I've decided to upload chapter 1 as well just to get the ball rolling. Clary, Jonathan, AND Sebastian are siblings in this story, just as clarification! Please enjoy!

American Thighs

Chapter 1: Damage Control

Seven years later

The lights are blinding as someone yanks open the curtains, flooding the apartment with warmth. Jace groans as he rolls over, only to fall flat on his face. Blinking his eyes a few time, he finds himself on the stained wood of his living room floor, the dark eyes of a curly-haired demon boring heavily down on him. He feels like he was staring up at a spinning drill bit right before it is pressed to his skull—emphasis on spinning. "Where's the flood?" he muses in a rough voice as he finally settles enough to take her appearance in. She tugs at her cropped leggings before lashing out and kicking him square in the chest. He grunts but chuckles darkly at Maia's reaction, ignoring the splitting pain in his head in an attempt to look sober. "Why are you here—" he begins, knowing exactly why the Angel of Death herself decided to pay him a visit, but Maia's rant cuts him off.

"You don't ask the questions here," she growls, narrowing her eyes like the detectives in cheesy television series. Jace reaches out to the bottle of Jack sitting on his coffee table, a lifeline of sorts. "No more, Jace." Her not-hungover reflexes are much faster than his as she snatches it, giving it a disgusted look like it had just offended the cows of her great ancestors. Jace heaves himself from the floor, giving her as harsh of a glare as he can muster through the pounding in his head.

"I was under the assumption that these situations also require a good cop." He debates making another lunge for the bottle, but quickly decides against it, not wanting to know what Maia would think of him than. Drunkard. Addict. Broken beyond repair. He shoves those thoughts away with a sour expression, and instead, presses the heels of his hands deep into his eye sockets, hoping the pressure and darkness will ease the jackhammer pounding away at his skull.

"This…this…relationship between you and Jack Daniels is over," she hisses like an overly jealous girlfriend, dumping the nearly empty bottle into the trash. It's followed by the distinct shattering of glass. At this, Maia is human enough to look sheepish, muttering a quick unsentimental apology.

"So young. So full of potential," he whines, mourning his relationship with the bottle of whiskey. He brushes by her in search of a pain reliever for his head.

"Be serious, Jace!" she continues, much to the boy's dismay. He hopes she doesn't try to ransack his penthouse for all the alcohol he owns. At least he had the good sense to stash his favorite bottles by his underwear, knowing Maia wouldn't touch those for a million dollars. Okay, maybe for a million, but not like—ten—or whatever a bottle of Bacardi is worth. She stomps after him as he leans over the sink to rinse the foul taste from his mouth. "All this drinking is making my job extremely difficult." Jace snorts, nearly losing the water he'd begun chugging through his nostrils.

"If I don't get drunk every once in a while, you'll have no job." Maia's eyes widen like saucers before quickly narrowing to slits. He swears this woman can haunt the nightmares o even the most evil villains. Take Scar for example, who kills his own brother and then convinces cute, baby Simba it is all his fault. Yes, Maia can certainly make Scar cower in fear.

"Once in a while?! Do you even remember this whole past week, mister 'I got kicked out of two clubs, three pubs, and nearly burned down a five-star restaurant'?" Her words all jumble together in Jace's mind as he flops ungracefully onto the couch again, rolling his eyes uninterestedly toward his publicist.

"How was I supposed to know that my festive sparkler would set that girl's hair on fire? If you ask me, I did her a favor." He smirks to himself, remembering this night fondly. "It looked as if several raccoons had been nesting in her scalp." Maia finds no humor in his words, even though the girl was not harmed and didn't press charges after Jace easily wooed her between she sheets, charred bun and all.

"That is not the point, Jace." The normally picturesque lines of her face are settled in a harsh scowl, reminding him more of a mother than the rebellious woman who used to sneak into parties to slip her business card to A-list celebrities. He quite liked that girl.

"Why did I even hire you as my publicist? You're no fun anymore." Maia's face falls once more, but she hides it quickly as Jace turns on the news.

"We all have to grow up sometime," she supplies, ignoring his answering grunt, his usual reaction to things that upset him. It's a way of keeping this pretense of impassiveness, of tricking the world around him into thinking he has no emotions. In reality, he feels all too much. His lonely childhood, the disappointment of his friends and family—all tear him apart on the inside. He just doesn't put it on display. He'd long ago shoved his feelings into the darkest recesses of his brain, quickly squashing any slight memory of humanity that popped back up. It's easier this way, to leave it all behind and let everyone live their life the way it's supposed to be—without him.

The lady on the news in a tight pink skirt seems to have bought his act as she begins talking about what are presumably last night's escapades. Once again, Jace Herondale has proven how low he's really sunk by getting into a bar fight with two visiting Americans—Jace turns off the TV as a picture of his drunkenly enraged face occupies the screen. So maybe he isn't proud of who he is around Jack Daniels and Jim Beam, but he can't stay away. No matter how much shame he feels, he drowns it by finding the bottom of a bottle.

"For the record," he breaks the silence, plastering a smug expression on his face, "that guy threatened my favorite body part and threw the first punch." Maia is unamused by his ever-present ego.

"Look, Jace," she murmurs, her eyes transfixed on the blackness as if she can still see his wild golden eyes, "we fly to the U.S. for your tour in less than a week, and at first ticket sales were skyrocketing with this bad boy image you've been created. And now they're dropping. The reality is, people don't want to see a criminal in concert." Jace's eyes fall to his lap where he twists the metallic ring on his finger. It is engraved with soaring birds, the ancient Herondale crest. For years, his ancestors have been honorable warriors, leaders, and kings. He brings disgrace to his family name. He shoves away the image of his father's distraught face before returning to the present conversation.

"I've never been convicted of anything," he mumbles, still blinking back against the headache that accompanied the light. Or is it the resurgence of his past?

She sighs the way mothers do when they've had enough of their children's disrespect. "Just…clean up your act until then at least. Please." She adds that almost as an afterthought as she breezes out the door, shouting into her phone as soon as it is closed behind her. He curses under his breath, his eyes drifting toward the trashcan where his bottle lay in pieces.

X.O.X.O.X

"Clary, I wish you wouldn't do that," Sebastian complains gently as she lights the cigarette balanced on her red lips. She makes an unladylike noise as her thumb sparks the flame, knowing her disregard for his concern will only serve to anger him more. She can't find it in herself to care as she begins early inhaling the addictive drug. Anger is the only emotion she can even feel anymore—the only one that gets through to her. She exhales slowly, watching the gray smoke curl and dissipate into the humid night air, the scene somewhat calming, familiar. Her painted fingers flick the ashes to the ground at her feet, her mouth moving to blow a rogue ringlet from her eyes before meeting the gaze of her older brother once more.

"It's just when I'm stressed," she fibs, more smoke falling from her lips as she leans against the brick wall behind her. With one roll of his dark irises, Clary knows Seb sees right through her. She's always been a terrible liar, a trait that proved to be necessary in the house she grew up in. Jonathon had forever been their spokesperson, a liaison between her and her father, to tell the mistruths that protect her, to keep her from the pathway of Valentine's wrath.

She derails that thought train quickly, flickering her gaze back to her brother, only to find he has that look about him right now. Must have learned it from Jonathon. His tanned face, in high contrast with the Morgenstern pale skin, has changed entirely since they were young, the boyish features thinning out into a strong jawline and a straight, narrow nose, the glasses once perched on the bridge long since replaced with contacts, but the protective expression remained the same—same downward turn of his mouth with puckered lips, the stern arch of his eyebrows above soft, sad eyes, the crossed arm and widened stance as if he prepared to leap at anything threatening in the shadows. He longs to help her, to fight the demons she's been facing for so long, but in reality, he doesn't even know how much has been plaguing her.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she stretches her shoulders out with a pop. Being stressed isn't a lie. Working two jobs to keep herself afloat for the past year has taken a toll on her mind and body, leaving her more exhausted at the beginning of the day than she'd ever been at night. Her joints ache, her toned muscles burning with the raw agony of a workout as she tasks herself with routine activities. Often times, her feet refuse to support her weight, sending her crashing to the dirtied carpet of her one-bedroom apartment.

The cigarette feels like a dumbbell in her hands, a ball and chain she can't release herself from. She'd taken to smoking when she'd been told it would make her sexier, more appealing to the men she dances for and therefore wealthier in tips. She isn't addicted, just desperate to be good at her job. She knows her recreational smoking habit does nothing to aid her financially, but she can't stop herself from lighting one up as soon as the liquor begins flowing.

"Clare," her brother murmurs gently, resting a big hand on her shoulder. She hides the way it hurts her. "I can help you with money—" She raises her hand in a warning, cutting off his pitiful offer. She is not a charity case and refuses to be treated as such. She is a strong, independent woman fighting her way through life the same as any other person. She tells him as much, continuing to say she doesn't miss the extravagant life they used to live, not when that money came from Valentine's hand. She knows entirely too well what money can do to a person, how it can control one's every action, rot one's soul from the inside out until there's nothing but an empty void inside. She'd been forced to sit passenger as it overtook her father, wiping the gentleness from his touch and the kindness from his smile.

She worries that soon she'll have to witness as Jonathon succumbs to the evils of commercial value, doing anything for another dollar. She didn't dare voice these fears, though, not wanting to compare her brother to someone as vile as Valentine. He is not their father. Though he's chosen not to call lately.

It's times like this when she is thankful Sebastian had a different father, that he had the kind brown eyes and the pure soul of their stepfather Luke. He isn't weighed down by the constant terror of giving into the greed wound in the helix of her DNA—the Valentine disease as she and Jonathon used to call it. Sure, Sebastian had been forced to pave his own way, unaffiliated with the Morgenstern fame, but eventually he broke into the film industry and never looked back.

Seb's eyes flicker across her face, down her cheeks, over her stomach, undoubtedly making sure she isn't emaciated like she'd once been. "I picked up a new job, Seb," she attempted to soothe. "I'm going to be fine." His jaw flexes, but thankfully he bites his tongue. He finds it useless for her to work herself ragged when he can easily house her under his roof. She doesn't want his handouts or his pity. Truthfully, she fears it will turn her into Valentine. It runs through her veins, the endless hunger for power he'd suffered, plaguing his every form of consciousness, driving him near the point of insanity. Her mind is preset to collapse under power, to destroy the lives of those around her to bring it all back.

She can't become him.

Won't become him.

"You should go back to the party, Seb. We don't want the paparazzi catching pictures of us together." Only then does she notice the black baseball cap he wears low over his brown waves, disguising his face from the world around. His chocolate eyes flicker between hers before he sighs, putting his tail between his legs and shuffling back into the pulsating lights of the club. He's never been one for fights. Neither is she. Not since narrowly escaping the battlefield that was her childhood.

She watches his retreating form warily, hoping no camera flashes disrupt the dimness of the alley. It really is dangerous to hang around him, better to stick to the shadows and hope to remain hidden from her past. She doesn't want to be his burden.

His stunning good looks have brought him fame on the big screen as well as among modeling agencies, striking it big enough to become the new face of Calvin Klein, ironically preceded by Jonathon. She is proud of him, but she can't shake the nagging feeling that her father played a part in orchestrating those interviews, hoping his fame would bring her whereabouts to light.

Sebastian means well. He's offered to help her with money many times before, though he broaches the subject at the worst possible moments, when her pride is high and finances low.

Jonathon used to be no different, though his attempts were more subtle. A seemingly random invite for dinner here, a shiny new pair of shoes there. She couldn't deny those acts of kindness, and even when she tried, Jonathon insisted. He is as persuasive as their father, with his dark, seductive eyes that swirled with both hypnotization and hell. While her father used his for evil, his look-alike son turned his toward the big lights of the stage. This all changed after his scare.

She shivers, the way she used to under Valentine's frosty glare.

"Hey, a voice resounds from beside her, making her jump slightly. She never liked to be startled. A gasp is trapped in her throat as she tries to conceal her fear, smoothing her short leather skirt before turning around.

"Si, you scared me." Her best friend pushes his glasses up onto his nose, giving her a toothy grin as he slings his arm casually around her shoulders. There's nothing romantic about the gesture as he continues to recount the story of the projectile vomiting he'd just witnessed over by the bar. She shakes her head, hur curls brushing her bare arms as she stamps out her cigarette with the toe of her high heel. The old Clary would never have been caught dead dressed like this, in clothes that appeared to be hand-me-downs from a stripper, but then again, she is not the person she used to be.

She listens half-heartedly as Simon talks avidly about the night's exploits, describing in vivid detail every attractive female he'd seen. "She looked like Catwoman!" he exclaims loudly at one point, blushing immediately as stragglers begin to stare. Clary sniggers, using the ponytail on her wrist to tie her unruly curls into a knot. The pair have been friends since their diaper days, growing up together in the streets of New York, somehow staying together as the world changed entirely around them.

"Clary, I've been meaning to talk to you about something—"

"Staved Warthog is not a good name for your band, Si." Pulled from her thoughts of the past that can only drag her down to the pit of despair she often found herself scrabbling out of, she catches sight of the deadpan look he's giving her. Clary knows there are only two topics he can possibly bring up with that serious look: money or her father. She feels like talking about neither of them, so instead, she cracks a joke.

"Your suggestion has been noted, although your hurtful tone was poorly placed," he glares lightly, through his smile is still peeking through.

Another boy emerges from the club just then, sparing Clary from the lecture Simon is about to give her as the music pulsates heavily in the chilled air around them. She watches as he approaches Simon with an outsrteched had for a fistbump. Simon reciprocates the manly greeting and turns to face her. "Hey, Clary, this is Eric Hillchurch. He's in my band." The thin-boned boy sticks his hand out in a greeting, startling Clary when he brings her frail hand to his chapped lip. Gray-blue eyes gaze at her through thin lashes as he flips his dirty blond hair.

"Always a pleasure to meet a member of Millennium Falcon."

"Millennium Lint!" Simon groans, mumbling something about the atrocity of stealing the sacred name of Han Solo's ship.

Eric ignores this entirely, still clasping Clary's hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Clary—"

"Morgenstern," Simon supplies, much to her dismay. She'd taken her mother's maiden name after her father's departure, mostly because both her father and brother are in the national headlines at least once a week. Eric simply nods, his eyelids lazily drooping over reddened eyes. Of course, he is a stoner. No one in their right mind would be in Simon's garage band. "Clary doesn't like the name Starved Warthog, so I was thinking we could go with Feral Vegetables or—" The woman in question shrinks slightly away from him as Eric's grimy fingers reach out to inspect a piece of her carroty hair. If anything is a feral vegetable, it is the mop on top of her head.

"I've seen you before somewhere!" he exclaims stupidly, his words stumbling over one another in the confused way that accompanies drug addiction. "I've seen you at Pandemonium!" Clary feels the heat of her blush creeping up her neck as he places her face, not missing the way his eyes drag oer her clothed body, undoubtedly remembering her performances. She isn't ashamed of her career at the club, but in the outside world, embarrassment strikes every time someone looks at her a bit too long, recognizing her from her risqué job.

Simon clears his throat heavily, dragging Eric's attention back to him. She mutters a thank you, but Simon just shrugs. He really hates that she's a stripper. He's never said as much, but the way he acts rings louder than any words he could ever say. You have a four-year degree. You live in Los Angeles. You have options. His eyes always dodge her whenever the topic comes up, and he is quick to give her newspaper clippings that advertise job openings in her neighborhood. He never really speaks directly of it, never asks which job she is working when she works long nights.

She hates the way her friends secretly judge her. Jonathon had his talents to skyrocket him to stardom. Simon was a boy genius, earning his PhD at the ripe age of 21. And Clary? Well, she can sketch a couple faces sometimes, when she finds inspiration. Mundane people have to find mundane ways to make a living, and when waitressing and bartending are not paying enough money, options become limited. Her position at Pandemonium offers her the highest income which helps her cover rent every months. She wishes her friends would understand it the way she does.

As she ignores the boys' conversation entirely, she wearily drags her eyes to a group of drunken college girls squealing loudly as they stumble into taxis, not before draping their nearly exposed chests all over the cabby's face. She won't be surprised if their ride is free tonight. Her mind wanders to her previous days as an aspiring artist starting out at NYU, when the world stretched endlessly in front of her, full of opportunities and excitement. She never really partied, allowing Seb to drag her out with his fellow film majors every once in a while, but she much preferred the company of her sketchpad and coffee mug. She wonders if it would be different had she not been forced to give up her internship the summer after she graduated. Would she be touring the world, showing her art at exclusive events in France or Italy? Would she own her own studio, painting murals for Brad Pitt and Ashton Kutcher? Or would she still be floundering in the slums of one of the richest cities in the U.S.?

She really wishes she hadn't smoked her only cigarette as she feels herself struggling to breathe. It's always like this when she lets the past in. It crushes her slowly at first, like a boulder hovering in the chains of a crane. Then the crane breaks down, and the weight smashes down on her. The past demands to be remembered when all she wants to do is forget. "Clary?" Si breaks through to her, his voice laced with concern. Damn it. Why can't someone just yell at her for once? She is sick of all this babying, all this tiptoeing around the broken child everyone thinks she is. How is she supposed to move on when no one is giving her room to do so? Can't they see her suffocating beneath the protectiveness? Maybe that's exactly why she'd taken this stripping job in the first place. Never before would she have even considered taking her clothes off for money, but the freedom she feels, the inhibition of having men stare at her with raw desire instead of worry—it's intoxicating. It's more of a drug to her than the nicotine is. It feels like a breath of fresh air after years of drowning. It's like shouting you don't own me from the peak of Mount Everest, letting it echo around those who look down on her.

"I'm okay," she chokes out, waving off Simon's probing questions. Eric remains placid, either unaware or uninterested in the situation before him. Never has she wanted to hug someone more. She wrinkles her nose at that thought, the stench of marijuana driving it away quickly. She lets the world melt away again as Simon's attention returns to his bandmate.

If it isn't concern, charity, or judgement, her friends are trying to hook her up with someone they think to be suitable. Jonathon is always talking about his friend Jordan, whom Clary had never met. If it isn't this Eric character, Simon is dropping hints when Kirk or Matt are single. They don't catch Clary's sarcasm as she grumbles about them just arranging a marriage. In fact, Jonathon had once hired one of Hollywood's most elite matchmakers. The only way Clary had been able to get out of that one was to growl like a hostile dog until the blonde bimbo nearly tripped over her own feet rushing out of Jon's flat. She'd earned a stern lecture for that one.

The truth is, she just wants to live, to do all the things she'd missed out on. Her mind races to back to years ago, before anyone had hurt her. She thinks back to her childhood best friend with his shaggy blond hair, telling her to live without regrets, to not take any moment for granted. Those memories bring her back to the time they'd been arrested, when that feeling of euphoria that drove them both to run, to duck from the lights of the cops and slip into darkness. Dancing seems to be the only thing to get her that high, leading her to infinity, to weightlessness. Even when her muscles and bones are screaming for her to stop, she pushes forward, for once feeling beautiful instead of useless.

Shaking her head to clear away her thoughts, she calmly rejoins Simon and his friend before things become too unbearable.