small crimson pool began to bloom around his chest, like angel wings.
Calmly, Clove slide down from the bench and straightened down her dress. Bending down, she wiped the blood off of her silver hilted knife on the crisp whiteness of Jackson's shirt and put it back in her purse. There was nothing about the scene that could link the police back to her. All her drinks had gone on Jackson's tab. She had not booked a table and if the barman had caught her telling Jackson her name, it didn't matter. Samantha Hargrove did not exist. Brushing a stray hair back behind her ear, Clove smiled in satisfaction. Perfect.
She was about to step over the corpse and out the window when something pulled her back. Twisting her lip with her front teeth, she hesitated. Then, pulling her lipstick out of her purse again, she made another application and bent down. Jackson's body was still warm to touch and, in a different situation, she might have though him sleeping.
Bringing her face as close to his as possible, Clove kissed his left cheek. When she drew away, she had made a lip shaped red mark on his skin.
Clove jumped to her feet, light as a cat, and walked over to the window. Kicking off her shoes and hooking two fingers under the straps, she placed one foot on top of the bin underneath it and she lifted herself up onto it. Carefully, she climbed out the window, pausing only once to glance back at the tableau she was leaving. Then, she was gone.
Once outside, Clove breathed in the deep, cool air of Chicago at midnight and felt contentment deep in her stomach. This was her city. She knew the backstreets and alleyways like she knew the lines on the palms of her hand. She had done her job tonight and she could not have pulled it off better.
Perfection. She liked the job done like that.
Behind her, she could hear a woman banging on the restroom door. Soon, they would open it and find the body. Soon, she would hear police sirens piece the thin silence in Chicago and there would be police out looking for her. She, of course, would be nowhere to be found.
Still holding her stilettos in her hand, Clove began to walk into the shadows until they opened up and swallowed her, enveloped her in the safety of their darkness.
The hunt is over.