Chapter 52

Even though she thought she heard something, Clarke kept sleeping. Or at least she tried to. She was comfy, and it seemed early, and she was in no hurry to wake up. No hurry at all.

A loud thud startled her, and beside her, Bellamy moved, too. She looked to the doorway, and there, having just dropped his overloaded duffle bag onto the floor . . . was Finn. Shell-shocked. Stunned. Unable to look at anything but her and Bellamy, lying naked in bed together.

"Finn?" she yelped, sitting up, holding the sheets to her chest. "Oh my god." Beside her, Bellamy just stayed down, almost as if he were trying to stay out of sight.

Finn cracked a sad smile and muttered, "Surprise," before turning and sulking off.

"Finn!" she yelled after him, scrambling out of bed. She took the sheets with her, fumbling on her way down the hall and out the front door, trying to wrap them around herself as she ran after him. He wasn't even running, but his strides were so long and so fast that she could barely keep up as he stormed down the hall. "Wait!" she cried, horrified. "Please, can we just . . . can we talk about this?"

"What, you wanna explain?" he barked.

"I don't . . ." She doubted she even could explain this, but . . . she could try. "We need to talk!"

He whirled around momentarily, anger in his eyes. "You know, I thought you'd be happy that I caught an earlier flight home." He snorted, shaking his head. "I'm such an idiot." Then he spun to keep walking.

"No, Finn, please, just stop!" she pleaded, reaching for his arm. "Just let me-"

"Get away from me!" he roared, and both his hands shot out to push her shoulders, sending her stumbling back against the wall. She was taken aback by that, by the fact that he'd just shoved her. It'd even hurt a little. But he just stormed on down those stairs, like he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Slowly, she sank down to the floor, not sure whose apartment she was sitting outside, embarrassed that she wasn't even wearing clothes and was covered up with only bedsheets. She cried, probably louder than she should have.

"Clarke . . ." Bellamy said as he finally emerged from their—her apartment. He was fully dressed now, and when he saw her sitting there all crumpled up on the floor, he raced towards her, crashing down beside her. "You okay?" he asked.

She didn't even have to answer that—not that she could've even if she'd wanted to. Clearly she wasn't okay. She was a blubbering mess. And part of her didn't even know why. She'd seen Finn with Raven. She shouldn't have felt so bad.

But she did. She felt horrible.

Bellamy took her into his arms, of course, and held her tightly while she sobbed, rocking her back and forth, whispering, "Shh," and stroking her hair and assuring her that everything would be okay.

Would it, though? She'd made such a mess of things, and she couldn't ignore it any longer. After three weeks of bliss, it was time for the world to come crashing down on her.

...

"Oh my god, this is awful," Clarke fretted, crying as she frantically made the bed. Bellamy wasn't really sure what her intent was there—making the bed didn't cover up the fact that they'd had sex in it. It wasn't going to erase the image of the two of them from Finn's mind. But it was probably just best to let her do whatever she felt like she needed to do right now. If that was making the bed, then so be it.

"This is not how I wanted it to go down," she said, wiping the tears off her cheeks.

Naturally, Bellamy wasn't quite as bothered by it as she was; in fact, part of him just felt relieved, because at least now the guy knew. It was out in the open. No more sneaking around behind his back anymore. But he felt bad that it was so upsetting to her. "I thought his flight came in tonight," he said, confused as to why he was back already.

"He said he caught an earlier one," she said, trying to fluff out the pillows before she set them up against the headboard. She nearly tripped over one of his shoes on the floor and threw her hands up in the air. "Look at this," she said, "your stuff is everywhere."

Yeah, he'd made himself at home these past couple weeks. But he'd intended to clear it out before Finn got back. "I'll pack it up, I guess," he said, ducking across the hall into the bathroom to get his razor, shaving cream, tooth brush . . . all that stuff.

"God, why did I ever do this?" she lamented.

He bristled, worried that she might be questioning their relationship. They'd just put a lock on that Brooklyn bridge yesterday. Surely she wasn't backing out or anything.

He forgot about all his bathroom stuff and went back into the bedroom to try to console her. She looked so helpless sitting down on the bed now, her hands in her lap, her head down. "I mean, I don't regret being with you," she said, "but . . . I should've just told him."

He sighed, not able to disagree with that. Yeah, she should have. And he'd known all along that she should have. But it hadn't been his decision; it'd been Clarke's, and she'd probably made the wrong one.

"I should've told him we kissed, and that we had feelings for each other, and that I knew about him and Raven," she went on. "I should've told him everything, and then I should've just broken up with him. And then this never would've happened."

He sat down beside her, pointing out, "Just remember, he cheated on you first."

"Yeah, but then I cheated on him, too. For two months, Bellamy."

"Almost two months," he corrected. Not that it really made a difference.

"I'm guilty here, too," she admitted.

"Well, so am I," he said with a shrug, not willing to let her shoulder the blame for this alone. "I went along with it."

"Yeah, but . . . it's different," she insisted, angling her body towards his. "And you never wanted this. You wanted me to break up with him. I was just . . . a coward." She rolled her eyes as she said that. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't own up to it. But now I have to. I'm a bad person."

"Hey." He had to stop her at that, because it just wasn't true. Cupping her face, he forced her to look at him as he said, "You are not a bad person. In fact, you're the most amazing girl I've ever known."

She shook her head. "You're just saying that."

"You don't have to believe me."

She let out a shaky sigh, her lower lip trembling as she quietly said, "Bellamy, don't take this the wrong way, but can you maybe . . . just stay out of the way today?"

He understood what she meant, but still . . . ouch.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound like a bitch," she apologized, "but . . ."

"No, I get it." He stood up again. "This is something you gotta handle alone."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm fine." He'd only taken one step towards the bathroom again when she grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

"Bellamy," she said, rising to her feet. She hooked her hands into her belt loops, pulling him closer, and gazed up at him with beautiful but tearful eyes. "I love you."

It was good to hear that, even though he knew it. Even though he didn't doubt it. For the time being, her focus was going to be on Finn, and he was going to have to be patient with that. "I love you, too," he told her, planting a kiss on her lips. He'd say that to her as many times as she needed to hear it. Because for the next couple days, she was going to be hearing something very different from Finn. He didn't want her to forget that she was worth loving.

...

Since Clarke had no idea where Finn had gone, she decided to check his workplace first. It seemed unlikely, but it was worth a shot to see if he was there.

When she got to his floor, she didn't find him in his office, but she did find Raven standing in front of a cardboard cutout of various overly-thin models in string bikinis. That Shaw guy was with her, the same one she'd been out on a date with a few weeks ago. They were looking at the cutout but talking to each other, obviously flirting, and as Clarke approached them, she heard Shaw say, "You're prettier than all these girls."

So true, Clarke thought, but she really had to applaud Raven for being a businesswoman and not just a model.

"Aw, that's sweet," Raven said. "Why are you so sweet?"

"I'm only sweet to you," he claimed.

Clarke felt horrible about interrupting, but she had to, so she cleared her throat to alert them to her presence.

"Clarke," Raven said, giving her a confused look.

"Hey." God, this was awkward. "Did Finn come in?"

"Finn's back?" Raven asked.

"I'll take that as a no then." She spun, ready to leave.

"Hey, wait a minute." Raven darted in front of her, blocking her progress. "What happened?"

Was it that obvious that something had happened? Did she look like that much of a train wreck? "Look . . ." She really didn't feel like explaining it, but she didn't feel like walking around on egg shells around this girl anymore, either. So she decided to just blurt out, "I know what happened between you two," but she made sure she did it quietly enough that the new boyfriend wouldn't overhear.

Raven's whole face fell, and immediately, she looked guilt-stricken. "Clarke, I am so sorry," she apologized quietly but profusely. "He told me he broke up with you. I had feelings for him, but I never would've acted on them if I'd known-"

"It's okay," Clarke assured her. "I mean, it's not okay, but . . . I blame him for that, not you." As far as she was concerned, Raven was a victim of Finn's two-timing, just like she was.

"I felt horrible when I found out he was still . . ."

Clarke nodded, able to sympathize with her more than anything else. "I know."

Raven blinked back tears, shaking her head as though she regretted the whole thing now. "How did you find out?" she questioned. "Did he finally tell you?"

"No." Her answer was probably going to make Raven feel even worse, but she deserved to know the truth. "I saw you two together."

She winced, lowering her head in shame. "Oh god, Clarke . . ."

"It's okay. He just saw me with Bellamy, so . . ." She trailed off, leaving it at that.

Raven lifted her head, a stunned look on her face now as her mind registered that. It wasn't just Finn who was a cheater now. Nope, it was both of them. Raven had suspected it, but this was confirmation.

"If he comes in, could you just tell him I need to talk to him?" she requested, feeling like nothing was going to be okay until they were able to hash all of this out.

"Yeah, sure," Raven replied.

Clarke nodded, grateful to have aired out at least one big elephant in the room. She had nothing against Raven, and hopefully Raven had nothing against her. Hopefully Raven didn't think less of her now that she knew . . . well, now that she knew about her and Bellamy.

After that, she decided to venture somewhere she really didn't want to go, but it seemed like the most logical place that Finn would retreat to: Cage's place. It took her a while to find her way there, because he lived in a different neighborhood, a nicer one like Roan had lived in. She remembered going to his swanky apartment for a couple parties, though, each one more awful than the last, so she eventually got there and knocked loudly on his door. There was music playing inside, probably drowning out the sound of her knocks, so she literally slammed her fist against the door to make herself heard.

When the door finally opened, it wasn't Cage standing on the other side, but a beautiful, dark-haired girl in sexy lingerie.

"Oh my god, am I at the wrong apartment?" Clarke wondered aloud as she glanced at the number next to the door. No, this was Cage's place, for sure, number 667. She recalled thinking that it was interesting how appropriately close to 666 it was.

The girl said something, something Clarke couldn't even understand a word of, because it was in Spanish.

"What?" she asked.

"She said you interrupted us," Cage boomed as he strolled up behind her. "I think."

Ew, Clarke thought, looking away from him. He looked like a Hugh Hefner wannabe, roaming around with a drink in his hand, wearing a maroon robe and silk boxers. Yuck.

"Go play, baby," Cage told his . . . escort. Maybe that was what she was. Or maybe she was the singer who they'd been promoting down in Mexico these past three weeks. Hell, she wouldn't even put it past Cage to smuggle some chick he'd met there back to the states. He was such a creep.

He opened the door, allowing her to come inside, while his apparent sex toy flopped down on the couch and got on her phone. Clarke felt all the hairs on the back of her neck raise up when Cage shut the door, because she'd never been over here without Finn. And she didn't want to be.

"So you flew home early, too," she remarked. "Great." That meant he'd be around for all this fallout of her and Finn's break-up, and he'd probably love every second of it.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, a sickening grin on his face.

"Hardly," she muttered. "Is Finn over here?"

Cage held up his arms and looked around. "Does it seem like he's over here?"

No, it seemed like she'd just interrupted him getting a blow job, because there was a bulge in his boxers—not a big one—and just noticing it made her want to puke. "Do you have any idea where he is?" she asked impatiently.

"No." Cage downed the rest of the liquid in his glass and set it down on the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why?" he pressed. "What's going on?"

Even if she'd wanted to talk about it, he would've been the last person she'd tell. "Nothing," she mumbled, already wracking her brain for where to try next. There were a couple restaurants he liked, but other than that . . . she had no idea what Finn actually did for fun around New York City, the places he went, the people he hung out with. She had no idea where he'd be.

The girl on the couch said something in Spanish again, a bit more of a bite to her voice this time. Clarke still didn't understand her, but Cage pretended to. Smirking, he said, "I believe that's Mexican for . . . get out."

Gladly, she thought, rolling her eyes. This had been a bust, and the last thing she wanted to do was spend any more time there.

She drove around the city aimlessly for hours that day, using some red lights as a chance to shoot him a quick text or even try to call him. But nothing worked. His phone went straight to voicemail, so he must have just shut it off. Knowing him, he'd turn it back on, see all those texts, and just delete them.

She returned home late that afternoon, feeling . . . defeated. This wasn't the day she'd had in mind. This was supposed to have been another good day with Bellamy. A little bittersweet, sure, because they'd both known that he had to get his things together and bring them back to his place. But still . . . it wasn't supposed to be this. It wasn't supposed to have been like this. But Finn had wanted to surprise her and come home early. Of course that'd been his surprise. He'd picked today of all days to be a decently romantic boyfriend.

"Finn?" she called when she walked in the door. It was quiet in there, though, nothing like the TV even on.

Sulking down the hall, she stepped out of her shoes, dropped her purse in the middle of her bedroom floor, and plopped down on the bed. She hated feeling like she'd hurt him. And she hated the fact that she hated that. Why couldn't she just be mad at him?

The answer was palpable, churning in the pits of her stomach, making her feel so, so horrible about herself. It was easy to just blame Finn for the demise of their relationship, but she knew she was at fault, too. And in some ways . . . maybe it was just as much her fault as it was his. It wasn't a pleasant admission, but how could she not dwell on it? For months before she and Bellamy had kissed or admitted their feelings for each other or started up a sexual relationship, their relationship had been developing. Simmering. She'd known all along how close they were becoming, how much she'd come to want him in her life. She'd known, and she hadn't done anything to stop it.

Her phone rang, and the last thing she wanted to do was answer it. For some reason, though—perhaps she was a glutton for punishment—she got up, retrieved her purse off the floor, and brought it over to the bed. Reaching in, she found her phone, checked the screen, and saw that it was her mother calling. Perfect. "What?" she answered shrilly.

"Is that how you answer the phone nowadays?" her mom asked. "Is that a New Yorker thing? Or is that just how you answer the phone when you see that I'm calling?"

Clarke rolled her eyes, already annoyed. "No, it's just been a really hectic day."

"I can relate," her mom empathized. "Between work and wedding-planning . . . I don't have any spare time."

Clarke grunted. "Yeah, a steady job and a marriage on the horizon. Sounds dire."

"Thanks for understanding, Clarke."

She didn't mean to sound so bratty, but . . . really, was her mom going to complain about having good things in her life? "Look, I'm sorry," she reluctantly apologized. "I just . . . I really don't feel like talking right now." As unbelievable as it was, she was actually due at the club tonight, in just a couple of hours. She had to try to get herself feeling spunkier before then.

"Well, that's fine," her mom said, sounding . . . not so surprised or disappointed by that anymore. "I just need your measurements. All the bridesmaids dresses are custom-fitted. I wanna make sure yours is perfect since you're my maid-of-honor, after all."

Oh, yeah. Going back to Kansas and being her mom's maid of honor. She still had that to look forward to. "Sure, I'll send those to you," she muttered.

"As soon as possible, please."

"As soon as I can." Clarke ended the call abruptly, tossing her phone aside, and flopped down on the bed, raking her hands through her hair. She just felt like lying there and crying for a while, not getting up on stage and taking her clothes off.

For some reason, she had it in her mind that a nice, long, hot shower would make everything feel better. But it didn't. She stood beneath that stream of water, getting clean but still feeling dirty, still feeling like shit, still feeling like she'd made a way bigger mess of this than it'd ever needed to be. And when she got out, all she wanted to do was go over to Bellamy's, let him hold her, and believe him when he said that everything was gonna be alright. But Bellamy was working tonight, too, and he was probably already gone.

She didn't want to go to the club, but she had to. So she put herself together and hauled herself there, showing up about half an hour before Niylah was set to take the stage for her big debut. A lot more women had shown up than usual, since the Lesbian Lover buzz had begun to spread. But the majority of the people there were still men, the same men: a mix of the crude, disgusting losers who'd come from Polis and the regulars they were begin to rub off on.

Bellamy was serving drinks, naturally, but he stopped what he was doing when she approached the bar. "Hey," he said. "Anything?"

"No. I've been trying to find him or reach him all day."

"Hmm." Bellamy's brow furrowed. "I mean, I don't like the guy, but I hope he's alright."

"I'm starting to get worried," she admitted. "What if he went out and drank and now he's in a ditch or something?" Finn had been drinking a little more than usual lately, a little too much.

"Clarke, we're in New York City," Bellamy said. "There's, like, one ditch here."

"True." If there'd been an accident, she would have heard about it already. Unless it'd happened out of town. "Where's Anya?" she asked him. "I have to talk to her."

"I think she's backstage."

Groaning, she dragged her feet back there, not in the mood to be anywhere close to all that makeup or any of those costumes or just . . . any of it. She didn't wanna be here right now. She just wanted to go home.

When she walked into the changing room, she was so quiet and Anya was so preoccupied with Niylah that she didn't even notice her. "Oh, look at you," she said, stepping back to survey the sheer rainbow dress she'd dressed her one-time bartender in. "Don't you look beautiful?"

"I always look beautiful," Niylah said, brimming with confidence. "But you did a good job with the outfit."

Anya finally glanced over and noticed her, asking, "What do you think, Clarke? Is she ready to go?"

Niylah struck a few poses, smiling sensually.

"Uh . . ." Even though she'd been the one to teach her a routine, Clarke still couldn't get used to seeing Niylah in this role. "Yeah, she'll do—she'll do great," she stuttered. "Anya, can I talk to you?"

Anya's eyebrows immediately shot upward curiously. "What's going on?" she asked, leaving Niylah to twirl around in her dress and mark through her routine. "Why aren't you getting ready?"

Clarke shoved her hands into her pockets, feeling very small in that moment, very overwhelmed by all the loud music she heard playing out there, and the cigarettes and alcohol she could smell even back here. "I don't think I can dance tonight," she said.

"What?" her boss shrieked. "Clarke . . . I need you to."

"I know. I'm sorry." She hated that feeling of letting someone down. "But I just . . . I can't."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

She couldn't explain it, nor did she want to. She just needed Anya to trust her instincts on this. "I've just had a lot going on today, and-"

"We've all had a lot going on today," Anya cut in harshly. "Clarke, if you start flaking out on me, then what kind of example does that set for the other girls?"

Example? Clarke thought. She was setting examples now?

"You may not have been here as long as they have, but you're the one they aspire to be like," Anya went on, not sounding very sympathetic yet. "You're the one who has to set the standard."

"Anya, I'm telling you, I'm not up for this," Clarke insisted.

"And I'm telling you . . . I need you to be. Please." Anya grabbed her hands, a look of pleading on her face. Clarke had never seen her look quite so desperate before. "Please," she begged again, more emphatically this time. "I rely on you, Clarke. Those people out there? You're the girl they wanna see."

But they wanna see Niylah, too, Clarke thought, and someone else would perform after her. It didn't have to just be all on her, did it? That was too much pressure. She hadn't asked for this.

Somehow—she wasn't even sure how . . . she ended up onstage that night. Dressed in very little to begin with, faking her way through a dance to some song about making love on a dance floor. But did any of those guys in the crowd know anything about making love? Because with the way they looked at her and shoved their hands down their pants to jack off to the sight of her, and the things they said to her . . . she doubted it.

She moved through her un-choreographed performance in a bit of a daze, not throwing as many spins or tricks as she normally did, because she just felt so tired. She kept it simple, and she could tell some people were disappointed. They yelled at her to take her clothes off, but . . . she just didn't want to tonight.

As she spun out of a back hook, settling onto the stage with her back to them, she felt like . . . like she just couldn't get back up again. She knew she should stand, maybe even spin up to her feet. But her legs felt wobbly, and her throat felt like it had a lump in it, and the dam of tears in her eyes felt like it was about to burst at any minute.

So she just sat there with her back to them while they urged her on, saying things like, "Come on, you dirty slut," or, "Give it to us, you fucking whore." The fact that "sexy bitch" was actually the least derogatory thing she heard really spoke volumes.

She couldn't take it. Not tonight. Not in light of all the guilt and shame she was already feeling. She started to cry, unable to stop it but still mortified that this was happening up on stage of all places. In front of all these people who didn't really give a damn about her. She couldn't let them see her like this, not when she had a brand to uphold. She couldn't let them see her be so whimpering and weak. She couldn't be weak here.

They booed her as she ran off the stage. Literally booed her. So loudly. But she had to get away from them. Tears poured from her eyes as she escaped back to the relative safety of the dressing room. But really, was even that place safe here? Roan had snuck back there once and done things to her. So even that room felt suffocating.

"Clarke, are you okay?" Niylah asked, immediately rushing to her side.

No. She wasn't.

"What's wrong?" Luna asked, doing the same. She was all dressed up in costume, too, so apparently she was going to be the closing act tonight.

She just continued to cry and shook her head while the crowd continued to boo. A few seconds later, Anya came racing backstage, looking shell-shocked. "What happened?" she gasped.

"We don't know," Niylah said. "She just . . ."

Clarke covered her whole face with her hands, crying harder. She didn't feel she was going to be able to stop. And then . . .

"Clarke?"

She heard Bellamy's voice, so she looked up and over to the doorway, where he stood now, staring at her with worry all over his face.

Bellamy.

She ran to him, throwing herself into his arms, needing him right now and nobody else. Nobody else could understand, and nobody else cared as much as he did.

It didn't matter that Anya was watching, or that they must have looked more like a couple than they ever had before. She held onto him for dear life, and his hands wound tightly around her, the only thing in that moment making her feel safe and cared for. He didn't ask questions. He just hugged her. And she never wanted to let him go.

...

All Clarke wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. Maybe she didn't deserve that. Maybe she deserved to be plagued with thoughts and worries all night. But she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The day had been so draining, and the night hadn't been any better.

Bellamy drove her home from the club early, sneaking her out the back so she wouldn't have to deal with any complaints or heckling on the way out. She'd stopped crying, at the very least, but she wasn't very talkative. He wasn't, either, but what he did say was comforting. Things like, "It'll be okay," and "Don't worry, Clarke." She wasn't sure whether he was talking about what she'd done at Grounders tonight or the situation with Finn. She was worried about both of them. The crowd had turned on her tonight, really for the first time ever. But she still hadn't heard from Finn, and even though she wasn't in love with him anymore, she still cared about him on a human level. So she was more worried about that whole situation. Everything there was just so in limbo. He knew about her and Bellamy, but he didn't really know anything beyond that. He didn't understand.

When they got to her door, the plan was that she'd go in, see if Finn was around, and if he wasn't, then she'd go over to Bellamy's for the night. But when she inserted her key into the lock, she couldn't even get the door open. Not unusual. It was a bad door. But even when she gave it a shove, which usually worked, it wouldn't budge. It felt like something was blocking it, keeping it shut, because the doorknob wasn't even turning all the way. "It won't open," she said.

"Let me try." Bellamy took the key from her, twisting it both ways as much as he could, then threw his larger body against the door. But even that didn't work. "He's got something jammed up against it," he said.

"So I can't even get in?" What the hell was this? She lived there, too; Finn couldn't just keep her out. She had no problem vacating the premises for the night and giving him space, but there were things she needed in there. Tooth brush. Clothes. Birth control pill. Did he really think he had the right to lock her out?

"Let's try the balcony door," Bellamy suggested, motioning her towards his place instead. "Come on."

As they entered his apartment, she thought about the irony of their current situation. She and Bellamy had met when he'd been standing out in the hallway, locked out by his sort of girlfriend at the time. And now the tables had turned. She was the one who couldn't get in.

They headed out onto his balcony, and he did his thing, carefully climbing over onto her balcony by walking across a narrow ledge. He wasn't even afraid, but Clarke wasn't about to follow him, so she just stood there and waited while he climbed over the railing and then gave her balcony door a good tug. It didn't open, either. "It's locked, too," he said.

She flapped her arms against her sides, pretty exasperated with Finn for all of this. "Now what?"

"I don't know." Bellamy rubbed his forehead, looking pretty tired himself. "Maybe we could call the landlord or . . . the cops."

"The cops?" That seemed so . . . drastic. Were they really going to have to resort to that?

Suddenly, the balcony door clicked as it was unlocked from the inside, and it slid open. Out came Finn, slurring, "Yeah, don't do that. That's not necessary."

Oh god, he looks horrible, Clarke thought. His shirt was just hanging open, and he had a nearly empty bottle in his hand.

"So what, you think you can just break in or something?" Finn challenged Bellamy. He downed the rest of what was in the bottle, then threw it down, causing it to shatter and glass to fly everywhere. Clarke startled, and Bellamy stepped back a bit as a piece of it almost hit him.

"She just wanted inside," he said.

Finn glared at him. "Kinda like you wanted inside her?"

"Finn, stop," Clarke jumped in. Him being drunk and pissed wasn't going to make any of this any easier.

"Look, I don't wanna fight," Bellamy said, holding his hands up in front of himself.

"Well, that's too bad," Finn said, "'cause I wanna fight you." Both of his hands shot outward, pushing Bellamy's chest, and Bellamy stumbled back, falling towards the railing.

"Ah!" he yelled as his side hit the rail hard.

"Finn!" Clarke shrieked. God, she understood that he was hurt, but he was being such a jackass. "Bellamy, are you okay?"

Wincing, he stood up straight again and managed to calmly say, "I'm leaving," as he took two steps away from Finn.

"No, you're not." Finn grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, trying to throw him down, but Bellamy jabbed his elbow backward, pushing Finn away.

"Finn, stop!" Clarke yelled.

Finn didn't stop, though. Even though Bellamy wasn't trying to fight him, Finn was determined to fight Bellamy. He threw a punch, but he was drunk and uncoordinated, and Bellamy was able to lean back to avoid it. Finn did sucker punch his side then, the one that had just hit the railing, which caused Bellamy to howl in pain and double over.

"No, stop!" Clarke cried, feeling like neither one of them was hearing her. "Bellamy!"

With Bellamy in pain, Finn was able to push him down onto the balcony, but he still wasn't able to land a punch. Bellamy kept blocking him, fighting back.

"Oh my god." Clarke frantically began to search through her purse, trying to find her phone so she could call 911.

"Get the hell off me!" Bellamy roared as Finn tried to climb on top of him and pummel him. He must have pushed or kicked him away—Clarke wasn't entirely sure, because it all happened so fast, and she could barely look. But he got Finn off of him and clamored to his feet. Only then did she see the blood dripping from his forehead.

"Oh my god, Bellamy . . ." That looked bad.

He reached up and touched his head, wiping away some of the blood, and left Finn groaning on the balcony as he quickly climbed back over. "Come on," he said, sliding his door open. "Get inside."

"Yeah, go get inside, Bellamy," Finn shouted. "Go get inside."

Clarke felt relieved once she and Bellamy were both off that balcony and he locked the door and pulled the curtain shut over it. Relieved for only a brief second, though, because . . . she was shaking. And her heart was pounding. And Bellamy was still bleeding from the head. "Are you okay?" she asked him, reaching up to push some of his hair back and get a closer look.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You're bleeding." He didn't look fine, so she hurried over to the sink, wet down a kitchen towel, and said brought it back to him, pressing it against his forehead. "Do you need to go to the hospital?" she asked him.

"No, it's just a cut."

Was it really? It looked so bad, though. She lifted the red-stained towel and took a closer look at the injury. He was right. It did just look like a cut, probably from one of the shards of glass. It wasn't even a big cut; it just bled a lot.

"Thank God," she said. It looked worse than it really was. But still . . . Bellamy being hurt at all was bad. He didn't deserve that.

As she continued tending to him, cleaning him up, sounds came from next door. More things breaking. It sounded like he was throwing stuff at the wall.

"That's it," Bellamy said, "we're gettin' outta here." He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the door.

"Wait, where are we gonna go?"

"Let's just get a hotel room tonight." He opened the door and said, "Come on, I don't want you here."

Finn started shouting things next door, so she had to admit . . . she didn't really want to be there, either. So she and Bellamy high-tailed it out of there, headed downstairs, and hopped in the car again. Neither one of them even had anything packed but . . . well, she still hadn't gotten to her stuff, and she doubted Bellamy cared much about anything except getting her somewhere safer right now.

They ended up at a pretty cheap hotel, because neither one of them had enough cash on hand to afford anything nicer. The room smelled bad, the bed was uncomfortable, and the light in the bathroom didn't even work. But it would do for the night.

She sat on the bed, wallowing in her own guilt about all of this while Bellamy took a shower. When he came out, he'd put his boxers and his t-shirt back on, and as he sat down next to her on the bed, he winced.

"You're hurt," she said.

"It's not that bad," he insisted.

"Let me see." She lifted up his shirt, devastated to find a huge purple bruise on his side. "Bellamy . . ." She touched his bruised skin softly, just to see how swollen it was. It was pretty bad. What if he'd broken some ribs or something?

"I used to get hit worse in football," he said, pulling his shirt back down. "I'll be alright."

He kept trying to downplay his pain, probably so she didn't feel bad. But there was no doubt in her mind that she had been the one to cause this, and now she felt even worse than she had this morning. "This is all my fault," she said sadly. "His drinking, your bruises . . . it's because of me."

"No, it's because of him," Bellamy argued. "He cheated on you first, remember?"

"Yeah, but I still cheated on him, too." If she hadn't done that, then the whole thing would be over already. Finn would have moved on, and she and Bellamy would have been able to be an official couple for almost two months now. Finn wouldn't be drunk right now, and Bellamy wouldn't be hurt. Everything would have been so much simpler.

"Hey, listen, I don't want you going back there without me," Bellamy blurted suddenly. "Alright?"

And even now, he was still just trying to look after her. She didn't even feel like she deserved that. "Finn would never hurt me, Bellamy," she assured him. "Not physically."

"Didn't he already shove you out in the hall?" he countered.

She shivered, shifting uncomfortably. Yeah, he had. But that had been right after he'd walked in on them.

"And if he's drinking, there's no telling what he could do," Bellamy went on. "He's so pissed off right now. I don't trust him with you. So I wanna make sure I'm with you, okay?"

She nodded tearfully, appreciative of his protectiveness, even though she didn't think she would need it. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, carefully hugging him, trying not to hurt him even more.