as promised..

Chapter 3: Simon Says

A crowd had gathered around the bar, staring in awe and excitement at the bartender, who was bent 90 degrees backwards and appeared to be pouring blue liquor into five shot glasses balanced on his chest. He looked like he had just come out of a first-grade art class, with a mound of gelled up purple hair twisted in crazy glittery spires perched on his head, skimpily dressed in a metallic vest covering a bare chest. And thank the lord almighty, Clary shuddered, trying desperately—and failing— to wipe the mental image of indigo chest hair lathered in glitter and garnished with daisies out of her mind forever.

Clary placed herself calmly onto a stool, trying to order a Bacardi breezer whilst avoiding looking too deeply into the bartender's eyes- of which seemed to have some sort of cat's-eye-slitted-pupil thing going on. Contacts, no doubt. As she tried to pay by only looking through her peripheral vision, her eyes landed, instead, on a group of guys playing pool in one of the private snooker rooms to the side of the bar. The room choked with cigarette smoke despite the drawn back curtains, inviting all eyes to the five—no six—very fit guys engaged in what appeared to be an intense game of pool. Clary recognised four of them as seniors from her school—all jocks with mixed reputations, which seemed to go along with their strikingly good looks.

Clary ticked off some of their names in her head: Harper Moore. Jackson-something. Aaron Harvey. A crowd of very whory-looking blondes had assembled around the corners of the room to cheer them on and, more likely, to have a pathetic excuse to stare at the man-dolls.

Pfft, Clary scoffed. It's called admiring from a distance, ladies.

Although Clary's knowledge of pool may have only extended to the understanding that players used a long stick to hit little coloured balls into little holes called pockets, regardless, it wasn't hard to tell who was winning. The fourth guy was clearly in the lead. Clary was certain she had seen him around school somewhere, yet she still couldn't put a name to the face for the life of her. Correction: couldn't put a name to the inhumanly attractive face, as much as she wanted to. She named him Blondie for her own purposes. Blondie looked like a Tommy Hilfiger spokesmodel in an expensive looking white shirt, subtly unbuttoned at the collar. Unlike the other players, he was standing away from the pool table, looking disinterested as he twirled his cue stick around in one hand, and watched Harper line up to take his shot.

The cue ball hit the triangular cluster, breaking the balls apart, but alas, none made it into the pouches. Harper sucked in a breath, cussed and threw his stick down as his mates riled him up. Blondie remained as neutral as ever, still leaning back on a set of clean cut shoulders as he watched. Three other guys made their way to the table, each taking their shot in turn, with varying degrees of success. Then it was Blondie's turn, and you could tell, because all eyes were turned on him then as he took a slow, almost lazy drag on his cigarette before making his way to the table. He flicked the butt of the cigarette behind him, looking intensely smug as he bent over the table to study the layout, examine the angles, and contemplate possible shots. His mouth flicked up in a lazy smile even as he examined the table with sharp, cunning eyes - almost predatory, flickering around the table as if tracking his prey. Like a hunter, Clary thought. Except, also a lion. A lion hunter. Or the illegally hot love child of a lion and a hunter. And a bottle of hair gel. Mmm.

He balanced the cue elegantly in a guiding finger, before drawing back his arm as far as it could go. Clary was almost scared that he'd burn a hole into the green felt with the intensity of his gaze. But then he lifted his eyes—straight up. Without any warning, his bright eyes suddenly focused on Clary, all the way across the room, a very smug, andsuave as hell sort of half-smile lighting his face, as if he knew that she had been watching him for the past ten minutes. She felt her heart suddenly jolt to a stop and she tried to avert her eyes, but as soon as she looked back, his eyes were back to burning a hole into the felt, his hands firmly gripping the stick. Clary's cheeks had flared a fire-hydrant red, but even then she couldn't stop herself from watching. She grabbed a shot and downed it, feeling the burn dribble down her throat.

Blondie hit the ball with a quick strike, his arm shooting forwards with a refined sort of grace that made it seem like his arm was gliding through a body of water rather than trying to manoeuvre an awkwardly long stick. There was a sudden clack, louder than any previous, as the ball shot across the felt and ricocheted off the sides of the table, slamming directly into a pile of coloured balls. Two striped spheres dropped instantly into the pockets, on on the right side, the other in a center hole, as the white ball innocuously rolled to a stop. He spun on his heels dramatically as the girls in the corner giggled and whooped, showering him in awe and rubbing his arms as they surged towards him like a gaggle of stupid, witless geese nose-diving towards a bucket of grains or something. Blondie's male companions—the other players— just slapped him around a bit, laughing and shaking their heads as they watched the guy grinning cockily as he downed a shot offered to him by one of the girls.

'That's Jace.' A woman's voice suddenly spoke up scarily close to Clary's ear. 'Don't go for him.'

Clary jumped. She turned around and watched as the woman slithered into the barstool next to her, her velvet stilettoes hitting against the metal. Isabelle. Ah, the one and only.

'Oh, right, yeah. Of course,' Clary smiled uncomfortably, as her face lit up red with an unpleasant realisation. Any illusions she was having about him… him and her …faded away just like that. 'Is he your boyfriend?'

Isabelle suddenly let out a high-pitched laugh, 'Ha! That's… yeah. No, that's funny. Mostly disturbing, but funny.' She grinned and shook her head. 'God, no. He's an ass. I tend to steer away from asses; they tend to spray anyone decent with their shit. You should too, it'll do you a world of good.'

Clary hesitated. 'But he's so—'

'Hot?' she offered.

Clary opened her mouth to deny it.

Isabelle sighed, 'I know. We all know. Try and avoid telling him that though, he's already in love with his own face. He'd probably have walked it down the aisle already, if only he'd stop cheating on it every time anything in a short skirt walked by. But, by all means, if that's the kinda one night thing you're looking for…' she splayed out her palm in his direction, 'then go crazy.'

Clary glanced back over at him, before abruptly turning away. Damn. Need. To. Wipe. Drool. Off. Face. 'I don't…' She was going to say she wasn't interested anyway, but somehow she just couldn't get the words out.

How could anyone not be interested? She wondered how she had never noticed him before at school. He seemed pretty memorable now; just that hair. That jaw—like it had been hand-carved out of stone or ivory or something by like, a greek god. And those… luscious, luscious... Clary blinked. Wasn't I doing something? She paused. I think I was talking to someone. Yes, I think I was. Isabelle. Oh, crap... Isabelle. Act casual and pretend that you aren't as creepy as you seem. With great sadness, she tore her eyes away again, turning back to look at Isabelle, who no doubt must be…

Oh. Well that's… okay too. Isabelle had already forgotten about her, and appeared to be fixated on her next boy toy. Except that boy, was the purple-haired bartender.

Huh.

Clary sighed, feeling a little abandoned. Mr Sparkles and Isabelle seemed to be engaged in a very important conversation, him leaning over the counter towards her, with a sort of grim look on his face. It didn't really go well with the glitter, Clary noted.

They were talking in very hushed tones, the look on their faces a bit like they had just walked out of a graveyard.

'If you're sure,' Was all Clary caught of what Isabelle was saying in an uncharacteristically flat voice before curtly waving him off. She slid off the barstool, and just as she did, she turned and caught sight of Clary. For a brief moment, she looked purely startled, as if she'd forgotten she was there at all. She turned her bright green eyes back at her and in an instant, she was back to being that girl. That glitzy-glam girl.

'Oh, Clary!' She flashed her set of Colgate-advert-white teeth again. 'So, I was just talking to Magnus, and he's gathering everyone together for the martini pyramid. You should come. It's totally sweet.' She beamed, dragging Clary by the arm.

Ten minutes later, she found herself standing beneath the stage, listening to Isabelle's voice blaring out the speakers. There was a laser light display swivelling around a huge pyramid stacked with hundreds of tiny martini glasses. There was a huge bout of cheering and applause as Isabelle as two other bartenders began pouring a stream of multi-coloured 'non-alcoholic' liquor onto the top of the pyramid. Each of them had a bottle in each hand, and created six streams of liquor raining down on the glass display, ranging from fizzy acid greens to a vibrant turquoise. After more exclaims and cheers, the bartenders began disassembling the pyramid and the crowd began to disperse.

Clary watched as a green MADE IN BROOKLYN t-shirt began making its way towards her. It dived awkwardly through the crowd, sort of in a beheaded sea turtle kind of way.

'Clary!' Simon panted, finally reaching her.'There you are. Where the hell were you? I was looking for you for ages. You said you'd be two minutes.'

'Oh,' she bit her lip, and looked up at him sheepishly. 'Right. Yes, well I was.. I was ah...' She tried to feign a look of outrage, 'I was looking for you! As well... We must have been doing circles around each other,' she said, 'Where were you this whole time?!'

He adjusted his glasses. 'I was with Eric in the corridor. He was going on about some new boho, retro sort-of band that his second cousin or someone, is in. Actually, they're trying to find a keyboard player for their next gig, preferably female. Apparently they needed someone to balance out the 'raging testosterone',' Simon mocked the two words with very mature air-quotes. 'I said you might be interested, and that I'd ask- gahh,' he withered under Clary's outraged glare, 'well, I guess that's a no?'

'Simon. You cannot just go around signing me up for these gigs in Hoboken.' Clary gasped, throwing up her hands. 'I had two piano lessons when I was five. Unless the piece his 'band' is playing came out of Elmo's play-a-song book, then I don't think I'm what they're looking for.'

Simon held up in hands in defense, 'Fine, I'll tell him you still need some time to gnaw on it-'

Clary glared at him. 'No. You will tell him no. Definite no.'

Meanwhile, an un-glitterified bartender walked up to them, with a tray of martini glasses from the disassembled pyramid. 'Compliments of Isabelle,' he said, offering them each a drink.

'It doesn't have pineapple in it, right?' Simon asked the man. Simon was allergic to pineapple.

The bartender looked briefly perplexed. 'No, sir. No pineapple.'

'Thanks,' Clary smiled, before taking a sip. She choked. It was delicious. But man, was it strong. Definitely alcoholic; it smelt like the alcohol wipes they had at the health centre marinated in lemonade or.. guava juice or something else exotic that she couldn't quite put a name to. It had a punch to it- and by punch she meant, as it went down, it felt like something was physically punching and scraping the living hell out of the back of her throat. She spluttered, but even so, her hand automatically brought the glass back up to her lips for more.

A voice suddenly blared through the speakers—a familiar husky, British-accented voice that came attached to a slightly boozed-up, sandy haired hunk with muscles spilling out of the sleeves of his polo shirt. Ah, now that was Isabelle's type of guy. Isabelle herself was standing alongside her boyfriend with her Covergirl grin plastered on her face, and her perfectly tanned spidery legs making everyone beneath her feel like Yoda or some midget albino hamster, eyes drawn to a carrot suspended high up in the air.

The guy with the sandy hair cleared his throat, 'Heeeeeey guys,' he said as he hugged the microphone to his lips, looking down at the crowd below with his dreamy blue eyes. Clary could bet that at least six girls fainted right then and there amidst the raucous mixture of cheering and squealing. He was the picture of drunken confidence as he raised his glass. 'For those of you who don't know, I'm Harper—the very, very lucky boyfriend of this gorgeous girl to my right.' He shot Isabelle a wink, as he flung his arm drunkenly around her waist, slinging her towards him. 'I'd like all of you to spare… a moment of silence,' he said, his voice heavily slurred with drink, 'to celebrate the 17th birthday of my beautiful, beautiful Izzy-boo-bear.'

Simon gagged and grabbed for Clary's arm, pretending to throw up. Clary dug her elbow into his ribs.

'Breaking hearts since '94, baby!' He yelled, grinning and holding up his martini. The crowd went ballistic. There was the caterwauling whistling that you only heard at Justin Bieber concerts as they shared a brief kiss and Harper slid a tacky fuchsia BIRTHDAY BABE banner over Isabelle's head.

And that was the last thing Clary saw before she blacked out. The horrifically bright pink of the banner stayed in her vision and seemed to smudge out all the other colours until there was only a blank canvas of magenta. Simon turned just in time to see his best friend's eyes widen in shock, lips parting as he yelled something. But his voice never reached her ears as her body drifted backwards. She felt a ring dig into her back as a sturdy pair of hands shot out to catch her.

But they weren't Simon's hands.

A/N:

they were...

mine.

bah-boom. *self-insert here*

JOKES. hahh ha ha.. ahaha...

Guess you'll just have to wait it out till chapter 4, kiddos ;)

Meanwhile... since you're still here and all, please, let me get your coat for you. Make yourself comfortable in my little review box downstairs. Would you like any refreshments while you're at it? Perhaps some Bergamot for you, kind sir?