Life Update:::I've been really struggling lately. I don't like my job. One of my coworkers is targeting me and a few other women. I've been bullied before, but something about being harassed by a grown ass woman in a professional setting is debilitating. If you've been with me long enough, you know that I've fought my way back to a sense of normalcy and 'okayness' since the death of my friends in high school, and this toxic environment is sending me back to that dark, dark place. To top that off, a part of my childhood is coming back to haunt me. They always say, "write what you know," and if you've read my stories, you've seen some common themes, so I bet you can figure out what I'm talking about. I've just been exhausted and telling anyone how I'm feeling is like shouting into a void. Because they always say it will get better. They always explain away the sadness and the anger. They always make suggestions like you haven't tried a million things to get over it, to move forward. It's not a switch. It's not even a fucking dial. It's always there, just looming, waiting for your weakest moment to take over.
But I keep telling myself that I'm strong. That I'm stronger than this sadness and that one day, I'll leave this job. I'll move forward in space and time to a place where women aren't targeting other women. To somewhere I am wanted and able to flourish.
One day.
But not today.
So really, I want to thank you, my loyal and faithful readers, who have been with me through this story and so many others, including that of my life. If you've read this far, thank you for letting me vent, for not giving up on me, for being a source of motivation and happiness.
I love you all.
Please enjoy.
American Thighs
Chapter 5: Shadows in the Darkness
Jace watches with detached interest as another band shuffles from the white lights, broken guitar strings and dreams in their wake. He can't help but feel sympathetic for them, knowing what it's like to struggle for so long and have an opportunity wrenched from beneath their feet. Yet it's not enough to erase the scratchy, sharp notes their singer had been belting out for the past two minutes. So, Jace leans back in his chair, tapping his pen rhythmically against the wooden table and forgetting what the group looked like before they'd even disappeared behind the curtains. "Tell me again why I have to be here, J," he drawls, allowing his British accent to seep deeply into his words. Spending eight years in the United States had certainly thinned it, but years spent in his home country rejuvenated it.
Jordan, his manager—or micromanager, as Jace preferred to call him—cleared his throat, embarrassed at how loudly the rockstar had spoken his annoyance. Several of the performers had turned their attention to the international idol, undoubtedly hoping to capture a video and report how much of a diva Jace can be. They wouldn't be wrong. His life is spent in this sort of impenetrable bubble, a front built of brick, mortar, and sarcasm. If the exterior of an egotistical, narcissistic bigot is unattractive enough, nobody seeks to be close to him, to know him on a deeper level than booze and sex. It works to his advantage, a sort of filtration system that weeds out anyone who seeks to hurt him or could be hurt by him. So far, few have slipped between the cracks.
"The winner will be the opening act for your upcoming tour, so you might as well like them," Jordan responds, straightening his already impeccable tie, a nervous tick he'd developed over years of working with Jace. The rockstar huffs, his breath blowing a few strands of golden hair from his forehead. He has no desire to bring anyone along on his next tour. He has no desire to be on tour at all, especially in America.
It was cruel, the way he'd treated his adoptive family after he'd moved to England. Most of his contact with them comprised of phone calls and text messages. He didn't visit, didn't invite them to visit. He severed as much as he could, though his selfishness kept him from disappearing completely. He loves the Lightwoods dearly, almost as much as if they are his blood family, but he didn't want them to be associated with the pitiful fuckup this life had turned him in to. Didn't want them to be around when he inevitably turned into his father.
This all went to shit when Jordan scheduled an entire tour without Jace's knowledge, explaining calmly to Jace's red face and narrowed eyes that he needed a comeback, needed to show his fans he was willing to work on himself to become the man they needed him to be.
But what about the man Jace needs himself to be?
His family welcomed him with opened arms, no questions asked about his Harry Houdini act or about his illegal escapades they'd certainly read about in newspapers and magazines. He knew the others wouldn't respond so kindly, selfishly choosing to avoid that kind of pain and live in the agony of never knowing.
With a warning glance in Jace's direction, Jordan motions for Alec to retrieve the next act, quickly followed by the scuffling of feet as stagehands situate lights and cameras toward the judges. Well, as much as the ragtag team of Jordan, Jace, Magnus, and Maia count for judges.
Their chair whirl around, and Jace drops his head against the backrest. Twenty-five acts have already poured their hearts and souls into end-all-be-all performances—none of which had been enough to qualify for the show. Los Angeles has started to seem pretty hopeless, since someone always buzzes them out before Jace even could. He'd been the deciding factor in the other locations, but here, in the Hollywood hills, Magnus can't find the look. Maia can't see the attitude. Jordan never hears the sound. It's all cosmetic, corporate America deciding who deserves fame and who does not. It's somewhat sickening. He scrubs a hand through his already tousled waves as high heels clack across the stage, stopping at what he presumes to be the center. All hope seems lost, so he continues drumming his fingers against his button, playing with fate as it dips down just a bit.
The speakers pump a rhythm unknown to him, but when the female's pained voice breathes the first few lines, he finds himself strapped to the hands of the clock, spiraling back through time until he's seated in his first car, cranking down the windows of that blue Cavalier to smell the rain on the pavement as small fingers reach out to turn up the radio's volume. A sea of red curls bobs along in the passenger seat, a melodious voice hitting every note.
In his peripherals, Jace can see Jordan smiling to himself, a face splitting grin that doesn't diminish as the music charges forward. He's not making any motion to stop the music like he'd done before. Maia appears perplexed, unable to judge stage presence with a turned chair, while Magnus seems confident that the woman will aesthetically please him. Jace knows she will. His hand hovers over his own button, the one that holds the power to stop the singing, to halt the onslaught of memories and the sense of overwhelming guilt.
I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally
Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me
I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy
'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel
Magnus's chair turns, and Jace can't help but throw a sideways glance in his direction, catching the excited expression shaded by his top hat as he moves with the song. His blackened fingernails rest daintily on his button, as they always do, but they lack the usual flex of when he prepares to press down.
He slips his index finger onto his button, chewing his lips in anticipation.
Maia turns. Full hand splayed across her own red button, eyes scrutinizing the woman putting on the show—she makes no move to stop the song.
His middle finger falls next to his pointer, the plastic giving a little, awaiting his commands. It doesn't go down, though.
Jordan doesn't even move toward his button, obviously enjoying himself as he dances in his chair, flashing winks at the stage. Jealousy flares through his chest like someone dropped a cigarette in the middle of a drought, his thumb mindlessly moving to join his other fingers. All he'd have to do is apply a small amount of pressure, just lower his hand ever so slightly to make this all end, to stop his world from crashing down around him.
I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally
Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me
I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy
'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel
Dizziness overcomes him as the chair twirls, not because of the motion but because of the blindingly beautiful woman pouring out her soul in front of these strangers.
He's a stranger to her now, he realizes with a start, drinking in every ounce of her he possibly can.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, her fist against her heart as her head falls, chest heaving with exertion as for once, silence overpowers noise. Her red curls are straightened, streaked with charcoal. Her pale skin is on display between the high hem of her shorts and the top of her boots, a black brassiere visible beneath her gauzy shirt.
He has to physically restrain himself from pulling his black t-shirt over her head. He doesn't want these people staring at her body, like she's a piece of meat. He'd spent the better part of his life ensuring she didn't succumb to the evils of a teenage boy.
And then he turned out to be that teenage boy.
When she looks up, her green eyes trailing across the cheering crowd, he sees her breaking all over again. Agonizingly slowly, she analyzes the judges, taking in Magnus's glitter, Maia's ferocity, and Jordan's exuberance. His hard exterior cracks a little when she skips him completely, choosing instead to make eye contact with Magnus.
"What's your name, doll?" Magnus asks, his bedazzled pen poised over the contestant sheet. "Choose wisely, buttercup. You only get one shot."
Her knuckles are white, clutching the microphone. His microphone, he notices, honing in on the cursive J written in gold. Though it's a sacred part of him, he can't find it in him to care as she brings it to her cherry red lips. "Clary Fray." Jordan grins at the easy way it rolls of the tongue, certainly a soon-to-be household name, but Jace's brows furrow. Why choose her mother's maiden name? Why not link herself to the Morgenstern dynasty?
"Brooklyn, I presume? You have the accent." Clary nods, flipping her curls over her shoulders to give a nicer view of her cleavage. Jace grips the edge of the table until his fingers turn numb. "And whose song were you singing?"
She scratches her scalp, flashing a crimson smile. "It was actually an original." Jordan gives an approving nod, shuffling his papers in front of him.
"And who are you wearing?" Magnus asks, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of fashion design.
"Um…Target?" His gleeful expression falters, swapping for one more closely representing disdain.
"Oh, no, no, no, we will have to change that," he mumbles, scribbling furiously against his notepad. Maia takes this opportunity to compliment her stage presence, admiring how she radiated strength despite her small stature. Jace has to agree, his eyes skimming the sparkle in hers, her flushed cheeks, and confident stance. She belongs up there.
He realizes he's been staring only when Jordan clears his throat. Shaking his head to organize his thoughts, he looks up, seeing Clary looking over him rather than at him. "Yeah, you were pretty good, but we'll see if you stand up to the competition. Next."
She gives no indication that his heartless statement had hurt her as she waves her goodbyes and struts from the stage.
While watching her sway her hips, his confidence is drained from him. Inside this stone-cold shell, he is crumbling.
X.O.X.O.X
"This is just what you need, bro. Trust me," Jordan encourages, clapping Jace on the back as the pulsating lights hit his eyes. After the pitiful day of auditions, Jordan had searched for the hottest strip club in New York. Two hours and change later, they group of men pull up to the bar at Pandemonium, the lights painting their hair and skin blue as they disperse into the crowd.
"Two whiskeys," Jace hears Jordan order for him, feeling the glass slip into his palm almost immediately. It's a familiar fit, the half curl of his palm to hold the cool crystal within. He swirls the amber liquid, watching a small whirlpool form in the center. He'd promised Maia no alcohol in the United States. He'd promised his mom he'd clean up his act. He'd promised Clary he'd never hurt her, that he'd always be there for her.
He tosses back the booze in one gulp.
He's always been good at breaking promises.
They're escorted to a VIP section just to the left of the state, offering a good view of both the women on the poles and those dancing to the sides. He has no interest in watching them strip, though, as he gets enough of that without spending hundreds of dollars. Instead, he busies himself with studying those around him.
The men all have the same, awed expressions on their faces, the same disgusting hopefulness in their eyes. He takes on residual embarrassment every time one has their advances declined with either an entertainer or waitress. He wants to snatch the wrinkly dollar bills before they can get their middle-aged hands into a twenty-something woman's pants. His fists, on the other hand, are stuffed full with slips of paper and scribble phone numbers from several girls whose faces he can't even say he remembers. He dumps them onto the floor, priding himself when they all land in a little pile.
He soon becomes disinterested with even this, seeing that every man here acts so similarly to the rest. "I need a refill," he whispers to Jordan, who doesn't seem to hear him as a woman in cowgirl boots and a mini skirt winks in their general direction. Sighing, Jace ditches his manager and weaves through the growing crowd, seemingly unnoticed with the Yankees cap pulled low over his golden curls.
Jordan often chided him for his beloved cap, the one with the rip in the bill and the ketchup stain on the left side. He claimed it ruins his carefully maintained rocker image, his bad-boy ego. He tugs on it a little, a smile pulling at his face when he remembers clutching Clary's hand in excitement, pulling her too quickly through the stadium to reach their seats. He can hear her peal of laugher when her hotdog squirted ketchup from the end of the bun and coated his left side. No matter that the stitches are unravelling and the blue color had faded to gray, he will never part with this baseball hat or with the memories he had in it.
He'd reached the bar and is leaning against it as he waits for his drink. He drums his fingers along the enamel, and he hears the music shift, a heavier beat reverberating through the room and sinking into the marrow of his bones. His own, haunting voice fills the air as a shadowed figure shimmies out from the back.
In this life, I'm me just sitting here alone
And by the way I tried to say I'd be there for you
Walk beside an emptiness that leads me by my hands
And throw away what I don't understand as a man.
The woman's silhouette dances in the darkness, all curves and curls as Jace watches, a bit aroused as she works against the pole to his lyrics. It's not one of his favorite songs, one that Jordan had made him record for his earlier albums, but it had become surprisingly popular with his fans, a staple in his shows.
Love-Hate-Sex-Pain
It's complicating me sometimes.
This Love-Hate-Sex-Pain
Its underestimated lies.
The woman's slim hips gyrate in the low light, his voice setting a definite tempo to which she moves, the lights coming up as she tangles her fingers into her thick curls, eyelids drooping lowly in lust, mouth falling open in pure pleasure.
He fails to hide his shock when the hair turns red and eyes green, revealing a body more familiar to him than his own. He finds himself falling through time, transported back to before he'd left, when he'd had his life perfectly planned with the girl dancing before him.
"Open the fucking door, Jace," she cursed, crossing her hands over her chest to rub desperately at her arms. His fingers shook in the frosty air as he struggled to jam the key into the lock, his teeth chattering loudly behind his blue lips.
They'd spent the day rolling around in the snow, taking advantage of the small backyard they shared to create an army of snow people. Clary insisting on naming each of them, only to destroy them in a hilarious fit of rage after a branch substituting as an arm scraped along her cheek, drawing a drop of blood from her pink skin. "BLOOD HAS BEEN SHED!" she'd cried dramatically, knocking head after head onto the snow-covered ground.
He pushed through the door finally, a rush of heat flooding at them as they hurried into the house. Isabelle had feigned a headache to avoid the chilled air, insisting Maryse take her shopping for when school started up again in a week. Maryse, ever the doting mother, immediately agreed, grabbing her keys and kissing Jace's head, muttering something about behaving before she disappeared. Alec, being three years older than Jace, had already returned to LSU, preferring the Louisiana heat to the bitter Brooklyn winters. Robert had also flown across country to California on a business trip, leaving the house vacant and dim in the dying light of day.
"Go warm up," he instructed Clary as she shed her outer layers, leaving them in a pile at the front door with his. "I'll make us some cocoa," he added at the sound of her clacking teeth filling the silent hallways. She nodded, ambling up the stairs to his bedroom, undoubtedly diving beneath his covers to keep warm.
He smiled quietly to himself, biting his lip as he thought back to a few weeks ago, when the air was still warm enough to leave without a coat, when he'd slipped into her room to calm her after a nightmare. He mixed the chocolate powder into the mugs of hot milk, carrying one in each fist as he ascended the staircase.
She'd been standing there, he recalls as he opens the door in his mind, nearly dropping the boiling drinks all over himself. Her sopping clothes were pooled at her feet, endless creamy skin on display for him. He'd pushed her curls behind her ear, removing the veil she often hid behind.
He'd thrust his fingers into her hair and pushed her against the wall in one motion, his nose skimming along the line of her chapped lips, followed by his tongue. Their skin was still cold from the winter weather, but a fire was igniting wherever they touched.
He pulls himself from the memories then, acutely aware of the excited state it's putting him in. His eyes land on the stage, seeing the same girl dressed in skimpy black lingerie, bearing herself to sick strangers for a couple bucks.
His growl is low, but loud enough that a few people shoot startled glances in his direction. Ignoring the trailing eyes, he slides past the VIP section unnoticed by Jordan, pushing through a heavy door labeled for the staff and planting himself on a velvet sofa.
The back is empty, and with a quick glance at his watch, he knew why. Clary's the last act, the most prized performer. The thought makes his stomach churn.
He spends the remainder of the song counting the seconds until it would end, very familiar with the length. He couldn't even hum along to the words, hating the sound of his own voice coming out the speakers. The song seems endless as his mind wanders to those creepy men watching her hips move like that, staring as she strips layer by layer until she's topless and exposed before them.
His dick twitches insultingly as he imagines the way her pert breasts fit into his palms, the way her nipples pebble from the smallest brush of his thumb, the way she mewls when he takes on into his mouth—
"Jace?!" Clary cries, her arms thrust across her chest to hide her obvious nudity. Jace snorts inwardly at her modesty, as if she hadn't just been pole dancing in front of hundreds of me.
He trains his features into a look of indifference, reaching out to play with a high heel that had been discarded on the floor. "You have an interesting taste in music," he muses, poking at the tip of the heel with his finger. Her nose wrinkles as she glowers.
"I didn't get to pick the song." Jace rolls his eyes, seeing her drop her arms after a moment, still comfortable around him after all these years.
If only she knew the effect she still has on him, how he wants to press her against the wall every time she walks into a room, how he wants brush the makeup on the vanity aside and take her right there, how he wants to use his own back as a shield while she rests in the safety of his arms.
He finally meets her ferocious eyes, seeing the anger radiating from her flushed skin. He wants to wrap her up in an embrace, to tell her she no longer has to remove her clothes to make money, that he'll protect her just like he said he always would.
"Why are you here?" she spits bitterly, venom in her voice as she ties the belt of her coat. She hadn't even put on a bra.
Jace is having a difficult time breathing.
He's uncomfortable, not in control of this situation, so he does what he always does.
"I just fucked the girl in the cowboy boots. Can't for the life of me remember her name, though." He becomes an asshole.
He catches an imperceptible quivering of her lip before a gate of steel crashes down and emotionlessness takes over. "Well," she begins, her voice even and flat, "just clean off the damned couch." With that, she steals form the room, once again, leaving him to regret everything he's ever said.
All my love,
~BallinBlonde21