Sitting alone in the pool house, staring at all her haphazardly strewn art supplies, Clarke figured now was a good time to check in with Raven. She pulled out her new phone and texted.
Hey Raven, What's up?
Driving through the gates of her parents' estate had filled Clarke with anxiety. All the Griffin family wealth and opulence overwhelmed her and made her regret the years she spent cocooned somewhere in the heart of the mansion, the center of her own little universe. But how could she reconcile her life against the backdrop of her not-so-new reality? Her life was the way it was, and she couldn't change it.
It was only a few minutes before Raven's reply chimed.
The shuttle. How are you? How's Figgy?
Clarke could practically hear Raven's voice as she made the pun about the shuttle.
Fig's fine. Still dressing up in his finest to watch Spongebob and complain about the service. And I'm... good.
Clarke looked around the pool house, the place that'd basically become her main room for the two weeks after her father died. Despite the year that had passed, it looked like her mom hadn't touched it. She rifled through a few papers - a couple of pieces she'd started before the accident.
Good? Did you finally replace the batteries in your vibrator? What have you done with the real Clarke?
Raven's comments gave her some pause. Was she really so doom and gloom that saying she was good was now uncharacteristic? She frowned.
I'm at the mansion looking for my father's watch.
Oh shit, sorry. But even though you're there, you're good?
I had an experience.
What kind?
Shaking her head at her phone, Clarke gathered a few of those year-old unfinished pieces and a navy blue folio to put them in. Underneath that folio sat her father's watch. Even though it was broken, she banded it to her wrist and noted how handsome it looked. She keyed her response to Raven.
I wish I could say sexual, but we're not quite there yet.
She hit 'send,' and within seconds, her phone screen lit up with a picture of her beautiful friend with the description 'First Choice' while the phone buzzed with an incoming call.
Clarke answered with a conspiratorial smile, ready for the onslaught of questions her friend was about to ask. "Yes...?"
"What's his name? Do I know him?"
"Well, if it isn't Bellamy fucking Blake," Murphy called from behind the counter at Pump and Grind. He dried his hand on his apron and smiled at his half-brother like he was about to tattle on him to their mother.
Bellamy quirked his brows and tilted his head. "Funny. That's not my middle name."
"I could always go see mom and find out."
Two could play that game. "Mom know you're here?" He smirked at his brown haired younger brother.
Murphy shrugged. "I was supposed to be here. It's you who should be somewhere else."
"Uh, as I recall, you couldn't be bothered to follow through with your assignment because you wanted to - and I quote - 'fuck around for a while.' So what are you doing here?" Bellamy rested his palms on the counter and Murphy poured him a cup of coffee.
Murphy nodded, resigned to telling his big brother the truth, mostly because he wouldn't be able to avoid it. "I came to complete my assignment."
Acting surprised, Bellamy put a hand to his heart. "John Murphy is actually going to complete an assignment. Holy shit." Bellamy added a little cream to the coffee and took a sip.
"So imagine my surprise when my mark walks in and tells me some guy tackles her in the street, saving her life, and then kisses her."
Brows raised in true astonishment, Bellamy set his cup down. "Clarke?" He knew Murphy had met her - she'd said as much - but he hadn't quite put together that she was Murphy's assignment. Zeus, what a fuckup.
"The one and only. You just couldn't stay out of my business, could you? I guess I understand why, I mean she's gorgeous, and her shimmer..." he stared past Bellamy into nothingness for a moment, and suddenly Bellamy hated him, hated that Murphy could see in her what Bellamy did, wanted to wipe that dopey look off his face. Murphy continued, "And my big bro just had to step in and-"
"And good thing I did," the darker-haired brother interrupted. "She was crossing the street and this asshole driver was careening right toward her. He would have killed her. And you would've been in deep shit."
Murphy's mouth opened and closed a few times while he tried to figure out what to say. Bellamy was right; if Clarke had been hit or killed, it would be a royal fuckup.
"I think the words you're looking for are 'thank you for covering for me, Bellamy.'"
"Bullshit, you didn't even know she was my mark."
"It's not my job to follow you around and make sure you do yours," he defended, thinking about why Murphy had been sent to Clarke. He took another drink of his coffee and remembered her middle name. There was just something about her that he couldn't figure out. He hadn't seen any mark before her shimmer like that. He'd thought he was the only one who could see it, but now Murphy could, too.
Murphy's countenance changed to one of puzzlement as he all but read Bellamy's mind. "Why does she have that shimmer?"
"I'm not sure, but I intend to find out."
"That why you're still here?" Murphy searched for the little piece of paper with Clarke's number on it, and when he found it, he held it out to Bellamy.
Bellamy read the number and pocketed it. "No, uh... I'm here to find our sister."
Making a loud shushing noise, Murphy nearly leapt over the counter to drag Bellamy further aside, and looked around suspiciously.
"They can't hear us up here," Bellamy offered.
Big blue eyes stared back at him. Big, scared, blue eyes. "We're not the only two up here though. I heard some rumblings about Hera's boys."
"Well, fuck," said Bellamy. He knew that if Hera's boys were here, too, there must be something big going on. Plus, if he and Murphy could both see the celestial around Clarke, maybe Hera's sons could, too, and that idea made him very uncomfortable. Who knew why she shined like that, and what would they do if they found out? "Which ones?"
"Don't know, haven't seen any of those ugly bastards yet."
They hadn't seen Hera's sons in a while, but if pressed for the truth, Bellamy would admit they were not ugly, but actually quite striking. Some looked like models for men's magazines, and when they were topside, they took jobs as trainers, therapists, actors, models - whatever profession sat adjacent to their marks. Hera's boys inspired physical transformations, and sometimes their mark's mental growth suffered. Plus, there was a long-standing rivalry between Hera and Zeus that flowed downriver through their ranks.
"I may need your help after all." He couldn't find their sister alone, especially if any of Hera's boys were also on the grounds. He'd need to find out why they were there so he could protect his sister and hopefully avoid them all in the process.
Murphy backed away with a shit-eating grin. "There it is."
"Shut the fuck up," Bellamy said, taking another drink. Murphy loved to point out any and all of Bellamy's shortcomings, especially when he admitted to needing his younger brother's assistance with anything.
"I spat in that," the blue-eyed brother laughed.
At Raven's suggestion, Clarke decided she would sign up for an art class at the local community college, which was how she found herself in a classroom with old metal mini blinds hanging haphazardly in the windows, easels set up in a few concentric circles around an opening in the center of the room with a pristine, cream-colored chaise lounge and a couple of soft-colored scarves draped over it. She'd called off her shift at the hospital the moment she found out there was a class where the instructor would let her sit in, which Raven had said was 'irresponsible,' but she couldn't bring herself to care; it'd been so long since she had felt creative, and she wanted to take advantage.
Most of the students were settled in when she arrived, so she sat at the rear of the room closest to the door, where she assumed the vantage point was impaired. She prepared her station and pulled a few charcoals from her bag, and looked to the other students for direction on what came next.
A petite brunette wearing a white gauzy robe and carrying two bags passed by Clarke so fast on her way to the center of the room that she hadn't even seen her face. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late; I came from the other side of campus and had to strip down in the hall." The woman's long black hair hung more than halfway down her back, and she stowed her backpack and wardrobe bag on the floor away from the center. "Where's Kevin?"
Ms. Moriarty, the instructor, peeked around an easel. She looked like a graceful, mid-fifties woman with a soft countenance and sharp eye. "Kevin broke an arm and a leg in the theater production last week, so unfortunately, he's going to be out a few weeks."
"Shit," the petite woman said sympathetically. Or maybe it was perceived judgment of Kevin's stupidity, Clarke couldn't tell. "So am I doing the rest by myself?"
"Luckily, we were able to book another model," Ms. Moriarty informed. As if right on cue, a man dressed in an identical white gauzy robe breezed by Clarke and joined the woman in the center of the room. She finally turned and Clarke saw her face for the first time.
The woman was young, between eighteen and twenty-one by her guess, with dark straight hair and piercing green eyes. She had an effortless beauty that Clarke admired. By comparison, with her light blue eyes and blonde hair, plus a few more inches' height, she felt like they were opposites.
"Meet Lincoln," the instructor introduced. "Lincoln, this is Octavia."
From the back, Clarke could tell Lincoln was well-muscled, with skin like soft dark caramel and a shiny, shaved head. The look on Octavia's face, however, was sinful.
"Hi," she smiled at him.
He seemed quiet, bowed his head gently, and repeated her name so softly her eyes glazed over. "Nice to meet you."
Clarke realized where she'd heard that name and seen that head before - at Echo Photography. This guy had just landed this gig?
Lincoln removed his robe, which confirmed his identity for Clarke as she noted his swirling tattoos. She could see Octavia practically licking her lips at the sight of the front of him. The young brunette let her eyes trace the lines of his body, then met his gaze and removed her robe. She was completely naked now, and Clarke felt as if maybe things were about to get a little awkward for everyone else in the room, because these two gorgeous models clearly found each other attractive.
The blonde artist nearly gasped when Lincoln removed his boxer briefs, revealing his muscular glutes, plus several back tattoos that looked almost fluid. The man was ripped; no wonder Octavia could barely keep her eyes off him.
They turned toward the instructor, who then began staging the blushing pair on the chaise. The professor instructed Lincoln to sit with his back against the back of the lounger, then Octavia to scoot back between his legs and lean against his chest. She asked Lincoln to put a protective arm around Octavia, so that he covered her nipples, then wrap his other arm around her stomach. "Is this okay?" he asked her.
"Yeah," she answered. Octavia pulled her bent legs inward at an angle to cover her sex. She arched her back, jutted her chin up to Lincoln, and gripped his thighs.
Lincoln took a sharp breath. "Sorry for..." he trailed, and Clarke could only guess that he apologized for what she might feel in the places their bodies touched.
"I'm not," she responded confidently.
The whole thing had no business being as intimate as it turned out - not for a community college class. Was this their meet cute? More like meet sexy, Clarke thought, as she and the rest of the class began sketching the couple. By the end of class, Clarke's artful fingertips and smiling face were smudged with pencil.