This is first Shadowhunters novel, so I hope you guys like it! Disclaimer: I'm not the amazingly, talented Cassandra Clare. Read and Review!

Chapter 1

Clary POV

Every strip club is different. And by default, every stripper is different. Some will do anything for a dollar, while others will take that dollar, rip it up, and tell you to fuck off.

I'm the second kind of stripper.

Well, I'm not a stripper per say. While I do dance proactively in order to get the little guy in your pants to give me money, I don't take off my clothes. The catch is: I'm usually not wearing much to begin with.

I know you're probably thinking something along the lines of: she doesn't respect herself or she must have had a bad childhood. While the latter is accurate, the first is categorically untrue. In fact the women in my industry have the most self-confidence than most women. We're the center of attention every night. Not to mention we get paid way more than most other part-time jobs.

It definitely beats flipping burgers.

And I really need the money considering that I'm enrolled in one of the most prestigious Liberal Art colleges in America. But, I can afford it thanks to my job at Pandemonium, one of New York City's most elite strip clubs. Although, we prefer to call it a dance club, and us strippers are merely pole artists and dancers. And we can call ourselves that because we make enough money to.

The owner (aka my boss), Magnus Bane, basically runs this city considering his club is the most sought after and the most discrete. You wouldn't believe the types of high profile people who come in here. And, well, I can't tell you. So, with Pandemonium's degree of class and confidentiality, we are the most sought after strippers. And Magnus makes sure we're treated with respect and paid lucratively.

So get out of here with your cheap ass dollar bills. It's fifty every time you want to graze my thigh.

And for the most part, we don't get touched. Unless they're paying through the roof to get a lap dance from us. But, I don't do lap dances. Mostly because the girls who've been here longer, who are higher on the totem pole, get to claim them. Because lap dances pay out huge.

So normally I don't do lap dances. But, tonight was different. And that's because someone specifically asked for me.

But let me rewind a bit.

The night started off with our regular crowd: high-rolling playboys, CEOs conducting business, and other powerful men who came to us to escape. I was backstage trying (and failing) to attach falsies to my eyelids. That's when Maia came backstage with a sly grin on her face. She noticed my struggle and expertly attached them with her tweezers.

"Clary, you're hopeless at makeup," she said checking out the rest of my face.

"Hey, come on, I still look hot," I said, giving her a smoldering look and batting my false eyelashes. She giggled while dabbing makeup remover onto a cloth. She handed it to me.

"Clary, for you, less is definitely more. Your features are so striking already," she said.

"Really?" I looked into the vanity mirror. On a normal day, I was pretty in a wow-she-could-model-gardening-attire. My face was heart-shaped dusted with freckles (which I cover with lots of foundation). My eyes were a nice shade of green. The most striking thing about me was my curly red hair, which I spent hours straightening for my performances. The curls were cute. Not sexy.

However, my reflection showed someone much older than my age of eighteen. My cheekbones were contoured and highlighted. I was sporting a smokey eye that made my green eyes look electric. My lips looked fuller than usual thanks to the lip plumping red lipstick I used. My hair was voluptuous and shaped my face.

I looked like how I remembered my mother looking: beautiful and sophisticated. I looked away from the mirror.

"I think this look suits me well, though," I said. I added more highlighter to my cheeks so my complexion looked more dewy.

"Well, I'm sure your cougar look will go over well with the crowd tonight," Maia said, swiping a lip gloss wand across her plump lips.

I ignored the "cougar" comment and asked what she meant.

"A bunch of frat guys just came in. And you know how much they love spending daddy's money to think they have a chance with us." She laughed and tossed her hair back.

I laughed to cover up the dread I was feeling. We got frat guys in here now and then—the ones who could afford it anyway. They were more rowdy and more likely to break the rules and get kicked out. However, I was always on edge that I'd recognize someone.

Remember that exorbitantly expensive art school I attend? Well, we have a pretty extensive Greek life for being a liberal arts college. And the kinds of guys who can afford this college and fraternity dues, well they could definitely afford this club.

I tried to push my reservations aside. I was a part of the next act. Because I was still young and new to the club, I didn't have my own routine yet. So most nights I waitressed and did backup for the main girls here. Think of it this way: the other girls were the Victoria Secret Angels—the ones who walked the runway and were the face of the company, while I was one of the girls who modeled Pink stuff. I was still an Angel, but a less important one.

I walked out on stage, as the beat of "Monsters" by Ruelle started. My spot was the back left of the stage. I started dancing, gazing out over the crowd. The group of frat boys was near the front. The electric, pulsing lights of the club prevented me from being able to make out anything specific about them.

I moved seductively, letting the beat wash over me. When I danced, I felt free—like nothing could touch me. I moved forward during the chorus to join the other backup dancers as we moved forward while the main stripper, Seelie, was on the pole. She hated when we got closer, preferring that we'd stay in the shadows. And considering that she was the queen of this club (she pulled in the most business), we had to listen to her. But our choreographer, Meliorn (who normally worshipped Seelie) thought her solo looked better when we moved forward.

Now that I was closer, I could make out the frat boys. They all looked like carbon copies of each other, wearing button-downs and khakis. I was able to observe them from my spot because their eyes were on Seelie. I made my way through the faces, stopping only when I saw that one of them was watching me.

At first, I couldn't look away. He was so damn attractive. His hair was golden blonde and the lights played off it. His chiseled jaw and angular cheeks made him look like a sculpture by Michelangelo. But, what really struck me were his stunning gold eyes. His eyes, lustrous with desire, looked only at my face.

When I realized I was blatantly staring, I looked away. Making eye contact was necessary if you were a main dancer, but Seelie would kill me if she thought I was trying to flirt with her crowd.

I glanced at the guy sitting next to him. He was just as striking as the guy sitting next to him, but his facial features were more ominous. He had icy blonde hair, and I couldn't make out the color of his eyes. But I did notice that he was watching his friend who was watching me. And then he made eye contact with me, and I felt a chill go up my spine. His eyes were obsidian black.

When you work at a strip club, you meet all kinds of sleazy guys. You get a sense of who's harmless and who could potentially be dangerous. And this guy made my gut twist. I looked away and concentrated on the routine.

After the song ended and I was backstage, it was then I was told someone requested me for a lap dance. I peeked out behind the stage to see who it was, hoping it was the golden eyes boy. My blood went cold.

It was the guy with the black eyes.

Can anyone guess who golden boy and black eyes is? Review!