This is the first part of Jay's post-Certain Dark Things story. It got a little out of hand, and since I didn't want to rush through (but I also don't want to divide it all up into a million chapters) it's going to be released in three parts. They all kind of have a discrete story line, so it should flow relatively well. Enjoy :)

Bleeding Out: Part I

"And that's the last box. Thank God." Emma drops the box, which is carefully taped and labeled "Books – nonfiction" in purple sharpie, on the floor of my new kitchen. "May you never move again," she adds, raising her hands toward the ceiling in supplication.

"No immediate plans," I answer, picking up the box and placing it neatly against the wall. I ignore her pointed look and take out my box-cutter and make a quick slice through the layers of tape. "Don't want to stay and help pack it away, do you?"

"I'm thinking no." She takes a seat on one of the high-legged chairs and fans herself with a take-out brochure from her purse. "I've done my sisterly duty for the next five years, at least. Plus, I should really get on the road. Many miles to go before I sleep and all that."

"Poetry?" I ask, wrinkling my nose.

"Poetry," she says with a nod. "Something you should consider. Beautiful house on the water, the sound of the waves in the backyard – it's the perfect place to write poetry."

I start taking the books out of the box and piling them on the table in small stacks. "If only I were a twelve-year-old girl."

Emma picks up one of the books and knocks me on the head with it. "You mean instead of a sexist ass?"

"Fine," I mutter, massaging the top of my head. "I'm not a twelve year old boy. My point is that the last thing I need right now iswhimsical fluff. What I need is structure."

"Mmm, yes, definitely. You live such a lackadaisical life." She pulls open the fridge, making another face when she finds it empty. She rubs her hand over the small bump of her belly, still barely discernable despite her efforts to maximize it. "I'm so hungry. First you work me to death, and then you try to starve me. You're really not looking forward to having a nephew, are you?"

I hold up the book that I've just taken out of the box – Your child's emotional and Behavioral Development – and smile. "On the contrary, I'm more prepared than you. You haven't picked up a single thing."

"Uh, four years of medical school? I've seen what happens to pregnant women, and I am doing everything in my power to repress the experience, thank you very much."

"Yeah, that's probably for the best." I put the book back in its pile and continue unpacking the box. "Although I'm sure it's easy compared to the rest of it: up all night with a screaming baby; changing hundreds of diapers; getting thrown up, pooped, and peed on; and always knowing, in the back of your mind, that your life doesn't run by your schedule." I shudder, mulling the prospect over. "Sounds like hell."

"You really are a ray of sunshine. Anyway, you said that about having a pet, too. You changed your mind."

"Yeah, but the dogs were more…"

"Alec," Emma says, her nostrils flaring. "You're not going to be able to get over this if you still can't mention him by name."

"Fine. Alec. He took care of the dogs most of the time. They were kind of like nephews in that way – cute and fun to play with, but I always knew someone else was ultimately responsible for their well-being." I pick through the spines of the books, looking for a picture I tucked away to ensure it didn't wrinkle. I find it trapped between the pages of a French-English dictionary, and take it out and pin it up on the fridge.

"I still think you should drive straight there and take them," Emma says, glaring at the picture. "They were your dogs too. I can't believe he just took off to New Zealand and didn't even ask you to take care of them."

"I was pretty clear about not contacting me, Emma. Plus, it's not like you would have let me answer the phone even if he did call."

"He could have written me an email," she sniffs. "It was a just a dick move, okay? Stop defending him."

"I'm not defending him, I just – "

Emma snorts – a cruel, hard sound that comes from the back of her throat – and turns back to the books. I take an armful and carry them to the solid oak bookshelf that sits in the living room. Emma takes a few and sticks them into the shelf haphazardly, and I follow behind her, arranging them into alphabetical order.

"Okay, hint taken," she says, gathering up her purse and keys. "Time for me to get out."

"Hey." I reach out and grab her shoulders, pulling her close to me. "Thank you," I whisper. "For everything."

"You don't ever need to thank me," she says, her breath hitching. "You promise you're gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Emma. I've got lectures to plan and a house to set up. I won't have time to be not-okay."

Emma draws back and cups my face in her hands, her eyes shining. "Just – just don't get bogged down in work, okay? Just go outside, see the light, or something."

"Surfboard is in the basement, Em."

"Okay, well, I guess this is it." She wipes a stray tear from her cheek. "Fuck Alec for leaving," she sniffles. "And fuck this pregnancy for making me so damn emotional."

"Me moving didn't have anything to do with Alec leaving. If anything, I spent more time with you than I would have if things had worked out."

Emma dabs at her eyes with a spare tissue. "Stop –"

"Defending him, I know," I finish. "It's just instinctual at this point. And mom doesn't make it any easier. She keeps asking when he's coming back. As if I would know."

Emma's eyes flash as she tosses the tissue in the garbage. "Fuck mom, too," she says. "She thinks Alec is a bloody saint just because he's a Lightwood." She turns toward me, brandishing her keys like a weapon. "I don't care when he's coming back, and neither should you. I don't know if she thinks you would just welcome him back with open arms. This isn't a summer blockbuster, where people go off any find themselves; it's real life. It's your life."

"I think she just misses him." I picture him, the way his hair used to fall into his eyes as he read, and my heart squeezes painfully. "She's allowed to miss him."

Emma wraps her arms around me again, knowing that I'm not really talking about mom. "I just don't want her to have her hopes up." She pulls back and looks at me, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. "It's not healthy."

"Yeah, she knows that." I pause for a second, and then add quietly. "I know that."

Emma leans in for one last hug before starting her journey back to Nevada. "You'll find someone who deserves you," she says. "Someone who loves you properly. I promise."

I smile and walk her back to the car, knowing that any other reaction would just hurt her feelings; I know she takes it as a personal affront that her not-so-subtle attempts at psychotherapy haven't had much benefit. But I can't help it. I know, as strongly as I did when I left for Emma's that first night, that if Alec showed up at my door next week I would let him right back into my life as if nothing had happened.

The first couple of days pass quickly, and I don't have time to think of Alec. I spend my afternoons at the university, planning my lectures. The work is satisfying; hours pass, and I don't realize how long I've been working until my neck starts to cramp and I look outside to find it's already dusk.

The house starts to come together by the end of the first week. Most of the furniture had been delivered while I was still at Emma's; it was only a matter of rearranging and finding matching accessories.

By the time that I run out of ways to occupy my mind, the fall semester is about to start. I've been assigned a single class – contracts – without a TA, since I'm still expected to maintain a halftime practice through the university, but it still seems a little overwhelming. I've been in the courtroom since I graduated, and I don't know how smoothly I'll be able to make the transition to teaching. The night before I'm due to start my nails have been chewed down to stumps, and when I'm taking the penne off the stove to drain, I trip over one of the grooves in the floor I haven't yet had time to get used to, and drop the entire pot on my foot.

I curse loudly, glad for the first time that there are no dogs underfoot. Undoubtedly Kipling would try to see what was wrong, and Hector always hated when anyone yelled. The sudden memory stings as much as the burn, and I hop to the bathroom on one foot, resisting the urge to go back out and just chuck the entire pot in the garbage.

"Polysporin," I mutter, poking through the medicine cabinet. "Where are you, where are you?" I can't find anything to put on my foot, so I take a facecloth out of the drawer by the sink and press that over the inflamed skin, hissing when the pain flares. I pull out my cell and dial Emma – psychiatrist or not, she has enough basic medical training to deal with a scalded foot – but she doesn't pick up.

I toss the phone to the floor with a grunt and hobble out to get my keys. Cursing my own stupidity for not picking up antibiotic ointment in the first damn place, I pull on my coat and storm through the door, not bothering to even tie my shoes. Unfortunately, the mistake is costly, as I trip over the curb and straight into a dude who's out walking his dog. The two of us go down in a tangle of limbs, with his dog's leash binding us together.

"I'm so sorry," I say, extricating myself and then helping him to his feet. "I forgot to do up my shoes."

The guy grins and I'm momentarily stunned by how much he looks like Alec. He has the same wispy black hair, though it's long enough to curl around his jaw, and bright blue eyes. His lips are puckered and so red that he must make a habit of chewing on them, and his front teeth are slightly crooked. He's wearing a grey-woolen beanie despite the heat, and I make a move to tell him how ridiculous that is, but he interrupts me before I have the chance.

"No problem at all," he says in a smooth British accent. "You may, in fact, turn around and do it again, if it means that you'll stick around a few moments longer."

He holds out his hand and I shake it tentatively. "Thomas," he says, grinning again. "Thomas Werther. I live in the house just round the bend. I saw you moving in with your wife last week."

His fingers linger in mine, and I wonder why, if he thinks I have a wife, he's so intent on flirting. "I don't have a wife," I answer, drawing my hand back quickly. "That was my sister, Emma."

"Really?" The smirk is back and he takes a step closer, pulling his dog along with him. "I never would have guessed. You don't look much alike."

"So what? You thought you'd come and chat up a married man? Classy." I walk around him in the direction of the 24-hour pharmacy I saw on my drive back yesterday. I hear the clicking of dog's nails against the pavement and turn to find that Thomas Werther is following me.

"Did you want something?" I ask, turning around abruptly and nearly forcing a second collision. "Because I'm actually quite busy."

"Come on gorgeous," he says with a quirk of his red lips. "Don't be like that. I was only trying to be polite."

"By hitting on me? Someone you thought was straight?"

"See, so you are gay! Now that is excellent news." He picks up his pace, jogging to keep up with my long strides. "Although it's fun when they're married, too. Makes for a bit of excitement. All hush-hush and secret rendezvous." He keeps jogging until he's a little ahead of me, then turns to walk backward so that we're face to face. He smiles as I scowl. "My, but you are gorgeous."

"I'm flattered, really, but I don't think it's going to happen."

"Why, not your type?" He smirks, and I get the feeling he's used to be everyone's type.

"Conflict of interests," I correct. "I'm not really interested in anyone who glorifies cheating."

"Hmm, burned bad, were you? That's a pity." He rubs his chin before holding a hand out to my chest. "I can't imagine anyone wanting to pull one over on you." He winks, and I try to dodge around him again. "Listen, gorgeous, – "

"Jay," I interrupt.

"Jay," he amends. "You're are a delight, really. And I think it would be a waste if I had to spend the next two weeks like the last – lost in a haze of lust as you jog past my balcony, all shirtless and sweaty." He smiles into his hands, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. "You worried about cheaters? Don't be. I don't promise anyone something I can't deliver. You seem like you need to blow off a bit of steam, and I am only too happy to oblige."

"A haze of lust?"

His dog whines and he bends down to check on her before answering. "A miasma, even," he says as he rises. "It's been bloody torture."

I push past him, the dull throb of my foot punctuating each step. "Well, sorry to make your stalking so difficult. I would say it was nice to meet you, but I've made it a habit not to lie, even to creepy voyeurs."

"Lovely to meet you too," he calls out before he finally turns back toward his house.

By the time I get back with the Polysporin, reorganize my medicine cabinet, and stew over my conversation with my new neighbor, it's nearly three o'clock, which means I have to be up to get ready for work in three and a half hours. I debate the merits of even going to sleep in the first place, knowing that I'll probably feel like a sack of shit either way, and at least if I stay awake I can get some more work done. But I can't remember where I've put my glasses, and I'm afraid that if I get up without the helpful light of day, they'll end up as bits of plastic and I'll look like an idiot squinting at the chalkboard in the morning.

I briefly debate throwing my alarm into the wall when it sounds off after what feels like mere minutes later, but the rage is quickly engulfed by an all-encompassing panic. I practically run through the house, gathering up the various things I prepared last night and making sure I'm out the door with plenty of time to get to the university. Once I'm there I take a final glance through my notes before setting off for the classroom.

I get there with ten minutes to spare, but the room is already half full. The keenest students sit at the front, their glasses glowing with the reflection of their laptop screens. Though most of them are my age and some of them even older, they all look impossibly young. They look fresh and unbeaten, and I taste a gush of blood before I realize I'm even chewing on my inner cheek. I push up my glasses and stand at the podium, rifling through my notes and waiting for the second half of the class to finally trickle in.

"My name is James Grayson," I announce as soon as they take a seat. I pick a point at the back of the room – a small imperfection in the paint – and focus on it, pretending that I'm in court instead of a classroom. "You may call me Professor Grayson, or merely Professor." I grab the a stack of the syllabi I've prepared and, ignoring the sharp burn of a paper cut, pass them to the student at the end of the front row. "There is an outline for each of your assignments and I expect you to follow it. There are no excuses for lateness or sloppiness. These three years are all that's left of the bridge between theory and practice, and there's no time to waste."

Satisfied with the introduction, I turn to upload my presentation, only to find that I have no idea how to use the smart board. I glance at the front row, looking at the bespectacled faces, trying to figure out which ones would jump at the opportunity to help and which ones would jump at the opportunity to crucify me. I'm sure most of them would do both. My glasses slip a little down my nose, and I push them up hastily, and make the decision to give none of them the pleasure. I stand at the podium and start lecturing unaided.

I get lost in the lecture, not noticing the time until someone coughs loudly, breaking my train of thought. Emma had insisted it was a waste of time to spend hours memorizing case files when I had the use of the internet, and I can't wait to get back to the house and tell her how wrong she was. I look up and out at the sea of faces, only to realize that most of them look half-asleep. There's one in the back row who's face down in his backpack, not even pretending to look involved.

"Does anyone have any questions?" I ask, readjusting my glasses.

A young girl near the front, with wide brown eyes and a feverish sort of intensity, leans forward. "Is your mother really Marina Grayson?" she asks. For the first time in my full seventy-five minutes of lecturing, the class is rapt.

"That question is neither appropriate nor relevant," I answer promptly. "Please read the cases I've outlined in the syllabus before the next class." I turn and walk through the door before any of them have a chance to respond, hoping that the next class will be better.

It isn't.

In fact, despite my best efforts, the classes keep getting worse. I spend hours in the lecture hall trying to master the smart board, only to upload a presentation of Alec's about proper maintenance of hamster cages he gave to a group of grade school children in Las Vegas. I spend hours obsessing over my hand flapping, cheek-biting, and worn-down nails – habits I had broken years ago, with Alec's help – only to find them worse than they had ever been when I was a student. Perhaps the worst thing is that I just can't find a way to make my students interested. I spend countless hours researching lecture materials, case files, learning activities, only have to field a dozen questions about my mother and her landmark cases.

It's hard to believe that six months ago I had everything I wanted: a thriving practice, a beautiful house with the kitchen of my dreams, and the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Now I live with the sound of the ocean taunting me as I spend my waking hours preparing for a job I can't get right, killing myself for students who think the most worthwhile contribution I've made to their education is the five proper steps to cleaning up hamster crap, and wasting the nights staring at the ceiling from the gigantic bed I always thought I'd be sharing with Alec.

In my blind stupidity I vow that things can't possibly get worse.

I am a fucking idiot.

I'm about to order Chinese when the phone rings – my mother.

She doesn't even give me time to answer before she starts talking. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice is high and shrill, and I have the overwhelming urge to tell her to get back to me after she's had a drink.

"Yes, it's true. I did watch Centre Stage for the fourth time this week last night. So sorry for not clueing you in." I nearly slice my finger on the corner of my desk and make a mental note to file it down later.

"About Alexander," she says, her voice dangerously low. "Don't play coy with me, young man. You didn't tell me he was back, and I was completely unprepared to run into him at Lightwood Corp this morning."

I slip and slice my palm open on the sharpened corner, cursing away from the phone so that my mother can't hear me. "You saw him?" I ask, my throat dry. "In New York City."

"He's been home for over a month and you didn't think to tell me? I expect this kind of behavior from your sister, James, but not from you."

I try to sit up and knock over the glass of water that's in front of me. It shatters as soon as it hits the floor, and in my rush to clean it up, I end up putting a piece through my heel. "Dammit," I hiss, throwing the phone on the table while I reach over to grab the towel hanging from the stove.

"James?" My mother's voice echoes through the spacious kitchen. "James, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom," I say, wincing as I press the towel to my heel. "It was nothing."

"You've never been one for histrionics, so please don't start. Wouldn't want to give Emma a reason to start spouting her psychobabble now, would you?"

"Mom, I'm kind of busy right now." Busy with another episode of House Hunters International, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Of course you are. You're too busy to pick up the phone to tell your mother that your fiancé –"

"Ex-fiancé."

She sighs. "That your ex-fiancé is back in town, and I had to run into him at a corporate function. I was flabbergasted, James. Absolutely taken aback. I could have used a little forewarning."

I hobble across the kitchen, having soaked through the small towel. "You and me both," I grind out as I try to locate the piece of glass.

"Don't try to pretend that you didn't know," she says. "I already talked to your sister. You told her over a week ago."

"I didn't tell…you mean, Emma knew? She knew that he was back?" I don't know what hurts more: the pain of knowing Alec didn't come rushing to California like I'd hoped or Emma's betrayal.

"Yes, she knew he was back. She talked to the veterinary student he had taking care of the dogs, the one who forwarded your mail? Lovely young man."

I can't see any reason why my mother would lie. She may be fanatical in her need to control everything and unrelenting in her belief that Alec and I should be together, but she's never been a liar.

"I really didn't know, Mom," I whisper. "Emma didn't tell me."

"Oh, sweetheart," she says softly. I'm not fooled by the maternal charade – the woman is as cuddly as a porcupine, and if she's simpering like this, then there's definitely an ulterior motive. "Maybe you should take a trip home. Just for a weekend. It would do you well to get out of that heat for a few days."

Bingo.

"I can't, Mom. I just have too much work to do." I pause, running my fingers over the surface of my skin. "Does he – does he look well?"

"Quite well." I can almost hear her smiling over the phone. "And don't you think everyone didn't notice. There was this little tart that barely left him alone all night."

My hand slips as I'm picking at the glass, pushing it even deeper.

"Magnus somebody or other," she sniffs, clearly unimpressed. "James, I think that you should really consider what you're letting happen here. Do you want Alec to be taken in by one of these gold-diggers? Some underwear model with straw for brains?"

"Magnus is not an underwear model," I say quietly. That's the reason why Alec didn't come running to California. He was running toward Magnus instead.

"Whatever he is, he's irrelevant. He's not you. And I think you need – "

"What I need is for you to stop!" I slam my foot on the ground, but the jolt of pain just makes me angrier. "Magnus is a stripper, Mom. Not a model, not a social climber, a fucking stripper! Alec cheated on me. He cheated on me and then he ran away and now, apparently, he's back. He's back with Magnus and me coming to New York is not going prove anything. The only thing more pathetic than getting dumped for a glorified go-go dancer is to go crawling back to New York. Now, if you'll forgive me, I have half a glass stuck in the bottom of my foot and should really get to the doctor."

"I refuse to believe it," my mother says, completely unruffled by my outburst. "Alec would never."

"No, you don't think so? Why don't you just ask him your fucking self, then?" I don't bother waiting for a reply, instead throwing the phone directly at the wall. The sound of the screen shattering is more than a little gratifying, but still not enough. I kick my chair out of the way, prompting another white-hot pulse of pain. "Fuck!"

I rest my head on my folded arms and take three deep breaths before walking to the bathroom to wrap some gauze around my foot. Tiny droplets of blood pepper the hardwood, but I don't even care to wipe them up. Not bothering to cover the cut with anything else, I slip into my flip-flops and head out to the car.

I'm just about to climb in when I hear a familiar British accent. "Jay!"

Excellent. Thomas. Fucking. Werther.

I twist around to find him standing in front of my driveway, wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts slung low on his hips. His black hair is dripping wet and there's a guy next to him holding a surfboard and looking supremely bored.

"Aww, don't be like that." He walks up with his friend trailing behind. "Jay, this is Théo." He mangles the French accent so badly that I'm surprised his friend doesn't just let the board drop on his head.

I narrow my eyes, but Thomas just laughs. "He's not married, I promise. Just an old college roommate."

I turn to say hi, but get distracted by a cloud of cigarette smoke. Coughing, I wave my hand around to try to dispel some of the stench. I stare at Thomas's friend, wondering how on earth someone who's so fit can take part in such a filthy habit. "Smoking is really bad for you."

"Huh," Théo says, taking another draw and blowing the smoke out slowly. "Imagine that. They should put that on the package."

The rolling sound of his g's and the way his stylish pants rest on his ass would no doubt be a turn-on in any other situation, but all I can concentrate on right now is the cigarette smoke. Combined with the blood loss, it's making me more than a little light-headed, and to my absolute embarrassment, I fall forward into Thomas.

"Woah, Princess," he says, slowly lowering me until I'm nestled carefully on the sidewalk, my back propped against a tree. "No need to swoon."

"Fuck you," I slur, my head swimming. "I'm bleeding."

He glances down and finds the blood-soaked gauze and is suddenly serious. "Jesus, Jay. What happened?"

"Business end of a glass," I mumble, slumping back against the tree. I've never been the best with the blood.

"All right, we'll get Théo to take a look at it, he's a lifeguard."

"A lifeguard?" I try to stand, but manage to slump against Thomas's shoulder instead.

"That's the ticket," he says with a grin. "Should have known it would take a little sweat and blood to get you cuddled up in here."

"That's just, way beyond inappropriate." I feel a prodding at my foot, and look down to find Théo rooting at the gauze, his cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Don't blow smoke in my cut."

"Charmant," he mutters, and then launches into a stream of French that's too quick for my limited one-semester-in-college experience. "Okay," he says, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. "He's going to need a doctor."

I glance up from my position on Thomas's shoulder, and notice that from this angle I can almost pretend that he's Alec. They have the same sharp jaw and black hair. Even the long, pale fingers that are currently taking my pulse look the same. "I don't think I can drive," I moan.

"Neither can you," Théo says, handing the board over to Thomas. "You've been drinking and everyone else is going to show up soon."

"I'll call a cab," I say. I dig around in my pockets, only to remember that my phone is currently in pieces against my kitchen wall. "Fuck, I forgot. I killed my phone."

"Was it smoking?" Théo grins and then takes his cigarette and crushes it beneath his shoe with exaggerated slowness. "There." His voice is like a throaty purr. "Now let's get you to a doctor."

It's not until we're halfway down the block that I realize what a colossally stupid idea this is. Everything I know about Thomas wouldn't fill an index card, and I know even less about Théo. He could be some kind of serial killer, driving me to the outskirts of town to harvest my organs. I think of Alec and Magnus, who are probably curled up in Alec's apartment in New York, watching whatever geeky movie Alec has picked out, with Kipling and Hector curled up at their feet, and I almost wish that he was. My blood curdles with every new image my traitorous brain conjures up, and I think that maybe my organs are a lot more trouble than they're worth.

It doesn't take long for me to get stitched up and sent on my merry way with a prescription for painkillers. Théo runs into the pharmacy to pick up the pills, leaving me to bask in the air-conditioned car.

He chucks the pills onto my lap as he shuts the door, and I notice that he's smoking another cigarette. He rolls down a window, as if that's going to actually do anything to save my car from the smell, and just stares back when I glare at him.

"Throw that out," I demand when he doesn't seem to get the message.

He reluctantly obliges. "But of an ungrateful bastard, aren't you?"

"Why, because I don't want lung cancer?"

He just rolls his eyes and pulls carefully out onto the street.

"What is with the French, anyway?" I grumble. "The lot of you smoke like chimneys."

"It's the sensuality of it," he replies, licking his lips. "The French are a very orally-oriented people." He shrugs, and that singular action makes him seem more French than the pretentious explanations, the accent, or the cigarettes. It's distinctly European, in the same way as his shaggy haircut and patterned scarf. "It also helps that we're not as uptight as you Americans," he adds.

"I don't think there's anything uptight about Americans not wanting their lungs to turn to tar." I cross my arms. "And I certainly don't think there's anything sexy about smoking."

"Well," Théo says as we pull into my driveway. "That's why I make a point of not fucking guys who already have sticks up their asses." He throws the car into park and tosses the keys at me over the hood. "It was a pleasure, really," he says as he lights another cigarette. "Let's do it again some time."

I don't give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Work, if at all possible, gets even worse. Nearly half the class fails the midterm – a fact that does not go unnoticed by the dean. He invites several other members of the faculty to our private meeting, and they provide condescending options for how I can "liven up the classroom" while feeling superior and vindicated by the fact that I'm failing so miserably. They also introduce me to a website – Rate My Prof – that's filled with alternating accounts of the hamster cage incident, a healthy dose of vitriol, and a smattering of comments about how nice my ass looks when I bend over my desk. I have a quality rating of 0.6/5 and that tells me everything I need to know, really. I leave the meeting with my ears burning and with an overwhelming urge to call my sister. We haven't spoken since the night I found out about Alec and Magnus, and I haven't bothered to send her my new cell number yet, but I think it's time to give in.

The time that I don't spend engulfed in paperwork, I whittle away scouring through social media sites, torturing myself with images of Alec and Magnus. I don't even bother to delete the Internet history anymore, knowing that it's pointless to lie to myself. I follow my ex-boyfriend's movements like some kind of psychopathic stalker, and it's only after I almost slip to my mother that Alec and Magnus spent the weekend at Cape Cod that I realize the extent of my creepiness. I do the only thing I can think of and download a program on all of my devices that blocks me from the Internet. Then, with nothing else to distract me, I escape to the beach.

"You're looking particularly gorgeous today, Princess," Thomas purrs, as I make my way down to the ocean on a particularly warm afternoon. His wetsuit is half unzipped and hanging below his waist, and he leers at anyone who gives him more than a three second glance.

I ignore him, as usual, as that's the quickest way to get him to shut up. Unfortunately, while surfing has helped take my mind off the big fat gay adventures of Alec and Magnus, it's also given Thomas the impression that I'm about to give in to his advances. He's completely shameless – going so far as to flirt even when he's there with some other guy, dropping lewd comments about threesomes – but even his lechery is preferable to Theo's unwarranted churlishness and mightier-than-thou attitude. He spends most of his time on the beach rather than in the water, smoking his cigarettes, reading obscure French novels, and undoubtedly thinking he's better than everyone. He refuses to wear sunglasses, instead sprawling out under the cover of his striped umbrella, sipping on glass bottles of coke and chatting away to his dog like he's the star of some kind of avant-garde fifties-era film.

I make the mistake of calling him out one afternoon when he criticizes my form, only to find out that he doesn't stay on the beach because he doesn't know how to surf, but because he surfs so well that he doesn't want to make everyone else uncomfortable. Thomas makes the mistake of asking him to give me some pointers when we're out on a particularly rough day, but he just blows smoke in my direction and mutters that there are some things that can't be taught. I contemplate burying him alive, but decide that it's not worth the trouble.

Still, despite his insufferable attitude and Thomas's relentless philandering, they're the closest things I have to friends in this city. If nothing else they help break up the monotony and give me something other than Magnus Bane to obsess about. Plus, sometimes, when he's cresting a wave and his hair is slicked back and his face is made hazy by the spray, I glance over at Thomas and find Alec staring back at me. For those brief seconds, before I notice that the jaw is a little too wide and the lips are a shade too red, I can imagine my life as it should have been, rather than how it's turned out to be.

Another few weeks pass and I've started cooking again. Thomas is useless in the kitchen so I'm about to head over to Theo's – Thomas is house sitting for the weekend, while Monsieur Sophisticated is gone to a private cinema screening, which I am absolutely, one hundred percent not jealous about – to give a cooking lesson when the phone rings.

Emma's gone to a medical conference in Luxembourg and my mother hasn't called me since our fight about Alec, so I eye the caller-id warily for a moment before picking up.

"Hello?" The connection is tinny and no one answers, so I assume it's some kind of telemarketer. Not particularly interested in improving my credit score, I get ready to end the call when I'm stopped by a small, familiar voice.

"Jay?"

That one word sends a frisson of dread straight through my spine. I grope for a chair and fall into it heavily. The wood strains with the effort of supporting my entire body weight, but I make no move to change position.

"Alec?" He sounds exactly like he did that last night – unsure and immeasurably sad. My heart pounds a staccato beat against my chest, and I dampen the burgeoning hope that threatens to spill outward. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and I can picture him perfectly in my mind: his lower lip caught between his teeth; his hand tiptoeing nervously across his leg; and his body curled up as small as he can make it, as if he's expecting a blow. He has never been one for confrontation; it was part of what I thought made us so compatible.

"You told your mother about Magnus," he says, his voice a little stronger now. "What he used to do for a living." I notice the past tense and wonder what Magnus is doing now. What's he even qualified to do? I think fleetingly about my mother's gold-digging accusation and decide that maybe she wasn't so far off. The thought makes me irrationally upset, as if Alec is still mine to protect.

"Maybe I did," I lash out, falling quickly into old habits. The drive to argue is a difficult one to repress, and I've never been good at taking criticism. "Trying to erase that chapter of his life, is he? Becoming your kept boy?"

"Don't," Alec says, and his voice is low and dangerous in a way I've never heard before. "Whatever this is, whatever you're trying to do, don't you dare insult Magnus. You have no idea what his life has been like – what he's been through."

"Frankly, I think you should be a little more worried about what he's been through," I sneer.

"Since when are you this person?" Alec asks. He sounds genuinely hurt and shame blossoms in my chest, punctuating my anger. "I understand that I hurt you and I really am sorry, but I never thought it would come down to this."

Completely confused and thrown a little off-guard by Alec's intensity, I fail to answer in time. "Magnus isn't ashamed of what he's done," Alec continues. "But that doesn't give your mother the right to humiliate him in front of people he barely knows."

"Alec, what are you talking about?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Jay. She told me at the party that you're the one who told her to ask Magnus about being a stripper. In front of all my mother's work associates. How could you do something like that?"

"I'm in California, Alec. Don't put whatever class issues you have about your relationship over on me. Just because your little boy-toy doesn't fit in – "

"Is that what you think of me?" Alec's voices wavers, but he continues. "You think that I would throw away everything we had together for some kind of fling?" His voice picks up again and I move the phone a little further away from my ear. "You know what, even if I had, then you should still be pissed at me. I'm the one who broke your heart and I'm the one who left. Magnus didn't grow up in the same world we did, Jay, and the last thing he needs is someone reminding him of that when he's most vulnerable." The phone rattles a little as Alec switches ears. "I mean, I know lawyers are conniving, but I expected better from you. I expected better from both of you."

I feel like all of the air has been sucked from my lungs. I can't believe that my mother did this. I knew I shouldn't have told her anything – she can't just leave well enough alone. The small bubbles of hope fizzle like acid in my throat. "Well, sorry to disappoint," I manage to squeeze out.

"I get that you feel like someone needs to be punished for what happened," Alec says, his voice quiet again. "But this isn't Magnus's fault. If you want to hurt someone, then hurt me, not the person I love."

The person I love. He says it so simply, so naturally, that I know it's not an underhanded way of making me pay for what's happened. I'm not even sure Alec is capable of being underhanded. Unlike my damn mother.

How the tables have turned. I used to be the person Alec looked to when he needed something. When he was upset or overwhelmed. Now it looks like I'm public enemy number one. "I'll talk to my mother," I say, and then I promptly hang up. I power down the phone before Alec has a chance to redial, and set it on the table in front of me.

The person I love.

The first time Alec told me he loved me we were driving to some kind of Charity function that his mother was hosting, and we were listening to my iPod. A song came on that I hated, but Alec loved – I had downloaded the night before when he complained that I had the musical inclinations of a seventy-year-old man – and he just looked over and said it like it was the most natural thing. It was like breathing, his declaration of love, and I had pulled over and dragged him into the back seat and kissed him until we were late for the party. I had whispered the words into his mouth, his neck, his hair, reveling in the way he whispered them back with a small, shy grin.

Drunk with happiness, I was sure that that feeling would last forever. That his simple declaration of love was a sign of our assured future together. The thought of anything coming between us was so absurd that I never even bothered to think it.

I wonder if that's how Magnus Bane feels now.

I ring the doorbell five times in quick succession before Thomas appears. He's topless – as usual – and brandishing a salad fork.

He winks, poking me in the chest with the prongs of the fork. "About time you showed up."

I grab him by the hips and pull him forward, forcing our lips together. Though I can tell he's surprised, he melts instantly into the kiss and wastes no time wrapping his arms around my neck and pressing into me. He definitely hasn't been exaggerating about his expertise. He pushes me into the wall in a flurry of teeth, tongue, and small, short pants against my neck, and while objectively the kiss feels good, I can't erase the accompanying sense of wrongness. His lips are just a touch too thin and his hands are not quite wide enough. The rough way he presses my against the wall is nothing like the sweet, soft touches I'm used to, and I feel stupid that I thought that's why this would be better.

Still, there's no point to turn back now. "Still want to fuck?" I pant as he lifts my shirt over my head and starts to kiss across my chest.

"Vigorously and repeatedly," he replies, nipping at my skin.

I press him down to the floor, shivering as he pulls my pants along with him. "Just – no talking," I say, letting my head fall back into the wall. I run my hands through his black hair, watching as it slips like silk through my fingers. "Please, just stay quiet."

So ends Part I/III. Stayed tuned! And in the meantime, you can always check out my new story!