Isabelle wasn't quite positive how people managed to survive their own stupidity, sometimes.
Clearly a woman of her caliber and beauty, someone so young and so flawless, didn't seem approachable, did she? And if she did, wouldn't the cold shoulder and silent treatment she pursued be enough of a turn off for this ridiculous man to get the hint?
Apparently not, for the man continued his nonsense-bullshit about how he was a world-renowned chef-warlock, capable of cooking her any meal she desired, if only she would just come back to his apartment and give him-
"I'm not interested," Isabelle finally said flatly, irritated she even had to say anything at all. The man stammered, seemingly shocked she had turned him down.
"I'm also seventeen," she said, before he started talking again. "And this could potentially classify you as a pedophile." She flicked her long, thick hair back over her shoulder and resumed staring into her drink. The man quickly got off of the barstool beside her, stammered an apology which she paid no attention to at all, and he left.
All she had wanted was some peace and quiet. Alec was always with Magnus these days, and as much as she loved shopping for glitter with Magnus, she could only handle so much of his antics. Clary and Jace, as awkward as they were together since they had found out they were siblings, always seemed to run into each other as well, and Isabelle knew she wasn't in the mood to put up with that today. Her parents had been fighting, again.
"I realize how important your job is, Robert." Maryse sounded as if she was talking through gritted teeth.
"Do you, Mayrse? Because if you did, I'm pretty positive you wouldn't be on my case all the time like you are now." Robert's voice was getting louder.
"Have you even noticed that the boys are never here anymore? Don't you notice Jace is always off somewhere doing something, and Alec is too, and we don't know anything about their lives anymore? You're an empowered man Robert, but when it comes to parenting-,"
"Do not insult my parenting, Mayrse! You are absolutely no better."
"At least I talk to my kids!"
Isabelle stormed into the kicthen, mid-comeback. "Would you two knock it off? Do you not realize two of your kids can hear everything you're saying? Your eleven year-old son doesn't need to hear this."
Just thinking about it made Isabelle's hand tremble with anger around her drink. It certainly wasn't strong enough to drown her in drunkeness like she had hoped - the bartender hadn't quite fallen for her charms tonight, and she had been cut off after her third. He had barely even put any alcohol in her drinks, and the thought was making her even more pissed off. Maybe if she went to the sketchy liquor store down the road, she could con the Indian man . . .
"Need this?" A slender, tan hand slid a drink in her direction from the right, a nice clear shot of something strong, she could tell. She took the drink, but scoffed at the hand.
"Thanks," Isabelle mumbled, throwing back the shot. "But I'm not interested."
"Clearly," the man said, sarcasm coating his voice. "I could have drugged that and you didn't even hesistate."
Isabelle froze. She had been so tired and angry she forgot the number one rule for female drinking: never accept a drink from a stranger.
"Look, I don't care how great of a damn cook you are," she said, turning to face what she expected to be warlock from earlier. What she saw instead was much more pleasing.
The man was obviously of the fae. He had amazing rich black hair, thick and healthy and perfectly straight. He was built, and she assumed he was in the Guard from the way his muscles rippled under his thin gray t-shirt. His jeans hugged his curves in all of the right places; his skin was perfect and flawless; his eyes were the perfect kind of jaded green. At that point, she couldn't care less if he drugged her drink or not; she was willing either way.
"I don't believe I mentioned anything about cooking," he said smoothly, his voice cool and relaxing. "However I am absolutely fantastic at it." Isabelle was in full interested-mode. She didn't know who this stranger was or what he thought he was doing, but she certainly wanted to.
Isabelle flicked her hair over her shoulder, completely aware of how lucious and long and thick it was. She appreciated that she had worn a nice subtle amount of make-up, and had put thought into her outfit when she had woken up that morning. "I bet you are," she said sweetly, crossing her hands and pretending to be interested in his cooking.
The man smirked, and looked at the floor for a minute, away from her, and Isabelle felt slightly offened. "Why don't you have a seat?" she asked, gesturing towards the now-empty barstool beside her. "Surely you don't plan on standing all night," she said.
"I don't, I was actually leaving now," he said, and she pouted her cherry lips. "Why don't you let me drive you home though?"
Immediately she brightened, but took her time untangling her long tan legs to make him watch. "I just need to grab my car keys," she murmured, eyes darting across the bar in front of her. She knew she had set them right beside her phone. . .
"I've got them," the man stated, holding up the keys to her parents new mustang. She hesitated; she was half-drunk, getting in a car with a complete stranger, letting him drive her parents car. It was completely reckless.
"Let's go," she smiled, leaving all of her cares and morals with the empty shot glass on the bar.
It was that perfect time of dusk outside, when the sky was purple and dusted with pink and orange. The temperature felt cool on her skin, a slight enough breeze to make her hair fly back. They got into the car, rolled the windows down, and played music softly, and Isabelle felt almost invincible, like she didn't have to worry about her parents or brothers or any Shadowhunter busines. She just felt like careless, reckless Isabelle, and it felt so much better then Shadowhunter Isabelle.
"So," she said after a moment of silence. "Do you go there often?" She didn't really care, but she wasn't the type to let an awkward silence break up her and a hot man.
"Not at all," the man shook his head.
"Then what were you doing there?"
"Business." There was a small smirk on his face.
"What kind of business do you do in a bar?" She asked, then immediately regretted the question, because it sounded like the kind of question you wouldn't want to hear the answer to.
He laughed. "Nothing of the sort. I just had to track a . . . client, down."
"Oh," Isabelle said, relieved and slightly confused. She liked the way he drived; one hand out the window, the other on the wheel, the way the breeze gently tousled his black locks. He had an amazing jawline, and his eyes were so green they almost glowed. Isabelle had seen plenty of good looking men before, but this guy, was probably the best she had ever seen.
"Here we are," he said, slowly pulling to a stop, and Isabelle realized they were parked in front of the institute. She was in awe; how did he know?
"I notice a lot of things," he said, looking into her blue eyes as if he had read her mind. "I noticed you were Isabelle Lightwood, daughter of the prestigous Robert and Mayrse Lightwood. How you flick your hair to the side because you know it looks good," he said lightly, tugging on a strand, and nerves flicked through her body. "I also noticed that your eyes were red at the bar, probably from crying, though you might not admit it." He smiled at her shocked face, revealing a row of perfectly straight white thing Isabelle knew, he was up and around the car, opening her door. "Have a good night, Isabelle," he said, kissing her softly on the forehead and retreating on the sidewalk.
It all happened so quicky, and he vanished almost instantly as soon as Isabelle blinked. Maybe it had been the shot, and it was all a dream.
The man had been so charming, so instantaneously heart-warming, she felt like she was melting. He was so mysterious, which she always intended to be, but he had already known so much about her. Either way, she liked the man, and wanted to know more about him, but was dejected when she realized she hadn't even gotten his name. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe she had finally been throw something good in her life.
"Damn alcohol," she murmured, rubbing her head and treading up the steps to the Institute.