CHAPTER 7
CLARY'S POV
The first 15 minutes of the journey is nothing but awkward silence. We hadn't even tried to make conversation- Jace keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel, while I quietly got my sketch book out.
I know I promised to try and get along with Jace, without starting an argument, and I was. I'm going to. But it looked like I was going to be the one putting the effort in.
I sigh heavily, staring at my blank piece of sketch paper which hadn't been touched with color for over 15 minutes. I was usually inspired easily. But the boring view of the freeway wasn't helping at all.
Slyly, I skim and look at Jace out of the corner of my eye. Don't get me wrong, I didn't like this guy at all. Not at the moment anyway. But there was something about him; he was, without a doubt, gorgeous. Calvin-Klein-model-gorgeous. I could easily picture him on the cover issue of Hugo Boss. His hair, a dark golden halo, curled at the ends and around his ears and the back of his neck. He had the most perfect sculptured jawline and cheekbones and full lips. Then there was those eyes. A natural shade of golden, identical to his hair and skin tone. They were beautiful. However, behind that beautiful gaze, there was something tormented- broken. He was broken. You could see it. I guessed the tough and sarcastic act was a charade. A shell which protected his true and battered self. Something had happened to this guy which made him this way. It made think back to Jonathan's words from before we left.
I made Jace promise to give you the whole story. And maybe a little bit of his.
"It's rude to stare ya know." Jace finally speaks through the silence, glancing my way, and smirking, "Not that I blame you."
It's then, that my mind digests his words and I scowl back, sitting back in my seat.
"So you finally speak." I counter.
Jace grins again, flexing his callused fingers on the steering wheel. "I speak. I just didn't want to take the chance of you hitting me if I asked you what you were drawing."
I frown. He wasn't really being an asshat. Maybe I was right. Maybe that being-a-prick-thing was a charade.
"I won't hit you if you don't act like a prick." I retort, smiling a little.
"Me?! A prick?! Would I ever!" Jace mocks, hand over his heart with pretend astonishment.
"You have to admit though," I say, "You're not the nicest guy in the world."
Jace's signature grin falls, replaced by a pouty frown. His blonde brows furrow, like he was thinking hard. "Yeah, about that," He starts. He looked almost sheepish. Like he didn't know how to apologize, "I'm sorry about, uh, ya know, the whole, gun-to-your-head-thing back at the apartment. I didn't mean to scare you. I-"
He stops, his brows furrowing even more. Was it that hard to say it? Is this the first time of him apologizing? "I-I'm sorry. It was a dick move." Once he confesses this, his face forms back, no brows furrowing, relaxed. This guy is gonna give me whiplash. One minute he's joking around, and the next he's broody and serious.
A few more minutes go by, and this time, more awkward and uncomfortable. Peeking a sideways glance, Jace's eyes are still on the road, his face composed, but his posture said otherwise; his back was stiff as a board- he was uncomfortable too. I knew I had to give him a chance. This journey was going to be long and confusing, I should at least spend most of it without arguing with him.
Looking back to my sketch book in my hands, I bite my lip. Here goes nothing.
"I wasn't drawing anything." I blurt into the silence.
As we stop at a set of traffic lights, Jace turns to me, his gaze wide and curious.
"I'm sorry. I think my mind's playing tricks on me. Did you just say something? Willingly?" His sarcastic tone wants me to slap him round the head, but I can't help but smirk.
"Yeah. I did." I reply, trying not to smile.
"Oh, thank god. I thought I was going crazy." Jace mocks, making a very relieved face. I try not to laugh. Why is he making me laugh? "Anyway, little red, what were you saying?" Jace queries, switching gears as traffic starts.
"What you mentioned a minute ago. What I was drawing… I hadn't made anything." Wow. I had a way with words. Whatever my impression, Jace grinned at my stuttering.
"How come? Isn't my face enough creative juices for you?"
"Hardy har." I sing, thrusting my sketch pad back in my bag.
"You go to school?" Jace asks out of nowhere, turning onto a different lane and giving me a quick glance.
I pull my knees up to my chest, nodding. "Yeah. NYU. I have my art and design scholarship there. The art faculty is amazing."
Jace nods, seeming impressed. "I'm not surprised. I caught a few pages in your sketch book earlier. You're… really good." He shifts in his seat. Apparently he's not good at apologizing or complimenting.
"Thanks." I reply. And I mean it. He may be shite at giving compliments but it still means something. I wonder if he's good at answering questions.
"So… how did you end up looking after me?"
Jace shifted in his seat like my question touched a sore subject. Maybe him looking after me was linked to his past. Like Jonathan said.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean t-" I begin to apologize, but Jace interrupts.
"No, no. It's fine." He squints his eyes, almost as if he was trying to conjure up an answer.
I really don't know how to approach the subject of his past. By his reaction, it must be painful and hard to contemplate about. If this is the case, I'm going to give him time. I can't expect him to spill tender memories all at once.
Moments go past, and as we descend off of the freeway bridge out of the city, I feel more sorry for him. Only seconds after that thought, he finally speaks.
"I'm from the Herondale Corporation… we're-"
"A mob?" I probe.
"Yes, in the sense," He continues, "But the professional term in our association would be Mafia."
"Right." I say, my voice monotone from my mind trying to process the information. Jace smirks.
"Anyway, my father, Stephen Herondale is the boss. He owns the cooperation. We own over 40 percent of San Diego, 25 percent of Long Beach in Cali and the whole of New York." Jace pauses, waiting for my reaction.
"Y-Your father. The Herondale Mafia… owns all of New York? Seriously?" My mouth agape like a fish, I blankly stare at him.
"Yes, seriously," He bobs his head, "In the sense of a mob and when they own something, it means in terms of factors. Like amo, properties, trade, even the amount of men in our cooperation. We may be one of the biggest and strongest mafia's in the US, which means trade is easier and we make more alliances."
"Alliances?" I ask.
"Yeah. As in we make treaties and make amends with other cooperation's. So we become a bigger Mafia altogether."
"Who are they? Your alliances?"
"I'd be here for a while if I told you all of them. But we have the main alliances; family and friends. Like your mom."
"My mom?" I ask, straining under my seat belt as I try and turn to Jace.
"Do you know how your mom met your father?" He probes, easing off the gas as the traffic light turns red.
"No. Not really. I've learnt more about my father in the last 24 hours than in my entire life. It's so confusing."
Jace nods in understanding. "I get it. It's hard to process all that information in just little time. It's not my place to tell you about your mother's past, but we have no time." He shifts back in his seat, getting comfortable.
"I hope your listening. Cause there's a lot to know."
I roll my eyes at him. Let it begin.
Please like and Review! I'm so sorry I haven't updated in ages. I'll explain on the next update next week.
Love you, my angels
-Kyla X
