Yay update! Please remember I wrote this in like 2015, so the show was still Michael and Kelly and I didn't feel like changing everything to Ryan. Sorry not sorry. Enjoy! :)
American Thighs
Chapter 2: Numb
"Are you eating healthy?" Jocelyn's concerned voice filters through the telephone pressed to Clary's ear.
"Mmhm," the younger redhead responds, a spoon dangling from her teeth as she leans the phone against her shoulder and grabs a container of frozen cookie dough.
"You're as thin as a rail. I worry about you." Clary spoons some unbaked cookies into her mouth, staring thoughtfully out the window of her one-bedroom walkup.
"I swear, mom, I eat like a horse." Jocelyn's breathy laugh is quiet.
"And how about work? Did you find a new place to perform?" Clary sighs as their conversation takes a familiar turn.
"I'm still singing in the bar—"
"You know your dad could get you a gig somewhere without so much smoke! It's bad for your lungs," Jocelyn interjects, cutting her daughter off. Clary rolls her eyes, thankful her mother cannot see her to slap her upside the head for such disrespect.
"They don't let people smoke in bars anymore. This isn't the seventies." She can almost see Jocelyn nodding as she mumbles a quiet oh, yeah, right. "Besides, I don't want Valentine's help. I want to make it on my own." I don't want to be under his control, she adds mentally.
She can feel her mother's disapproval. "Jonathon's just so well off right now, singing in—"
Clary slams her fist down on the countertop, the spoon forgotten in the cookie dough. "Jonathon and I are not the same person."
She hears her mother scratching her head, a nervous tick she'd acquired through the years. "I know, sweetie. I just, I worry."
"Yeah, you've said that already." She sighs, conceding. "I'm perfectly happy where my life is right now."
"Are you?" Is she?
"Yes." She remembers her dessert, using the spoon as a shovel to dig for the chocolate chips. How happy can she actually be if she can't even bring herself to tell her mother her real occupation?
Sure, she misses the old Brooklyn brownstone always filled to the brim with friends and laughter. She's nearly forgotten the warm hugs her father used to give her when she was young or the late nights spent in Jonathon's room confessing all her fears for the future. But that isn't possible today. So for now, she is content with her small apartment on the outskirts of LA.
"Jace is on Kelly and Michael today." Clary bites her lip, now digging into the dough just because it is something to do, a distraction.
"I said that I'm happy, Mom. That means without him." She hears a mumbled whatever before they say their goodbyes and click off, leaving Clary to stare at the blank television screen in unsettling silence. Even the honks of the angry drivers outside cannot break through her trance. Her mom can always see right through her, even when Clary doesn't understand it herself.
Curiosity gets the best of her as she flips to the correct channel, immediately engulfed in that familiar smirk, still the same though the rest has aged. He has a bit of scruff growing on his chin, his luminous golden eyes hardened instead of swimming with dreams, his messy blond locks falling to the middle of his ears instead of brushing his shoulders. He looks older. Better.
"Jace Herondale," Michael greets, sticking out his hand after he'd hugged Kelly, " good to meet the man that sang every song pumping through the locker rooms last fall." Jace chuckles lightly as Kelly settles herself delicately on her seat, crossing her toned legs and putting them on full display.
"So, tell me, Jace," Kelly starts, sliding a steaming mug of coffee in his direction. Jace makes no move to accept nor decline the beverage as Michael stands, kicking his seat over in the process.
Appalled, he begins yelling, "What are you doing?" Kelly starts in her seat, eyeing the large man with wide eyes. "They drink tea in England!" With that, a butler hurries across the stage to deliver a teacup on a silver platter, which the Brit gladly accepts.
A dreamy look crosses Kelly's features as she rests her face on her fist, staring deeply into Jace's enamoring eyes. "Say some British words for us, will you?" The television audience erupts into cheers.
Jace sets down his tea, glancing past the cameras with a smile. "Um, knickers? Whilst? Bloke?" Kelly's eyes don't move from his face as he continues talking, a dazed smile gracing her pink lips. Michael taps her shoulder several times before she snaps out of it.
She clears her throat.
"So, as I was saying before Michael decided that offering you coffee would start an uprising," she gives Michael the side-eye, and he lifts his hands sheepishly, "rumor has it you spent quite some time in New York as a child." Jace nods quickly, leaning forward in his seat. His fingers are wrapped around his cup again, a smile gracing his perfect lips as he begins to discuss his history, their history.
"Yes, I spent my more impressionable years here, so I do enjoy a good cup of coffee now and then."
"Mmhm," Kelly nods, shuffling some papers before her. "It says that you returned to London when you were…eighteen?"
"Eighteen, yes," he affirms, Clary's heart leaping into her throat.
"To pursue your music career." Jace bobs his head once more. "So what's it like to return after eight years?" Jace shifts uncomfortably in his seat, running his hands through his hair out of nervousness.
"Old habits die hard, I guess," she murmurs, still toying with the food in front of her as she leans her elbows on the countertop. She wants to look away, to ignore the way he draws her in like a moth to a wildfire, to deny the dangerous hold her still has over her.
"Well, I've just been catching up with family and friends before I hit the road for the big tour." Michael finally speaks up before Kelly can ask another question, raising his hand in the air to fend off the blonde's angry remarks.
"Speaking of your tour, I heard that you are looking for an opening act. Is that correct?"
"Correct," Jace replies with a smile, the lights not catching the chip in his left incisor. She wonders if he'd gotten it fix.
"And it's a contest?" Another upward motion of his head makes the spotlights catch the expression in his eyes. The happiness in them makes her heart squeeze. He'd said he'd visited family and friends, but apparently she no longer fit into those categories. "Here, let's watch the trailer." The trio shift their heads to a screen behind them.
Break down, take down, now it's on.
Sold out, blow out, don't get caught.
Well, no! Hell, no! What you gonna do,
When they keep coming for you?
"Americans turn everything into contests," a British voice reflects smugly as the song fades, a throaty chuckle following his statement. His face fills the screen suddenly, the background hundreds of screaming fans reaching out, hoping just to touch the international rock star. The smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the skin at the corners, only intensifying their signature color.
The screen then cuts to clips of Jace performing in front of sold out arenas, an image of Jace sticking his tongue out while a glittery man attempts to tame his wild hair, a video of a muscled arm grabbing a handful of barbeque chips then panning to see Jace's cheeks puffed out and his face looking guilty. The last one shows Jace shaking his head with a laugh while pushing the camera away from looking up his nose.
Bet some, get some, knock you down.
Alone now, show down, kiss the ground.
Well, no! Hell, no! What you gonna do,
Lights out, cut them in two.
They'll be coming for you!
Clary smiles when she finally sees the chip in his left incisor, the one that is often overlooked but she considers his most charming feature. His finger points directly into the camera, giving Clary the uncomfortable feeling he's pointing at her. "I'm coming for you, America." It may have sounded threatening had his voice not shaken with laughter.
An announcer's voice takes over, still showing Jace playing air guitar to the superimposed song, banging his head and sending his curls flying. "We're headed to New York, America! Come audition to be the opener on Jace's tour of the USA! And don't forget to watch Jace Race, Mondays at 7 pm on ABC." Before the screen cuts to black, it shows Jace stop banging his head long enough to look up in confusion.
"That's a working title." The frame sways, presumably as the cameraman laughs. Michael and Kelly clap as Jace looks at his hand in embarrassment, bringing his teacup to his lips to hide the growing smile.
"I understand you'll be holding several rounds of auditions."
Jace's eyes light up at the mention of his television show. He's always wanted to see his face on the screen. "Yes, in New York, Chicago, and our last ones are in Los Angeles."
"Okay, we are almost out of time, but we have one more surprise for our lovely viewers." Kelly says as the threesome stands up, moving closer to the open area where Michael and Kelly sometimes do workouts. "Maybe none of you know this, but August 5th is National Underwear day, so…" her sentence drops off as she claps her hands, calling to stage several giggling girls who make quick work of Jace's shirt and pants.
Jace doesn't even look embarrassed as he lets them strip him. "I'm not even American!" he bellows, though his flexing muscles say he likes the attention. "I don't recognize your national holidays!"
"Then why'd you always celebrate Thanksgiving at my house, Herondale?" she sneers at the television, thankful no one is around to witness this borderline psychotic behavior.
Soon the girls skittered away with blushing faces as Jace stands in a small pair of white briefs. He throws up his hands in mock defeat before placing them behind his head and giving his hips a little shake, his sculpted abs rippling with the motion. She can remember the feeling of them beneath her fingertips, hard and smooth all at once. "Get it together, Clarissa," she growls to herself, about to turn off the show. Jace turns around first, revealing an image of Michael Strahan's face across his butt cheeks. She bites back a laugh before turning the screen off, fighting off the onslaught of memories.
Clary grew up in a row of Brooklyn brownstones, the neighbor on her left side being the Lightwood family. Isabelle Lightwood had been Clary's best friend since they sprang from the womb, a secret door connecting their closest so they could sneak over into each other's rooms all the time.
When Clary and Izzy were eight, the Lightwoods adopted a ten-year-old Jace from London, meaning Clary had the pleasure of being tormented by the rockstar for eight years of her life, before he….left.
Jace had been her first crush, her first kiss, her first—everything. Isabelle didn't know all that, didn't know how they used to sneak around and talk in the covering of night, whisper secrets beneath blankets, share kisses on the pillow. She didn't know how he was the one who helped her through when her world was falling apart, how he force-fed her on the days when eating seemed like too much. But Isabelle did know how he abandoned her, left her without so much as a note, couldn't find it in himself to answer her phone calls.
Her hands reach for the laptop at the edge of the countertop, opening the screen and searching his name on Youtube. She finds the song she's looking for, the one that everyone thinks is about his first famous girlfriend, Maureen Brown. Clary can't help the creping suspicion that it's about her.
Oh I have a lot to say
I was thinking on my time away
I miss you and things weren't the same
Cause everything inside, it never comes out right
And when I see you cry it makes me want to die
It's terrifying how his smooth voice can still make her heart stop beating in her chest, how the mere thought of him has her palms sweating, her face turning red.
I'm sorry you're bad
I'm sorry you're blue
I'm sorry about all the things I said to you
And I know I can't take it back
I love how you kiss
I love all your sounds
Baby the way you make my world go round
And I just wanted to say, I'm sorry.
She hears a knock at the door, followed by Simon's joyous cry that he has takeout and the original Star Wars trilogy in his hands.
She bites her lip and closes the laptop before he can see her cry.
X.O.X.O.X
Jetlag is the bastard love child of Monday morning and Nickelback, leaving the sufferer the ability to do little more than lounge on the sofa watching stupid Netflix comedies until the sun rises in their home country and sets in their current location. Maybe he should watch porn instead, but one look at his frazzled publicist leads him to believe if he flicked to the other channel, he would be torn apart in tomorrow's tabloids, labeled a pervert.
"Are you kidding me?" Maia groans, studying her reflection in the hotel's floor length mirror. Jace can see what she's blathering about, the exact reason why he's avoided all reflective surfaces since arriving in the United States. Her hair has fallen from its usual severe bun, sticking out in several directions like she's been electrocuted. Her eyes are rimmed in dark circles, and not just because her mascara has smudged down her cheeks. She looks horrible.
"Mirrors can't talk, Maia," he calls smugly over Phineas' laughter, making a show over dragging his eyes over her rumpled appearance. "Lucky for you, they can't laugh either." He dodges the Blackberry thrown at his face, watching it bounce to a stop by his feet.
"I will tear you apart. Rock star or not," she threatens, eyes narrowed. Jace merely shrugs, unperturbed by her words. He returns his eyes to the television screen, watching Candace rush around in a frenzy. Her carroty hair stirs something in him, an age-old longing that he's tried and failed to suppress. Dr. Doofenshmirtz's plan is cut off by the blaring of his phone, blasting a familiar song that hasn't filtered through those speakers in a long time. Maia's ears perk up. She knows.
"Don't you dare, Herondale," she warns, shifting her body to block the door. "You can't go out tonight." He gnaws on the inside of his lip, wondering if he can just lift her out of the way and make a quick escape. "I can't be moved," she hisses, reading his very thoughts. "You won't be caught cheating on your girlfriend by the paps. Not tonight."
"Kaelie is hardly my girlfriend. She fucks around all the time!" he whines like a spoiled child that's just been told no for the first time. Maia sets her jaw.
"You promised to behave for a while."
"I've not had a drink since that night." That's the truth. "Just let me have sex with the pretty lady." He juts out his lower lip.
Maia snorts. "Maureen Brown is hardly your type of woman." This is true. With chestnut eyes and natural blonde hair, she's hardly the busty, bleached girl he usually strives for. She's nowhere near the crimson curls he dreams about. But she's a distraction, a way to forget the things he can never have. "You better not get her pregnant," Maia groans, stepping to the side to allow him to pass.
So he finds himself behind the wheel of his rented Audi, gliding it expertly around the turns he used to traverse every day. He doesn't give himself time to think of the woman he used to travel with, of the way her eyes lit up in the passing headlights, of the way her smile shone brighter than the stars. Instead, he pulls to the curb, tossing his keys to the valet before they can get close enough to have a look at him.
He pulls his hood up when he steps into the light of the lobby, drifting like a ghost past the receptionist as the elevator doors open. It hauls him to the fourteenth floor, playing strange music that only makes his heart beat faster.
She's waiting at the opened door before he even steps out, her body swathed in a silken robe, only a loose knot holding it together. She's tall, her lean legs on full display as she beckons for him to follow. He wants nothing more than to tear that cloth from her body, so he walks behind her at a quickening pace.
"Why did you follow me to New York?" he inquires of the London native, trying to keep his voice neutral, hiding the lust he feels for her. He hates himself for the way he treats these women, for using them for personal gain. He doesn't know any other way. His soul belongs to another, his being belongs to another.
"Not everything is about you, Jace Herondale," she counters, turning her hooded gaze on him. He focuses on keeping himself calm, his words steady.
"Possibly, but you have to admit, most things are." She laughs, a breathy noise that does little but ignite a fire of desire in him.
"I don't bite," she says after a while of him hovering at the edge of the bedroom, her hand smoothing the quilt beside her.
"I do." He watches her eyes darken at his words, her lips parting into an O. Her fingers find the tie of her robe, swiftly unknotting it and letting it pool around her.
"I'm not stopping you." He fights back against the disapproving emerald eyes in his mind as he stalks forward, a lion hunting its prey. He can feel himself losing control, giving in to his primal desires. She lets him run her fingers over his clothed chest while he works the snap on his jeans. Pushing her onto her back, he tears into her with savage abandon, caring not for her needs but his own. He can tell she's enjoying it, though, even without him trying.
"Let's…ungh…get back….together," she sputters, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. He pauses in his motions, eyeing her wearily as she props herself onto her elbows. "We were good together, Jace." He withdraws from her, yanking on his pants as fast as he can move. Her eyes flash. "It's not like you and Kaelie are serious," she adds, running her fingernails up his arm. He jerks away from her touch.
"I just…I can't be with anyone. Not in the way you want me to." Hurt spreads across her face. "I'm sorry." He's not.
"No, you're not." Damn, she's good. He drinks her in once more before disappearing out the door. It's his own fault that he's like this.
"I need a drink," he mumbles to himself as they bring his car around, not paying attention to the slash in his back, left tire.