Well, here I am again. Yes I know you guys really want a sequel to Body and Soul, but that one's gonna take a while to think up, in order to remain interesting for a while. In the meantime, I'm going to try something different, something I've been meaning to try for a while but just didn't have the courage. This story is going to be AH/AU. Also, it doesn't really have a big epic plotline like my other stories. It's just going to be kind of a story of two people finding each other. Canon pairings for the most part, and most (but not all) of the same personality traits for the characters. They are older, but they are mostly still the same characters you know and love. Also, this is primarily a MALEC story, but I will occasionally dabble with the other characters. But I'm not very good with them, so you'll mostly get Malec lol. So, without further ado, I shall begin!
Cassandra Clare owns these awesome characters in their originality, but I own the plot, characteristics, etc. in THIS story.
Also, the playlist for this story is going to be a little different, considering the atmosphere in which the characters live. Just lettin' ya know.
Chapter Song: Black and Gold by Sam Sparro (sets the mood, it's what's playing in the background at the lounge)
The boy moved with the sort of grace that was so sought after in the throes of passion. That kind of fluid sexuality that could not be taught, only ingrained from birth. He was the kind of boy that had probably broken hearts since he was in preschool.
He was wearing the usual uniform of the cold hearted snakes that slithered through places like this searching for their next little white mouse. His toned chest was visible under the open collar of his charcoal Armani button-down. He wore an open black jacquard vest over that which flapped and flowed with his movements. His dark hair was carefully tousled, having that irritatingly sexy, just-fucked look, like he was channeling Robert Pattinson. The best part, though, was under those loose-fitting, slouching dark True Religion jeans, above the spotlessly white old school shell-top Adidas. He had the ass of a Greek god. It was perfectly visible every time he ground his narrow hips into the voluptuous brunette he was dancing with.
"Could you be any more obvious? Jesus, you're like a vulture. Beady-eyed and constantly circling," Camille observed, sounding bored as she sipped her Electric Lemonade in the corner booth.
"It's only obvious to you. And you never know, the poor girl could drop dead any second. Then I could swoop in and lick up the jizz she undoubtedly leaves behind," Magnus retorted, also taking a sip of his identical blue cocktail. Camille snorted, a small smile creeping across her face. Magnus returned it. "Plus," he continued, "I'm allowed to check out anyone I want that walks in here. That's one of the perks of owning the establishment," he said with a haughty air, sipping some more.
The two friends currently occupied the buttery leather corner booth of Cherry Bomb, New York's hottest new lounge. Magnus loathed the name "club", because it usually called up images of grinding teenagers and a shitty techno soundtrack stored in a huge warehouse somewhere on the Jersey Shore. His place was rather small, with more couch space than dance floor, but still had the appeal of giving the opportunity to find a hottie or two to rub on to the beat of something intoxicating.
This was his escape. He loved to sink into the ocean of bodies, brushing up against the elite and obscure alike. It was his addiction: loud music, glitz, and sweat.
His partner in crime, seated at his side, had helped him design the place. She acknowledged that he had a tendency to overdo the glam, and she was there to help pull it back a little. Between the two of them, the place had turned into a soothing yet alive whirlwind of leather and velvet, glitter and low lighting. They had mutually agreed on the purple theme, that having been the favorite color of both of them. The black lacquer dance floor in the middle, however, was all Magnus. Anyone who knew him could tell, because just beneath the glossy clear coating over the top, there were millions of flecks of glitter in every color of the rainbow. When the lights hit it, it had a way of mesmerizing the eye to the point of dizziness. Magnus loved it. It wasn't even tacky, which was what Camille had feared. Even she agreed that it was a genius idea. It added just the right amount of color to the otherwise dark and mysterious atmosphere.
When Magnus glanced back up from his drink, he'd lost the boy he'd been staring at for the past five or ten minutes. No matter. The place was packed full of a hundred more just like him, and they were all just as beautiful, if not as graceful. Magnus had a weak spot for that sort of tightly contained elegance that was so rare in this town of hard hitters and conventional beauty. He liked the odd ones, the ones who were beautiful but had something about them that was a little off. It was that little imperfection that he searched for, because it usually meant realism underneath. This town was so chock full of saline and botox, it was hard to pick out what was real anymore, without being able to find the imperfections. Case in point: his best friend next to him.
Camille was one of those girls that made most men weep with desire. She was nearly as tall as him (and he was six foot four, so that was saying something), and had flowing platinum blonde hair (from a bottle, of course), double D's filling her Agent Provocateur lingerie (the bra was a gift from Sam, a stock broker from the Upper East Side, and the boobs were from a married producer she met in the Hamptons), and a nose sculpted to perfection so many times, Michelangelo would be envious. She was one of those women that strived for perfection and would pay most anything for it, but usually had it given to her by one of her many suitors.
Magnus, on the other hand, was what Camille usually called infuriating. Everything most people strived for, he was born with. He had a fine boned face, with a delicate, aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and perfectly almond shaped eyes. The irises were the most unusual shade of green-yellow, a contrast to Camille's emerald orbs. They were enticing, usually the first thing people noticed about him. He was very tall and slender, having just a bit of muscle tone rolling over his arms and chest, and he was a very even and smooth caramel color from head to toe. His hair was like sheets of glossy black silk when he left it down, which was rare. Tonight he was in his element, and it was a high crown of spikes around his head, streaked through with various shades of blue and green.
He always wore the best clothes; fashion was his forte. The designers had started to notice him now that he was a successful club (cringe) owner, and now he got the best delivered straight to his door, so he could show it off when his establishment was packed. The top designers understood that he would accept nothing less than the best, even if he had to pay for it on his own. He was getting noticed by the media more and more, and was becoming a new fashion icon. He and Camille had started to get invited to parties and premieres, and he couldn't be happier. He loved the attention, and thought it was well-deserved, considering the amount of tie he put into his appearance every single day.
This particular evening was marked by a deep blue Burberry dress shirt, open at the collar and adorned with a loosely tied turquoise tie. His trademark black leather pants adorned his toned ass, and the look was completed by some brand new electric blue combat boots, a gift from the Heatherette boys.
On top of the glamorous wardrobe, his makeup was always immaculate. Tonight he was sporting dark blue eyeshadow laid over with a bit of silver glitter. A thick streak of black liquid liner, making a small wing on the end, and lots of mascara. His lips were his trademark nude with clear gloss. His lips were so full and luscious that Camille had convinced him lipstick overpowered their beauty.
The two remained in their seat, surveying the glamorous crowd of actors and models and socialites with a detached interest. Most of them just fed off the attention of the lesser mortals, waiting to throw themselves in front of something glitzy and rich. At other times it was rather annoying, but in an atmosphere like this, the specials thrived on it. And Magnus prided himself on the fact that New York's young elite, the Rhiannas and Jared Letos and Isabelle Lightwoods of the world, flocked to his establishment to wine and dine themselves in the company of each other.
The idiot next to her said something she guessed was supposed to be funny, so she snickered in her best rehearsed way. It annoyed her to no end when someone laughed at their own jokes, and even more when they weren't remotely amusing. She sighed inwardly. New York hadn't changed much while she'd been in Milan. In fact, it looked like it had gotten worse. The men weren't any more considerate, or funny, or cute. It was slim pickings in this city for a man who knew how to treat a woman. The Italians were certainly lightyears ahead of this lot.
She hadn't really been thinking when she'd told the cab driver where to go. She'd just wanted to get out of the house where her mother was spouting orders to the help and her father was holed up in his office. When she was away, she was Isabelle Lightwood, 21 year old rising model. But when she came home, to her parents, she was Izzy, daddy's little virgin girl with the silver spoon sticking out of her mouth. It's not that she didn't appreciate her privileged upbringing; she just wished her parents would give her some credit, seeing as she had built her name for herself in the modeling world after dropping out of NYU. But no, they still thought they were owed everything for her success in the fashion world. She'd arrived home around 6:30 p.m., stayed about 10 minutes, then bolted. Her other two siblings weren't at home, so she decided to give herself a little time to see and be seen. She knew New York would welcome its native lovely sweetheart home with open arms.
What she didn't expect was to hit her usual hot spot, a large club where the usual young socialites liked to sit and be appreciated, and find it almost completely devoid of her usual crowd. She'd only been gone about four months, and already this place was deserted and the crowd had moved to a different watering hole. She was bored out of her skull.
She extricated herself from the booth, leaving jokester mid-sentence, and not apologizing for it. She swept through the teeming bodies and out the door, her waist length black hair lifting and swaying in the night air. She hailed a cab and climbed in.
"What's new around here? I've been away for a while, and it seems the crowd has moved on without me," she said absently.
"Oh I know. You've been in Italy doing the new Dolce stuff. I loved your work with Chanel last year, but I'm pretty sure you'll top it. You always do. It's good to have you back across the pond, Miss Lightwood," the cabbie said cheerfully. Isabelle smiled. It was good to be loved, even if it was from afar and never beneath the surface. "And as for what's new, that would be Cherry Bomb."
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"Cherry Bomb. It opened last month, and it's been booming ever since. Your brother has been tearing it up since it opened. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's half keeping it in business," he chuckled as he turned onto Houston.
She didn't even ask which brother he meant. If he was talking about a club-hopping, girl-hopping, cocktail downing pretty boy, he definitely wasn't talking about Alec. Jace could always be counted on to know where the party was. She didn't even know he was back in town from Boston. It pained her to think that the working class of New York knew more about her family's whereabouts than she did.
"Sounds good to me," she said. "Show me the way."
They drove up in front of a small doorway set into a gray brick wall, scarred with graffiti. She felt a little skeptical, but hoped that the book was more interesting than the cover. She handed the driver two Benjamin's, pocket change to her, and she slid off the cracked leather seat and made her way to the door, bypassing the mile long line to the right.
The bouncer was about to protest when he looked up at her face. "Good evening, Miss Isabelle. Welcome home. Jace is inside raising hell as usual," he said, lifting the velvet rope for her and ushering her inside. She gave him a forced smile. It pained and unnerved her this time, how people seemed to talk about her and her family like they were all old friends. That was the price you paid for limelight, she guessed.
Well there you have it, folks. Yeah, they are a little older than teenagers this time. But I think it's more realistic that way. You'll get to see the rest of them and learn more about them in the next couple of chapters. And there will be Malec soon, I promise!
Please review. This is my first ever AH story, and I want to know how I'm doing. If it sucks, well, I'll stick to my usual lol.