Hi everyone! It's been a very long time since I've written anything The Hunger Games related and even longer since I've written Clato. This story began as an AU meme I did on tumblr but the story had been playing in my mind so long I just had to write it down. I'm only looking for this to be about six or seven parts to it but I am very excited to be sharing this with you! It was inspired mostly by The Great Gatsby and the Lana Del Ray song that it takes its title from just because I love them both and the song so reminded me of Clato. Anyway, enough rambling for now, I hope you enjoy this first chapter and if you would be kind enough to leave me a review I would very much appreciate it. Happy reading!

Isabelle xx


New York, 1929. High above the city's growing skyline, the early July pink and golden sun was sinking deeper and deeper into the violet sky, while the early flicks that foretold of stars were beginning to emerge, peppered across the sky like the sequins on a flapper's dress in a speak easy. Down below, the last of the young Wall Street workers were drifting away from their offices, locking the doors behind them and pocketing the keys, ready to return the next day to repeat the same dreary routine over and over until they'd made their fortune.

To the east of Wall Street was one of the city's shadier districts, where women stood on balconies over the street, pegging out their washing while hollering across the road to their friend's balcony. Others were tottering down the sidewalk, holding their cigarette the way they did in the movies, between the first two fingers and taking long drags. Pulling the stick away from their mouths, they blew smooth, clear, smoke rings. In the middle of the road and on the pavements, young children dragged chalk sticks across the concrete to create hopscotch patches and ran shrieking after balls, calling to one another in their high pitched, excited voices.

Just five doors down from where one group of children were eagerly playing, a sleek black motor car with a chauffeur was waiting outside the only house in the street with a red door. As it got darker and a chill brushed against his skin, the chauffer shivered and his moustache twitched nervously. Glancing at his watch, he sucked in through his teeth. Three hours. That must be some kind of new record.

Suddenly, the red door opened and a young man of about eighteen or nineteen hopped out. The chauffeur sat up straight and tried not to watch. The man turned back to speak to someone at the door, a smile playing at the sides of his lips as he reached back inside. From the car, the chauffeur could hear the giggles coming from inside and he twisted his head away, embarrassed. Finally, the young man gave one last wink to the girl inside and, after jumping down the steps of the house, opened the door to the back seat of the motor car and got in.

'Drive,' he ordered and the chauffeur obeyed.

Honking the horn, he drove straight, scattering the group of children in front like frightened hens at the farmyard. The young man behind him chuckled at their surprised screams and leant back, satisfied. The chauffeur resisted the urge to shudder and steadied his hands on the wheel.

'Where to, sir?' he asked his young master.

'The hotel,' was his reply. 'I want to freshen up before tonight.'

'Very good, sir.'

Night was now fully settled over New York City. The stars had come out in their millions, thanks to a cloudless sky, casting a shadowy glow over the streets which made it easy to see, even without the new streetlamps. It was late enough for the parties to have begun, and as the motor car zipped through the centre of Manhattan, they could see the revellers coming out in their hapless drones, to the movie screens, the restaurants or the clubs, dressed in all their finery: furs, silks, sequins and bowler hats with matching waistcoats. The lights were blazing in Times Square and when the car stopped in the queue, the chauffeur could hear the tauntingly close notes of a jazz band, starting up for the evening.

The hotel they were travelling to was on the outskirts of Brooklyn, and was speculated to be the best hotel in New York: 'The Sword and the Knives'. The chauffeur's young charge was staying there while his father dealt with business on Wall Street, as he would be for most of the summer and maybe even into the fall. Meanwhile, his son was having the summer of his life, spending whatever he could wherever possible and having as much fun as he deemed acceptable. Which was a lot.

They drew up outside the luxurious entrance to the hotel, and the chauffeur parked up behind the fleet of other motor cars, in various garish colours and styles. The hotel was lit up with electric lights inside and candles flickering on the walls outside. Valets waited anxiously outside the doors, watching for anyone approaching who would require their services.

'Here we are, sir,' he declared, switching off the ignition.

'Thank you, Orwell,' his charge said, with a smile. 'That will be all, for tonight, I think.'

Orwell raised his eyebrow, then remembered himself. 'You are, uh, not going out again tonight, sir?'

'No, no,' the young man grinned. 'I think I'll have a quiet night in tonight, actually.'

'Good night then, sir.'

'Good night. Oh, I almost forgot,' the young man paused, half in and half out of the car. 'My friend, Ameile, might be popping around, later on, to see me. You might,' Cato Maxwell, son of the business tycoon Andrew Maxwell, said with a sly grin, 'might, be kind enough to bring her up to my suite for me?'

'Is this your friend from this afternoon, sir?' Orwell asked uneasily.

'No,' Cato answered breezily. 'No, Ameile is…a new friend. You will send her up, won't you?' His tone turned hard and dangerous, as quickly as the tide turns in a storm.

Orwell bowed his head, sensing the danger. 'As you wish, sir,' he obliged.

Cato's charming grin reappeared just as easily as it had vanished. 'Wonderful. I knew you'd see it my way. Well, I'll see you in the morning, Orwell. Sleep well.'

Slapping the side of the car door, he leapt away from the pavement and up the steps of the hotel. The valets stepped aside and with a sweep of the doors, Cato vanished inside the hotel. Orwell sighed, drawing his hands over his eyes and gave a deep shuddering breath. Lord have mercy on me, he thought to himself, getting out of the car and preparing for the arrival of this girl he was supposed to be watching for. Cato had had so many 'friends' this summer, that he hardly bothered to recall their names anymore. None of them had appeared for more than a week at a time anyway.

He had only been waiting for an hour or so, when a tall, elegant blonde dressed in powder pink with a silk bolero tied around her. Orwell could tell just from looking at her that this was Amelie. As subtly as he could manage, he pressed the spare room key into her baby soft palm as she passed him. With a swish of her slim hips, the girl sashayed up the steps and floated into the hotel. The valets closed the doors behind her with a soft click.


Clove Anderson snapped her lipstick shut with a soft click. Bringing her ring finger up, she dabbed gingerly at the bright red stain on her lips, pursing them until she was fully satisfied with the result. Sighing, she got up from her dressing table chair and gave one final twirl in front of the antique mirror that always stood in the corner of the room.

Perfect. Her dress was utterly perfect. It was cream, and was a fairly simple shift cut, except for the blood red feathers that peeked out from under the hemline with a flick and the matching ribbons at her neckline and on the sleeves. One ribbon had been left over from making the dress and she had insisted on keeping it. On a whim this evening, she had wrapped it around her neck like a choker, tying a little bow at the side. With her red shoes and dark hair pinned up in curls, she was assured to be the most stunning woman at the party. Even if she was only seventeen.

The party was to celebrate the success of her latest film: Snow White, in which she had played the title role (of course). People had been so moved by her performance, so she had been told, that they passionately wept, quite openly in the cinema. That was good. Clove liked the idea of that a lot.

'Are you almost ready, ma'am?' an assistant asked hesitantly, poking her head around the door.

'Almost,' Clove replied, waving her away. 'Just give me a minute.'

Lightly, she lifted a perfume bottle from her dressing table and gave a few squirts behind her ears and one on her wrists. The scent was floral, but there was a bitter under-scent which Clove adored. The perfume made her feel confident, like she could achieve anything, be anyone. It made her untouchable.

Tossing her hair and feeling the satisfying swish of the curls across her shoulders, Clove grabbed her small bag and walked over to the door. Just before opening it, she paused and took a deep breath. After just a split second, she pinned a dazzling smile on her face and pushed the door open to reveal the flashes of the camera and the cries of the dozens of people waiting.

Showtime.


Cato rolled over in the sheets, sighing as the bare skin on his chest brushed against the soft cotton of the bedding. Across the bed, there was a sleepy murmur and the woman's body that was lying next to him shifted so it was facing away from him, to the wall. Cato smiled absently and slid from the bed, running a finger down the silhouette of her curves as he went.

Yanking on a pair of trousers, he flung open the balcony doors and stepped out into the crisp night air. Out below him, the city was still buzzing, even this late at night. He could still hear the jazz music far in the distance and the laughter of the revellers. Somewhere in Manhattan there was a party he had been invited to. It had been a celebration for some film and in the end he'd decided not to bother going. There didn't seem much point if he wasn't the centre of attention.

He flicked a match and lit a cigar, puffing on it slowly. From far off, there was a crash and several screams, accompanied by some colourful swearing even he wouldn't dare use. Poor buggers, he thought and the thought itself was fairly general. It could have been directed to whoever had just crashed their motor, whoever would now have to scrape it off the road, whoever didn't have a beautiful woman to fuck when he wanted, whoever wasn't as rich as him or actually anyone who wasn't him.

From back inside, Ameile moaned and stretched lazily, before huffing contentedly and turning over again. Cato grinned at her and tossed his cigar over the side of the balcony before sloping back into the room and back into bed.

As they slept, with the white drapes fluttering in the breeze, the buzz of the city before them began to dim. As dawn crept closer and the parties started petering out, the buzz settled to a faint hum.

It was about as close to sleeping as New York City ever came.