It had been two months and she had never called him back.
Bellamy was ticked. Here he was, some sort of supposed superstar, and he couldn't get one simple girl to call him back. It bothered him that it upset him this much.
She was just a girl he met at one of his underground shows, before his band really took off. It was some shady bar downtown where the lights were dim, the beer was cheap, and the crowd was sleazy. But not her.
For whatever reason, this princess was there. She wouldn't look like she belonged if you had tried to put her in a group earlier. She looked too perfect. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. But she waltzed around the place like she owned it, and everyone seemed to know and love her. Although her facial features were perfect, she wore a tight fitting sweater and some ripped jeans with some paint splattered on them. It wasn't how she dressed or how she looked that caught his attention, however. It was the air with which she held herself. Confident, but open. She talked to anyone and everyone, but not once did Bellamy ever see her act like she was anything but equal to whoever she talked to.
His eyes never left her as his band took the stage, and every song he crooned into the jacked up microphone was for her, vainly hoping she would look at him.
Finally she did.
Her eyes were brighter blue than he had remembered from just five minutes ago, and he couldn't have been happier to be proven wrong. Her blonde hair was wild and crazy from the dancing and the alcohol. She looked absolutely stunning. He couldn't help being drawn to her like a magnet. She was on fire, and Bellamy wanted to get burned.
He jumped off the stage as soon as their set was over and made his way over to her. She sat at the counter, waiting, and slid him a beer. They hit it off soon after that. Her sarcasm and wit amused him, he made her laugh. Their conversation was very give and take and came more naturally than Bellamy had ever experienced. He finally wrestled her name out of her, but only her first name. Clarke. It would have to do for now, he thought.
It didn't take long before the alcohol made things a bit blurry, but he knew Clarke came back to his apartment with him. When he woke up in the morning, he was alone.
No note, no nothing.
It still bothered him that she left without saying even goodbye. He'd never had that easy of a conversation with anyone, not even his sister. It just felt so natural, so at home.
He missed her.
And maybe he would scan the crowd for her whenever they played shows in that town. To his disappointment, he never saw her. But he never forgot about the blonde with the mesmerizing blue eyes and the easy grin.
It had been two months and she had never called him back.
She felt bad about it, she really did. And Clarke really would have called him, if she hadn't of lost his number. She would beat herself up thinking about it almost daily. Clarke blamed being drunk on having lost his number, but she honestly doesn't know what she would've said to him.
He was gorgeous.
Guys that looked like that didn't normally talk to Clarke. The few times they had, they always seemed to have some sort of hidden agenda. She didn't trust beautiful people.
That's why she tried to ignore him when she first stepped foot in that bar. She made a point to talk to everyone but him, just to keep herself occupied. There was no way she would give the hot guy staring at her the satisfaction of looking back. Clarke knew she would blush in return, and only worsen the situation. She did a great job of it for a while, but that all changed when she saw him take the stage.
It wasn't like singing was hot (it was). Neither was playing the guitar (it was). The last straw was when one of her friends poked her and pointed out that the lead singer "just couldn't take his eyes off of her."
Clarke finally let go of her hesitation and turned to face him.
His face lit up when his eyes met hers, and the crinkles by the side of his eyes when he smiled made her want to melt on the spot. And did he have freckles? He did. Clarke could almost sigh in appreciation of the Adonis standing before her on a stage in a weather beaten Henley. She couldn't have asked for a better picture of perfection.
She was completely satisfied with watching from the distance, but as soon as his set was over, the little (far from it) daredevil jumped off the stage and sauntered over to her. Her friends shoved her towards him, eager for their stick in the mud friend to have a little fun. She slid him a beer, and they hit it off really well. He could almost finish her sentences, and his dry wit had Clarke feeling things she shouldn't be feeling for some stranger-some musician- she just met. That wasn't logical, that wasn't rational. That was Clarke's strong suit, and she felt very off her game that night.
But as the musician drew closer (she soon found out his name was Bellamy) she couldn't help but feel like she was on top of her game, and logic and reason could be thrown out for one night.
She regretted this decision after several beers, and even more so when she woke up in an apartment the next morning. When she rolled over, she was face to face with Bellamy, and she was close enough to count his freckles. But when she reached out to touch his face, she stopped herself. All the reasoning and logic that had abandoned her the night before came flooding back, and she slipped as quietly and as quickly as she could out of the apartment.
As much as Clarke would have liked to regret this decision, she didn't. She only regretted not calling Bellamy back.
Bellamy scanned the crowd tonight, like always, for her. It wasn't surprising that she wasn't there, she never was. It was a pretty small haunt, though. His band loved this city, and if there was anything loved more than playing big venues, it was playing underground shows. These were things only hardcore fans found out about, or people who were into real indie rock would come to. Bellamy absolutely loved the atmosphere.
His band was just a couple of songs into the setlist when he saw a flash of blonde in the back of the bar catch his eye.
Clarke.
She looked better than ever. Button down flannel, cutoff jean shorts. Hair in rat's nest of a bun. She didn't look perfect, but that was alright with him. He liked the real her, the sarcastic, caring, selfless individual he caught glimpses of in their one and only conversation.
Then reality started to sink in. He gave her his number, she never called, and she left without saying goodbye. She obviously wanted nothing to do with him. Clarke even had a guy by her side tonight. She must've thought she was too good for some street musician. He'd show her.
"Alright guys," Bellamy said with an arrogant air. "This cover goes out to a special someone in the audience."
The baseline began and the crowd cheered as they recognized the song.
"Am I more than you bargained for yet?" Bellamy began, his voice getting louder and surer with every note. "I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear, 'cause that's just who I am this week." She looks directly at him, and he at her. Shock is evident on her face. She must have not expected him to be playing in such a low key bar. This only fuels his anger.
"Lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum.
I'm just a notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song."
He wanted to mean every word of it. But the thing was, she wasn't just a line in a song. He had imagined this moment in so many ways, but they were usually happy endings. At this moment, Clarke looked absolutely indifferent, if not a bit annoyed. He cared for her, even if he had no right, and she wasn't just a line a song, but he was just a notch in her bedpost.
….
Clarke had never been more shocked in her life. The last thing she expected that Friday night was to see him in that bar. She had dragged Wells to this bar in hopes of getting drunk and to find some sort of distraction, but lo and behold, the devil himself was here.
She was absolutely torn. She couldn't just go up to him and act like normal, she hadn't called him back. It had been two months, and he deserved better than that. She decided to hang in the back with Wells, enjoying the music, but not participating.
If Clarke was surprised earlier, she was even more thrown off when he dedicated a song to her. Well, not her specifically, but they both knew it was she who they were referring to.
She had never seen his eyes filled with so much hatred and anguish.
Clarke did her best to look indifferent, but as soon as the line "I'm just a notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song" came pouring through the speakers, her heart broke. She had to find him; she had to talk to him. If only he would give her the time of day.
She told Wells she'd be back soon, and since Clarke was a regular at the bar, and knew the owner, she had some connections to get into the back room where the band would be before and after their show. All Clarke had to do was wait, and hope for the best.
…
After all of this, Bellamy hated himself for missing her when she disappeared from the crowd.
He wasn't supposed to care, but he did.
Their set was finally over, and the band found their way into their dressing room, only to find a certain blonde sitting expectantly on one of the couches.
"Uh, Bell?" Murphy scratched the back of his head. "The guys and I are gonna get drinks. You can have the room."
Bellamy nods in assent, and turns back to the princess herself.
"What do you want?" he said roughly.
She bites her lip, and takes a minute to answer. "I know you probably won't believe me, but I really did want to call you back, I just lost your number because I was really drunk, you were never "a notch in my bedpost" and I love your freckles and also may be a bit drunk now—"
Bellamy cuts her off. "Wait, what?"
"You didn't call me because you lost my number?" His heart soars in relief and hope.
Clarke nods. "Yes, I swear, I'm so sorry…" Before she can say anything else, however, she is engulfed in Bellamy's arms and his lips are pressed urgently to hers.
"It's okay," he sighs contentedly. "Princess, it's perfect."