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“What about that one?”
Clarke followed Monty’s finger, which was pointing at a moderately attractive guy in a grey suit, who was just one of the many moderately attractive men in moderately expensive suits mingling in the semi-crowded bar.
She just sipped her gin martini, not saying a word, then fiddled with her very skimpy pale blue halter dress.
“You’re going to have to pick someone,” Raven complained at her silent rejection. “You’ve only got ten days left, and it’s not like you’re actually going to date whomever you choose. That’s the point—you want to pick someone you won’t mind losing.”
Frowning, Clarke argued, “I still have to spend time with the poor guy. He at least has to meet some of my standards, even if I’m just dating him for the article.”
The article, which was the brainchild of her crazy boss, for which she was supposed to start going out an unsuspecting guy and then drive him away using classic dating don’ts. This was what she had to show for her very prestigious journalism masters from Georgetown: being A.R.K. magazine’s “how to” girl. The sour taste of resentment mixed with the dryness of the gin in her mouth, and she pursed her lips.
“Him?” Monty tried again, pointing out another guy.
Clarke wiggled her ring finger. “Married.”
“Damn,” Monty breathed.
Feeling slightly defeated, because she did have only ten days—damn their short publication deadlines—she downed her drink in one large sip. “I’m going to get a refill. Anyone?”
“One of us should be sober,” Raven muttered. “So, no.”
With a cheeky grin, Clarke bumped hips with her friend, then started squeezing her way towards the bar.
She almost dropped her glass when she cut around a group of girls and suddenly came face-to-face with a button-down shirt. Looking up, her prepared complaint about manners and personal space fell to pieces as she registered just how handsome her roadblock was: big eyes and dark, messy hair, a friendly face and strong shoulders.
“Sorry about that,” he said, grinning, looking entirely unapologetic, even pleased with his luck.
He was brash, but in an oddly sincere sort of way, and Clarke couldn’t help the way her lips twisted into a wry smile. “If this had been full, you would’ve owed me a drink,” she said.
“How about I owe you a drink anyways?” He replied without missing a beat, his eyes flashing with interest.
“How about you owe me a name first?”
He laughed and stuck out his hand. “Bellamy Blake.”
“Clarke Griffin.” His grip was firm but comforting, and a thrill ran through her at the way his fingers danced over her palm as they pulled their hands apart.
Someone knocked into her from behind, pushing her into Bellamy, which wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. His hand came up to steady her, falling on her exposed back, warm and solid.
“So,” he said, leaning down to murmur in her ear. “This drink I owe you: does it have to be from this bar in particular?”
His voice sent an excited shiver down her spine, because he would be a challenge, and she loved challenges. With a sly grin, she shook her head, curls swinging. “Hell no.”
“Great. Let’s get out of here. I know a great place down the street, and it has the best wings in the city.”
She hummed in agreement, gesturing towards her friends, who were doing a terrible job at pretending not to be fascinated by the interaction.
“I’ll get my stuff, and meet you outside.”
Bellamy grinned, and the delighted look on his face almost had Clarke regretting the hellish storm she was about to bring down on him.
Almost.
“Fuck,” his friend muttered, flicking five dollars over in his direction.
Bellamy leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “You’re losing your touch.”
“Only because I actually do work when I’m at work, not sit here playing with myself.”
Jasper sniggered from his corner, not even bothering to look up from his phone.
“Playing basketball,” Miller groaned. “What are you, twelve?”
“What are you, twelve?” Jasper mimicked back.
Miller scowled. To distract him, Bellamy unlocked his phone and slid it across his desk. “I’m feeling magnanimous after my victory. I’m granting you a look even though you lost.”
Snatching up the phone, Miller thumbed through the several selfies Clarke had taken last night when she plugged in her number.
“Anya and Indra picked her?”
Bellamy snorted as Jasper scrambled up from his seat, dashing over to look at the woman that their advertising archenemies had picked out for him to woo over the next two weeks. If he could convince their boss at the company’s annual gala that Clarke was in love with him, then he would score the Jaha diamond account, the biggest one their firm had. It was just icing on the cake that he’d be taking it from the Amazons, as Jasper so fondly (and fearfully) liked to call Anya and Indra.
“It’s going to be rough, I know,” he deadpanned.
“Seriously, there’s no catch?” Miller pressed.
Bellamy shrugged. It was a little suspicious, because Clarke seemed normal—she was funny, very smart, and hot as hell—and he would’ve expected his rivals to make this a little harder for him. They hadn’t, though, choosing Clarke over all the other women in the bar for him to win over. And, after last night’s amazing hint at how fun dating her might be—there had been a hot minute in his apartment where had considered sleeping with her before remembering he had to keep it slow and romantic—he was thinking that taking this bet might have been the best decision he’d ever made.
“I hate you,” Jasper mumbled, sulking. “And you’re awesome luck.”
“Baby needs his bottle?” Miller cooed.
Jasper just picked up the basketball and whipped it at Miller’s head, or rather past Miller’s head because his aim was shit.
Bellamy burst out laughing, watching his two friends go at it, grinning as he thought of just how good his life was, and how much better it was going to get, professionally and personally.
As Miller and Jasper began wrestling, Bellamy picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Clarke’s number. He was experienced enough to know that she hadn’t left her purse at his place by accident, but whether he should wait for her call or not was up for debate. It was only when his friends’ knocked into his drafting table, tipping her purse onto the floor—and revealing a pair of Patriots tickets for tomorrow night as part of the contents—that the decision was made for him.
His thumb pressed down, and he grinned, because this girl really couldn’t get any better.
“That’s my boy!” She screamed, then turned at the sound of Bellamy’s laugh.
“I thought Brady was your boy,” he remarked amusedly, and she blushed, remembering the unearthly screech she had let out at the pass (the fucking amazing pass) that the quarterback had made last half.
“They’re all my boys,” she replied in feigned nonchalance, tossing a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth.
“So is being a player in the NFL something I should work on or—” he trailed off with a grin as he stole some of her popcorn.
She teasingly slapped his hand, pulling the bag away. “Maybe.”
He whistled. “High standards. Does it count that I’ve done advertising for the NFL?”
“Maybe.”
When he laughed again, she couldn’t help but join in, and her laughter only grew when she saw her face on the big screen, right next to Bellamy, framed as they were by a giant heart.
“C’mere,” Bellamy murmured without hesitation, his large hands cupping her jaw as he pulled her in for a kiss, which was neither long nor innocent. She could barely hear the impressed catcalls from their neighbors, too lost in the way he claimed her mouth, gentle but determined. She melted into him, wishing they were at home on the couch instead of in the stadium, because then she could give into her urge to climb into his lap and see where that led them.
When he broke away, though, heat and fondness in his eyes, her throat closed up, because in a few days time, he wasn’t going to be looking at her so kindly. Reminded of her purpose in being with him, she licked her lips, scrambling for a way to counter the sweetness of the moment. The game played on below her, but she couldn’t focus on it anymore. Her job was on the line, and she needed to start turning on the crazy, and soon.
It took her a little while, but something came to her finally, and as dry as her mouth was—from the heat of the kiss or her guilt, she didn’t know which—it wasn’t much of a lie when she asked Bellamy to go get her a soda at the very end of the game.
He didn’t look away from the field at her first attempt at a request, just saying, “We’ll get you one on the way out, yeah?”
“I’m so thirsty, though. I’m sorry,” she wheedled.
It was the hand to his arm that did it, snapping his attention to her pleading, sorrowful face. With a sigh he nodded, shuffling down the row, muttering apologies to their disgruntled neighbors.
She didn’t feel too bad about that, because one of them had nearly thrown up on her earlier. What she did feel bad about was when Bellamy returned with her drink, looking more than a bit disgruntled he had missed what had been a great drive, she sipped and made a face, complaining, “It’s not diet.”
“What?” He called over the chanting crowd.
“It’s not diet!”
Bellamy’s jaw ticked in annoyance, but he dropped a kiss to her forehead, squeezing by her to leave again. Wondering if that complaint was too much too soon, she reached out and smacked his butt, causing him to whip around, mouth parted in surprise. She flushed as she grinned at him, because that was forward, even for her. The lines around his eyes relaxed, though, then crinkled in amusement.
After he disappeared up the stairs, she clung to the image of his pleased expression to keep her guilt away as she gulped down the soda he had brought her. She really was thirsty after all, and she didn’t even like diet soda.
A cheer went up around her, and she dropped the half-empty cup, throwing up her hands in wild excitement, because the Pats had intercepted the ball, running it down the field for a last-minute touchdown to win the game.
As she giddily high-fived the couple next to her, she knew there wouldn’t be enough flirtacious looks or stolen kisses in the world to make up for Bellamy missing seeing this play in person. She could only hope he was as smitten with her as he seemed, which was a risky thing this early in the game, especially with her job on the line.
It was the only thing she had to go on, though, so she put on her best smile as she headed up the steps to meet him, because she needed to keep him around for just a little bit longer.
Nine days, she thought determinedly. Just nine more days.
He had barely opened the door before she launched herself at him, smacking a kiss against his mouth as she leaned into him.
“Hi,” she giggled, blonde hair pulled back, though a few loose strands framed her flushed, happy face.
“Hi,” he murmured bemusedly, wondering what had her in such a good mood.
He didn’t get an answer though, because she turned around, her voluminous skirt billowing out as she leaned down to pick up the box at her feet.
“I brought some things over. I hope you don’t mind!” She called out as she danced past him, walking straight past the kitchen into the living room.
Tampering down the prickling uncomfortability at the mystery box, he moved into the kitchen, his timer calling him away. Clarke chattered about her day—what she had to eat for lunch, what her coworkers had to eat for lunch, what the two men on the ride over here had been eating, apparently what everyone she had ever met had eaten—as she silently set up whatever she had brought over. Curious, Bellamy ducked out of the kitchen with the pretense of bringing her a glass of wine.
When he saw the two teddy bears and the heart-covered fuzzy blanket draped over his black leather couch, and the vanilla candles placed everywhere, and the fern sitting on his coffee table, he wished he hadn’t emerged.
“I thought I’d make it a little more homey, you know? Since I’m going to be spending some more time over here, I wanted to feel comfortable,” she said, her hands behind her back, looking at him shyly.
Bellamy forced a grin onto his face, handing her a glass as he took a large swig of his own wine, thinking of diamonds on billboards the he had designed and the numbers going up in his bank account instead of the his-and-hears bears holding hands on his couch.
“Dinner is ready when you are,” he said after finishing off his drink.
Clarke clapped her hands hurriedly, dashing for the table. Vaguely wondering if she had drank a Red Bull—or a lot of liquor—before coming over, he ambled after her, ducking into the kitchen to grab his masterpiece of a meal, the one he always made for women he was trying to impress.
When he set the platter of venison down on the table, though, Clarke didn’t smile or breathe in the wonderful scent appreciatively. Instead, her lips trembled, and it even looked like she was tearing up.
“Clarke?” He asked, confused and a little bit panicked.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I totally forgot to tell you.”
He rounded the table and kneeled in front of her chair, taking her hands in his. “What?”
“I’m—I’m vegetarian!”
“Oh. Oh. Fuck.” His stomach dropped, and he glanced mournfully at the very nice but very inappropriate meal he had prepared.
“I’m so sorry, but it’s just—I get so sad thinking about all those animals, and what they do to them, and you never know what you’re eating nowadays, what with all this GMO crap they sell, and none of it is labeled so I never trust anything that’s not organic, because who wants to eat food that’s been tampered with at the genetic level? It’s horrifying, because for all we know, that animal could’ve had an extra leg, or two heads—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bellamy interrupted as he stood, frowning a bit because while he felt bad, she clearly didn’t really understand what GMO really meant, or what foods fell under that category. Still, he wasn’t going to argue with her, so he picked up the platter to remove it. She gagged when it passed by her, and he grimaced, racing out of the room.
“So much for pulling out the big guns,” he muttered as he stared down at the useless dinner growing cold on the kitchen counter.
“I know a good place around here, if you still want to get dinner with me,” she called out quietly. “I’d understand if you didn’t though, after all that wasted effort. I feel terrible.”
She was wiping her eyes when he rounded the corner and leaned against the doorframe.
“Clarke,” he said gently. “I’d love to get dinner with you. As long as I can pay, because I really should’ve checked with you about preferences before. It’s my bad, really.”
“You’re not mad?” She sniffled.
He didn’t miss the way her eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, a bit suspicious, even a touch frustrated. In a flash though, her gaze turned apologetic again, so he reached for his keys.
“Not in the slightest,” he replied. “Now c’mon, you must be starving.”
She pecked his cheek as she whirled by, smiling thankfully.
“You’re the best, Bell.”
His stilled at the startling use of the nickname, one that just his sister had ever used. It was only odd for a moment though, and then he was warm all over, because it sounded very, very different, and pretty great, rolling off of Clarke’s lips.
He followed her out the door with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he didn’t even glance back at the ruined dinner they left behind, too focused on the back of her head, glowing golden in the dim evening light.
“It’s not funny!” She complained in protest of her friends’ amusement. “I need to crack this guy, and he just won’t break!”
“Oh my god,” Raven gasped. “Who is he? No one is that nice. I mean, you’re smoking hot and all, but even your ass isn’t worth getting punched out in a movie theater, tricked into eating a vegan meal and then publicly shamed for allegedly calling your girlfriend fat, and also, what did you name his dick?”
“The Rebel King,” Monty said with a grin.
“He really does get turned on at most inappropriate times,” Clarke grumbled, though she had to stifle the laughter the bubbled up inside her at the horrified look on Bellamy’s face when she had given his member that title.
Raven burst out laughing again, and Clarke smacked her across the ribs. “Still not funny! My job is on the line here.”
“What’s your plan for tonight?” Monty asked, sobering, because he was a good friend.
“She’s going to name his balls, probably,” Raven teased, because she was not a good friend.
Clarke sighed. “He’s having a boys’ night.”
“Boys night? You’re letting him have a boys night?”
“Yes?”
Raven frowned.
“No?” Clarke said uncertainly, then decidedly, “No!”
“Definitely not,” Raven agreed forcefully.
“You two scare me,” Monty commented.
Clarke just pulled him into a half-hug, and Raven punched his arm.
“As we should,” she said. “Now let’s help Clarke crazify herself, otherwise we’ll be helping her look for a new job instead.”
Groaning, Clarke slumped in her seat, thinking about the very long six days standing between her and the end of this assignment. She ignored the pang of regret that rose up at that thought, focusing instead on how she was going to utterly ruin Bellamy’s one night of respite.
“Cough it up,” he accused.
“You’re not serious.”
“House fuckin’ rules,” Bellamy growled, only easing his expression when the crinkled bills fell into his hand.
“I’ll just win it back later,” Jasper boasted.
Murphy snorted. “’Cause you’re good at poker. Right. Fifty bucks says Jasper owes Bellamy another hundred by the end of the night.”
“He’ll owe him one-fifty,” Miller said with a grin.
“Done,” Murphy agreed.
“Can we play now?” Wick interrupted.
Bellamy reached for the cards, dealing them out, feeling the enormous tension in his shoulders drain away as he got into the game, sucking down a few beers while they played. The alcohol made him less alert, so he lost more money than usual, but he would make it up after he got the Jaha account. And he better get the Jaha account, after putting up with the five-and-a-half foot blonde terror he had been dating for the last week.
How the sweet, sexy woman he had met at the bar had turned into a clingy, needy, squealing ball of giggles and tears that she currently was mystified him. Having raised Octavia almost entirely by himself, he was used to mood swings, and pretty good at dealing with them, even considering himself more tolerant than the average guy (his sister had trained him well). Still, Clarke was pushing his limits of acceptance.
Jasper’s high pitched groan pulled him out of his sulking, though, and he perked up at the way the guy sadly watched Wick take a good majority of his chips. Miller and Murphy, though they had lost that round too (though not as much as Jasper), high-fived across the table. Grinning, Bellamy raised his bottle to his lips.
He nearly spit out his sip of beer, however, when the sound of a key jangling in his door was followed by Clarke’s high-pitched greeting.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Bellamy felt as horrified as his friends looked.
“When the fuck did she get a key? Where the fuck did she get a key?” Miller whispered under his breath.
All he could manage was a choking noise, but none of his friends’ dared to laugh at his panicked paralysis.
“Hey boys!” Clarke chimed when she swept into the room, patting Bellamy on the head as she hovered behind him. “Having fun?”
Bellamy watched his friends nod furiously, too terrified to say otherwise.
Clarke giggled, then leaned over his shoulder and exclaimed, “A nine and a seven! Oh, good hand.”
Murphy smirked, and Bellamy nearly groaned, because he was going to lose another game now.
“I brought some snacks for you,” Clarke said she returned to the kitchen. “Can’t let you all gorge yourself on nasty pizza!”
“What the hell?” Wick mouthed, staring at him in a clear plea to do something about her.
“That’s so thoughtful,” Bellamy called out nervously. “But we’re pretty full at the moment.”
“I’ll leave them out in case you get hungry. You’re growing boys, so I know now much you need to eat!” She giggled again, and Bellamy felt like he wanted to throw up.
The nauseous feeling grew worse when she skipped back to the table, her sickeningly sweet smile dropping when her eyes latched on the plant shoved on top of his bookcase. With a pained sigh, she hurried over and grabbed the pot.
“Your let our love fern die?” She accused, shaking it at him.
He helplessly watched a few dried, brown leaves flutter to the floor. “It’s not dead, it’s just—it just needs some water,” he managed to scrape out.
“It’s dead! You let it die.” Clarke repeated, then glared at him. “Are you going to let us die?”
When he simply stared at her, shocked into wordlessness, she harrumphed and flounced back into the kitchen.
There was a long pause before Murphy leaned over and muttered, “Is she on something?”
“One can only hope,” Bellamy replied quietly, twirling his finger near his temple mockingly.
Apparently, he hadn’t said it quietly enough, because he heard Clarke gasp behind him. Before he could backpedal, though, she banged the plate of celery sticks and baby carrots down on the table and strode away, slamming the apartment door behind her. Bellamy blew out a breath, not knowing if he should feel relieved or disappointed.
“You’re not going after her?” Jasper asked in surprise.
“Why the fuck would he go after that?” Murphy spat.
“It’s complicated,” Bellamy muttered. “But yeah, I’m done.”
Miller raised his eyebrows. “Dude, you’re really going to let the Amazons win?”
Scrubbing his hands over his face, he tried to block out the imagined picture of Anya and Indra’s smiles when they found out they won the bet and gotten the Jaha account. He felt an odd sort of pull in his stomach too, urging him to go after Clarke, and not because she was a means to an end.
“You gotta beat them, man!” Jasper pleaded.
“Only five more days,” Miller added.
“Five more days,” Bellamy moaned into his palms. “Five more fuckin’ days of this circus. I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Would she even take you back? Because you basically just called her a mental case,” Wick offered.
“Thank you. Very helpful,” Bellamy said dully.
“Couples’ therapy!” Jasper yelled.
Bellamy jerked his gaze up, terrified but also a bit hopeful. “What?”
“Couples’ therapy! It’s what my parents did when they were getting a divorce.”
“Are they still together?”
“No.”
Miller scoffed. “Then how is that helpful?”
“All he needs is five days! Just the suggestion might buy him enough time.”
“Maybe you’re not a complete idiot,” Miller conceded. “What do you think?”
Bellamy sighed. “I’m really going to hate seeing the Amazons walking around like they own the company, aren’t I?”
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Jasper said with a grin.
Taking a last swig of beer for fortitude, Bellamy stood quickly, jogging for the balcony overlooking the exit to his building, hoping his was not too late to catch Clarke and save his career, and maybe something else, too.
Maybe not kill, because he was generally a nice person. So, just maiming then.
During their fake therapy session, in which he had posed as a couples’ counselor, Monty had been supposed to nudge Bellamy into breaking up with her. Instead, he and Bellamy had come to the conclusion that Clarke would feel more comfortable in their relationship if she met his family.
So here she was, walking up to the front porch of his sister’s house, about to spend the next two days with them. Bellamy squeezed her hand and shot her a reassuring smile.
“O isn’t as scary as I made her sound.”
“She has a black belt. She can officially, literally kick my ass. That’s scary.”
Bellamy slid a hand down her back and tapped her butt. “I’ll protect your ass.”
Clarke scowled. “And nothing else?”
“And nothing else.”
“You’re an ass,” Clarke muttered.
“Octavia would agree, most of the time, so you have that in common already,” he said, chuckling as he pulled Clarke into his side and pressed a kiss to her temple.
Aside from the risk of the whole ass-kicking thing, Clarke was also worried about how much this weekend was going to screw up her plan of getting rid of Bellamy. It was one thing to act like a crazy in front of him, or his friends, but to keep up the act in front of his family, in their house, seemed impossible. It annoyed her, the reluctance she felt, because there was too much of her that very much wanted to make a good impression on them.
He couldn’t get the wrong idea about her, that she was normal, and into him, and cared about things such as his family liking her. Her job wouldn’t withstand that.
“You’re really nervous,” he commented incredulously as he knocked. Clarke just moved closer to him, not getting a chance to answer before the door swung open.
“Uncle Bell!” The small boy in the doorway yelled, bouncing up and down until Bellamy bent down and swept him up into a tight hug. “You’re here!”
“J-man!” Bellamy exclaimed, balancing the boy on his hip. “How’ve you been?”
Clarke watched the wiggling child chatter away at Bellamy, who turned out to be excellent with kids. Or at least excellent with his nephew.
The dark-haired boy eventually noticed her, his eyes focusing on her curiously as he grew less and less animated. Bellamy picked up on the change, and smiled.
“I brought a friend to meet you.”
Suddenly shy, the child buried his face into his uncle’s shoulder. Bellamy chuckled, rocking the boy back and forth. “Her name is Clarke, and she likes playing with trucks. You like playing with trucks, Jason, right?”
The boy’s head shook in the affirmative, peeking a look at Clarke. She smiled shyly, waving.
“I didn’t get to bring my own, so I may have to share some of yours, if that’s okay with you?” Clarke offered.
Jason shifted, still leaning on Bellamy, but now facing Clarke entirely. “I get to be the big one.”
“Whatever you want,” Clarke said, relieved that she seemed to be passing this test.
Jason smiled, then snuggled back into his uncle.
“Are you going to come in or are you finally making good on that promise to steal Jason away from us?” A bright voice called out from deep inside the house.
“Be there in a minute, O,” Bellamy called back, then stepped inside.
When Clarke hesitated, he turned, hand rubbing Jason’s back as he grinned at her. “You coming?”
With a sigh and a weak smile, Clarke stepped inside the lion’s den, wondering if she would make it out in one piece.
Octavia was waiting for them in the kitchen, and as expected, she was intimidating, a whirlwind of energy and bluntness. Surprisingly, though, she was also friendly, and welcoming, and Clarke slowly felt her anxiety drain away as the woman talked her out of her shell. It helped that Lincoln, Bellamy’s brother-in-law, turned out to be an art teacher and drew her into an animated discussion about the latest exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts.
Bellamy cocked his head at her when Lincoln went outside to check on the grill, an odd expression on his face.
“What?” She said, suddenly self-conscious.
“You’re just full of surprises,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.
“You have no idea,” she muttered under her breath.
“Hm?”
“Nothing.”
And just like that, the tension in her shoulders was back, as reality came crashing back down on her after an hour of escape. She was quiet throughout lunch, watching Bellamy spoil his nephew, and tease his sister, and shoot the shit with Lincoln. Not even finishing half of her veggie burger (apparently Bellamy had thought ahead this time, which was sweet, and made her stomach twist guiltily), she pushed around the chips on her plate, growing less certain that she could get through the weekend.
“So, Clarke,” Octavia said suddenly when she came back from putting Jason down for a nap. “How good are you at lying?”
Clarke panicked, her hand clenching around her unused napkin, crinkling it up tightly. “Um, moderately good.”
Bellamy shot his sister a dark look, but Octavia just laughed.
“See that board up there?” She asked.
Clarke nodded, registering the names (Bellamy, Octavia, Lincoln, Nyko, Caris) and the tally marks under each one. Bellamy had the most marks, with Octavia in second place, and Lincoln with the fewest.
“Our family loves a good game of Bullshit, and since my brother is an asshole, he’s the best at, well, bullshitting. My husband, pure of heart as he is—“ Lincoln shot Octavia a fond look—“sucks at this game. Any chance you want to try and get your name up there?”
“I don’t think I’d be very good,” Clarke said slowly.
“I don’t think you’d be very good either,” Bellamy remarked with a flash of a smile.
Lincoln chuckled, and Clarke beamed her napkin at Bellamy. “Hey!”
The Blake siblings joined in laughing, and Clarke couldn’t help but let out a giggle too.
“Alright. Now I have to play,” she relented. “Tell me the rules?”
It turned out to be a pretty simple game, and Clarke actually turned out to be very, very good at Bullshit. While that was not a surprise to her, it was a delight to Octavia and frustrating for Bellamy. Slowly she gained tally marks, catching up to his score for their round by mid-afternoon.
He slipped two cards down on the table, and without a pause she exclaimed, “Bullshit!”
Bellamy swore, taking the fairly large card pile with a disgruntled expression.
“You see,” she intoned, leaning over with a teasing grin, “it’s all about reading people.”
Bellamy made a face, clearly not liking her repeating his slightly condescending words from earlier when he had won the first few rounds, and Lincoln laugh loudly.
“Bell, it seems like you’ve met your match,” Octavia remarked, her smile as wide as Clarke’s.
Suddenly, Clarke locked gazes with Bellamy, frozen in place by the curious, surprised, accepting look in his eyes, one that terrified her, because it spoke of promise and longevity.
“We’ll see,” he remarked slowly, finger tapping against the splay of cards in his hands, but there was nothing ambiguous about his tone.
Clarke couldn’t say anything, her throat thick with regret. If she had met him at another time, or if her job wasn’t what it was, then maybe, just maybe, this could have been something. They could’ve been something.
She slid a three and an eight towards the middle of the table. “Two fives.”
“Bullshit.”
Clarke flicked her eyes to Bellamy and the fond grin he was hiding behind his hand of cards.
She took the cards back with a prolonged groan.
“I’ve got your number, Griffin,” he said softly, as if just for her.
With a barely-there, weak grin, because nothing could be farther from the truth for them, she murmured back, “We’ll see.”
Bellamy chuckled, turning back to the game none the wiser to the melancholy creeping up on her. She ended up winning the game, but it was a bit of a hollow victory. The satisfaction of beating Bellamy at Bullshit was dampened by the fact that she probably was also going to beat him at another game, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to win anymore.
In the flurry of congratulations and further ribbing of Bellamy, Clarke somehow found herself swept into the kitchen by his sister.
“You are my new favorite person for knocking Bellamy off his Bullshit throne,” Octavia said as she poured them some water, then handed Clarke one of the glasses.
The words flew out before Clarke could help it. “His other girlfriends not so great at cards?”
Octavia shot her a funny look. “You’re the first girl Bell has brought home to visit us.”
Clarke nearly choked on the sip of water she had just taken. She managed to swallow, though, feeling slightly ill at the thought that he probably would not have brought her here if it hadn’t been for Monty.
The sound of the screen door opening had both of them turning around, seeing Bellamy slip into the kitchen.
“Is mom’s old bike still out in the garage?”
Octavia sighed. “You mean my bike?”
“Yeah,” Bellamy said with a grin. “Your bike.”
“If you scratch it,” she warned, reaching around and tossing him the keys.
Bellamy snorted in short laughter. “You wanna go for a ride, Clarke?”
She nodded, and he surprised her by slipping his arm around her from behind, giving her a quick squeeze and then smacking a kiss to the back of her head.
“I’ll meet you outside,” he murmured into her hair before leaving.
After he disappeared, Octavia carefully considered Clarke, who was feeling a bit dazed from Bellamy’s affection and wary of his sister’s attention. Clearly her mind was still on their conversation that had been interrupted, the one Clarke was sure would have led into a warning not to hurt her brother.
“I’ll make sure he stays safe,” Clarke offered, weighting her words so Octavia would understand.
“Thanks,” Octavia replied, her gaze softening.
As Clarke went to go find Bellamy, her stomach dropped, because promising his sister that she would take care of him, and not just on the ride today, might have been the worst lie she had told yet.
Soon, though, she had to push her guilt aside, too occupied with trying not to fall off the back of the bike as they sped away from the house, or later to not crash the bike that Bellamy was trying to teach her to drive in the empty lot of a nearby state park.
“Brake’s on the left,” Bellamy chuckled in her ear as she screamed when the bike unexpectedly sped up.
“Left!” He repeated, a little more forcefully this time, then huffed when she slammed the bike to a stop.
“It’s complicated!” She protested, turning around to frown at his laughing face.
“You’re doing well,” he teased.
“Don’t lie,” she shot back.
As close as she was to him, she didn’t miss the way he flinched. She didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because then he was kissing her. Not soft or slow and questioning like he had times before; he was kissing her like he had something to prove. His mouth moved over hers with certainty and passion. Her grip on the handles tightened as his fingers dug into her hips, and she leaned back into his heat. When his tongue asked for more, and her lips parting agreed, she was no longer thinking about what was too much for them, no longer caring about what was too close to the truth. She wanted him, every little part of him—button-down shirts and football cheers, missing him on poker nights and beating him at Bullshit, his love of family and his bodily warmth surrounding hers—and nothing else, not her job or the article or the mess that she had created by falling for him, at all mattered.
Clarke didn’t quite know when they broke away, because their mouths still lingered close, brushing together in half-kisses as they caught their breath.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, overwhelmed with guilt. “For being so all over the place. I just—I have a lot going on at work,” she finished, because that was honest as she could get without everything blowing up in her face. “I’m really sorry.”
Bellamy nudged his nose against hers. “Clarke, it’s okay.”
“It’s not,” she muttered, but then he was kissing her again, and she forgot to care about anything other than twisting around to get closer to him.
It was dusk when they straightened their clothing and switched places on the bike, reluctantly agreeing they should return to Octavia and Lincoln’s. In the gold and orange glow of the sinking sun, they sped through the foliage-lined country roads, Clarke clinging tightly to Bellamy, burrowing her face in his broad back as the cool breeze tangled in her hair. She wished they could just keep on driving instead of returning to the city. After this weekend, and being herself around him again, she was not ready to face the dwindling days left until her deadline of ten days.
Knowing that running away wasn’t an option, though, she just held onto Bellamy tighter, deciding to enjoy his presence while she still had the chance.
Two days, she thought sadly, breathing him in. Only two more days.
He was celebrating not feeling strangled in his tux, which was an improvement over the last time he had worn it.
He was celebrating a successful night for his boss, who had managed to launch this gala, which may just turn out to be the social event of the year.
He was celebrating the way Clarke had looked in her dress, dark blue and backless, clinging to her curves that had had him wanting to walk her right back up to her apartment, gala and obligations be damned.
But most of all he was celebrating the fact that after tonight, after his boss talked to Clarke, he could put this fucking bet behind him, because whether he won and got the Jaha account or not, he wanted Clarke to stay with him, as long as that was what she wanted too.
For the first time that night, he felt anxious, thinking about the possibility that she might not want to, that she still might leave. Hell, a few days ago, he had been ready to let her go. After last weekend, and seeing how much Octavia liked her, how well she fit in with his small but close-knit family, though, he didn’t know what he would do if she walked away from him.
To calm his nerves, he downed his drink, sputtering when a hand clapped him on the back mid-sip.
“What’s the verdict?” Miller asked, swinging around excitedly to face him.
“Did we beat the Amazons?” Jasper immediately added.
“Don’t know yet,” Bellamy answered, tugging at his bowtie, which was suddenly much too tight. So much for not feeling strangled in his tux tonight.
“You must have some idea what Clarke will say,” Miller offered. “You’re usually good at reading people.”
“Usually,” Bellamy muttered under his breath, feeling more unsettled by the minute.
Miller frowned at him. “What’s wrong with you? You’re kind of a mess.”
Bellamy lifted his glass before remembering it was empty, and swore. “You and your nagging are not making this any easier.”
Jasper giggled—fucking giggled—and Bellamy glared at him, then looked around for a server with a filled drink tray. Instead, his glance landed on his boss, Mr. Wallace, who sauntered up to him with outstretched arms and a large smile.
“Congratulations, my boy,” he proclaimed, claiming Bellamy’s hand in a vigorous handshake. “Met Clarke, talked with her, she loves you, the Jaha account is yours. I expect your first batch of proposals on my desk tomorrow afternoon.”
Bellamy barely registered Mr. Wallace sweeping away, or Miller and Jasper jumping on him, pounding his back happily, then hugging each other in celebration. He was too occupied replaying his boss’s words back in his head: she loves you, she loves you, she loves you.
“She loves me,” he breathed as Miller and Jasper bounced away towards the bar, presumably to take some shots.
He smiled—she loves me—turning around to find Clarke, to celebrate with her.
Before he could make much progress, a middle-aged woman waylaid him.
“Diana Sydney, editor of A.R.K. magazine, and I just heard you got the Jaha account. Very well done—they are one of our biggest advertisers, so we’ll probably be working together in the future.”
Bellamy nodded vaguely, trying to discreetly look around for a familiar head of bright blonde hair amongst the crowd. When his companion’s name finally registered—she was Clarke’s boss, he realized—Bellamy refocused, introducing himself in return, exchanging polite smiles and pleasantries.
When a flash of blue and gold caught his eye though, he knew he had to excuse himself, but Diana kept plowing on through the conversation. Patience waning, he only half-listened, waiting for a chance to escape.
“You know, one of my girls is here tonight, I should introduce you two,” she said with a sassy smile. “She’s writing the most outrageous piece. It’s even going to be our cover story: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days—”
Heat crept up Bellamy’s neck as all of his attention snapped fully to Diana—who, in oblivious amusement, revealed to him just how much of a liar Clarke really was—and all of the pieces that had had him running around in circles for the last ten days fell into place.
He swiped two glasses of champagne off a passing tray, downed them both in frighteningly few angry gulps, silently cursing how tonight, of all nights, was when his luck finally ran out.
There had been at least one drink after Mr. Wallace had chatted with her, his eyes dancing knowingly as she stumbled through a weak denial about loving Bellamy. That one she hadn’t felt, because the warm numbness washing over her at her realization had grossly dampened any other sensations.
The truth of I love him had blotted out her memory of taking another glass, but she must have acquired one on her way to their table. Sipping it slowly had been her plan, but then two gorgeous women—both their names started with a vowel, that’s all she recalled through her furious haze—had sat down, and somewhere between them coyly saying so, you really knew nothing about the bet? and sorry we had to ask, but it wouldn’t be fair if Bellamy won the Jaha account by cheating, sips were no longer sufficient. Clarke had downed her remaining champagne immediately, and then she had ignored the shocked looks of her tablemates when she had continued sucking down more glasses.
Needless to say, her stomach sloshed when she suddenly stood, too full of bubbles and outrage to continue sitting silently as people filtered in to take their seats for the gala dinner. She pushed past the crowd flooding in, taking out her frustration with Bellamy and his damn bet by elbowing anyone who got in her way.
Then a strong hand grabbed her jabbing arm, towing her forcefully to the side. When she looked up, she saw Bellamy’s face twisted in anger, and her own mouth turned up into a sneer as she glared at him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He growled.
She responded by tossing the dregs of her latest champagne glass in his face, wrenching away while he recovered.
Her heart squeezed as she heard him calling her name behind her, chasing her out onto the steps outside the ballroom.
“Clarke! I’m not done with you!”
The accusation in his voice broke her silence, and she whipped around. “You used me!” She yelled, jabbing her clutch into his heaving, damp chest, because he had finally caught up with her. “You used me, to get ahead in your work!”
“You’re one to talk,” he snarled, batting away her hand as drops of champagne dripped from his face. “Like you didn’t do the same thing, driving me up the fucking wall for your goddamn magazine article.”
She stepped back, the very small part of her not boiling with anger turning just a little bit sad that he had finally found her out—how, she didn’t know—because she had wanted him to hear it from her, not a stranger. The regret didn’t last long through, because he kept yelling at her, running his hands through his wild hair that she unfathomably still wanted to curl her fingers into. The tumultuous storm of conflicting feelings inside her grew uncontrollable, and she finally erupted.
“Why me? Why did you pick me?” She screamed, desperate to let out the pressure building up inside of her. “Out of all the girls in the bar that night, why did Clarke Griffin catch your eye? Did I look like an easy mark for your bet, gullible enough to let a fuck-up like you draw me in?”
Bellamy’s eyes flashed darkly, and she felt her own burn with tears, because she was tired of being the girl in the bar, picked out and wooed and then lied too. It had happened before, with Finn, and though she had gotten Raven out of that deal last time, she didn’t think this time would leave her with anything other than a broken heart.
“And I was your damn lab rat, someone to test all of your concocted crazy out on,” he accused, advancing forward aggressively.
“Big deal,” Clarke shot back, moving right up into his space even further. He was inches from her, and she shivered at the wave of furious heat he let off. “You won your bet, got your account, what does it matter?”
He fumed silently, his jaw ticking as he ground his teeth. For a second, hope flared in her, burning away all of her anger, when she saw a softness and a sadness rise in his eyes. He blinked, though, and then it was gone, and Clarke just felt hollow, tasting ash in her mouth.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, bluntly, coldly. “I got my account, and you get a little twist for your story. That should keep your readers’ small minds occupied for a while.”
Clarke shivered again, this time from the cold breeze blowing between them. Lifting her chin, she retorted, “I guess we both did our jobs then.”
“Sure,” Bellamy replied in a bitter tone, backing away from her in slow steps. “You wanted to lose a guy in ten days, and guess what, you just lost him.”
She watched him go, her throat so tight that no words could get out. When he started to turn around, to really walk away from her, though, she burst out, “No I didn’t, Bellamy.”
He stopped dead, head barely turned to the side, but she knew he was listening.
“I didn’t lose you,” she continued, trying so very hard, and failing, to stop her voice from wavering. “Because you can’t lose something you never had.”
Clarke swallowed as his shoulders tensed and his head dropped. Then, he jogged up the steps without a single glance back.
Her tears finally fell, and she angrily swiped at them, turning to leave. As the wind whistled around her and dried leaves crackled beneath her heels, she thought back to her first night with Bellamy, and his affirmative answer to her make-or-break question for choosing her target for this assignment.
True or false: all’s fair in love and war?
Walking alone in the chilly fall night, Clarke bitterly wished she had never asked it of him in the first place, because it had sealed their fate from the beginning. Up until tonight, she had been fooling herself that it would end any differently. Now she didn’t have love, or even war, left though, only a job that asked too much of her.
Rubbing her eyes dry, she drew in a shaky breath, starting to spin words in her mind, an idea taking shape, one that might buy her a ticket out of her current mess of a life. Clarke clung to that as she walked home, even managing a small smile, because Bellamy Blake might have broken her heart, but he wasn’t going to break her, not by a long shot.
“Please, Bellamy,” Jasper said in a taunting, high-pitched voice, dancing across of his line of view, the latest issue of A.R.K. magazine held up in front his face. “Please, please, open me, open me!”
Swinging a leg out, Bellamy booted Jasper in the shin, but not even the guy’s pained yelp was enough to get him to smile.
“Seriously, dude. This is pathetic,” Miller complained, drawing closer to him with yet another copy of the goddamn magazine in his hands. “Either get over her or read the article. I’m sick of your moping.”
Bellamy folded his arms over his chest, glaring at the screen ever harder.
“You should read it,” Miller urged.
Tightening his hands into fists, Bellamy shook his head.
With a pained sighed, Miller flipped open the article. “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days by Clarke Griffin. When I started this adventure, my plan was to starting dating a guy, and then commit the common mistakes most women make to see what were the final straws that would drive him away. What I didn’t realize, in this particular case, that I was making the biggest mistake of all.”
Miller paused expectantly, and Bellamy resisted fidgeting uncomfortably. The urge to reach out and snatch the article from his friend’s hands was overwhelming, because the words were so very her, and he missed that, the way she talked, her cadence, the blunt but kind way she had of speaking. He hadn’t heard Clarke’s voice in a week, not since she had quietly, tearfully gutted him by taking away the one thing he had held onto as he walked away from her: that she still loved him, despite having used him.
You can’t lose something you never had.
“Read it,” Miller insisted. “If not for your own sake, for ours. I’m tired of bringing you takeout, man, and Jasper is seriously about to call that couples’ counselor again.”
Grudgingly, Bellamy took the magazine and shooed Miller away, trying to keep his focus on the just-shot commercial he should be screening for mistakes or improvements. Instead, the printed words of the article kept catching his eye, and soon enough he was tucking himself away into a dark corner of the production studio, reading furiously, his heart pounding as he realized exactly what he might be letting slip right through his fingers.
He could almost hear her reading the starkly candid words out loud—I lost the only guy I’ve every really fallen for—as he raced out of the studio and hopped onto his bike, the one he had bought the day after the gala in a thick-headed, expensive attempt at ignoring his problems. Roaring out of the parking lot and easily weaving in between cars lining the disorganized city streets, however, Bellamy was glad for his purchase. It would get him to Clarke faster.
He was outside of her office building in no time, tucking his helmet under his arm as he soared through the front door and up to A.R.K. magazine’s floor.
“Clarke Griffin?” He blurted at the startled receptionist.
The girl pointed vaguely towards the back, but Bellamy was off before she could say a word. Striding through the office, he looked for his blonde, but she wasn’t there. He nearly smiled when he stopped short in front of a cubicle with her name on it, but then he got a look at the space.
Empty, cleared of everything except a few spare post-it notes and bent paperclips.
His pulse stuttered and he spun around, panicking. An intense looking brunette walked by, and he snagged her arm.
“Holy shit,” she exclaimed, her frown melting into a shocked expression as her gaze flitted over his face.
“I’m looking for Clarke Griffin?” He pleaded.
“She’s not here,” the woman snapped, having regained her cool, her high ponytail swinging as she shook her head at him.
“Clarke quit,” someone said from behind, and Bellamy spun around, now facing a short man with a sympathetic and oddly familiar face framed by shaggy, black hair. “She’s leaving for a job in New York, today.”
“Today?” Bellamy confirmed, feeling somewhere between dazed and sick.
The man nodded, then sent him an encouraging smile. “She’s probably still at her apartment, if you want to catch her.”
The smile was what jogged Bellamy’s memory, and despite his jumbled thoughts, he narrowed his eyes at the guy. “You’re not a therapist are you?”
“No,” the man said guiltily. “But I am a very good friend.”
Sighing, because he’d figure out that mess later, Bellamy raced off, calling over his shoulder, “You owe me two hundred bucks!”
The woman laughed, and so did the guy, and the happy sound followed Bellamy out of the office, ringing in his ears like hope as he sped off for Clarke’s apartment.
He was just about there when he got stuck behind an out-of-town driver, clearly not used to navigating the city’s crazy maze of one-way streets. Stuck as he was, he swore violently when he saw Clarke, wearing sweats and her hair swept back into a lazy ponytail, climb into a cab and pull into traffic. Revving his engine, he gunned his bike forward the second he had space, flying past cabbies and other drivers, all flipping him off for his reckless maneuvers.
He couldn’t give less of a damn though, because he was catching up to Clarke. By the time they were about to cross the river, he had pulled up even to her window. Slapping the glass, he called out her name, the bike wobbling beneath him as he steered it with just one hand.
It took her a second, but she rolled down the window. “What the hell are you doing?” She yelled, and her incredulous, frustrated voice was the best thing he had ever heard.
Bellamy grinned, and he chanced a look at her. Her blue eyes stared right back at him, horror and disbelief shading them a bit darker than usual. Wanting to put the light back in them, he called out, “Pull over!”
“You’re going to break your neck!”
“Pull over!”
He could hear her cabby protesting as she asked him to pull over. They were on the middle of a bridge after all, smack in the middle of some construction, but Bellamy didn’t fucking care. He wasn’t about to lose Clarke.
When the cabby finally obliged, jerking over to the breakdown lane, Bellamy eased his bike to a stop behind them. Although the wind had stopped blowing, he could still hear a roaring in his ears as he strode towards Clarke, who was climbing out of her cab.
“You’re insane!” She cried, slapping him on the chest, then placing her hands on her hips.
Her hair now completely undone, tumbling down over her shoulders, and he wanted nothing more than to weave his fingers into it, to pull her mouth to his for a kiss. He needed answers first, though, so he whipped out the magazine from his back pocket, raising it in the air. “Is this true?”
She looked at him helplessly as she froze, mid-breath. “Bellamy,” she warned, taking a half-step back.
“Is it?”
Clarke glanced away, her shoulders slumping. “I meant every damn word,” she said softly, voice breaking with emotion.
“Then why are you leaving?”
She shrugged, staring resolutely out over the river. “I need to go somewhere where I can write what I want to write, where I can write about things that matter.”
“You can write about things that matter here,” he argued, stepping towards her. He wasn’t going to let her walk away, not again. “You’re running.”
“I am not!”
“You are. You’re running away from this,” he said, wiggling the magazine. “From us.”
“You don’t mean that,” she said, her voice hard as her gaze snapped angrily back to his. “Save your games for the next girl you bet on. I am not running away.”
Clarke spun around, striding back towards the cab, and out of all the words he could have used to get her to stay, only one came to mind.
“Bullshit,” he called after her.
Hand on the open car door, she froze. Then she turned again, shoulders hunched, arms crossed over her chest. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Bellamy said, his mouth tugging up into a smile, because the warmth was back in her eyes. His smile grew even wider when he walked towards her and she didn’t back away, instead leaning into him when he stared down at her, so very, very close. “I said bullshit.”
She bit her lip, then asked, “You calling my bluff?”
He answered by cupping her face with his hands and pulling her in for a kiss, long and languid and honest, something that was probably a first for both of them.
“You bet I am,” he murmured against her swollen lips when he finally pulled away.
Clarke laughed sweetly, the sound a bit thick with her tears, and she knocked her forehead against his collarbone. Wrapping his arms around her, Bellamy pulled her against him, content to just hold her, thinking of how ten days ago, he never would have thought he’d now have something this precious to have almost lost.
“We’re going to have to get another love fern,” Clarke mumbled as she tipped her head up and pulled back to look at him again.
He smiled at the teasing set to her mouth, and then laughed. “Whatever you want.”
“You’re not going to let it die this time,” Clarke insisted, narrowing her eyes at him, but the effect of her sternness was ruined by the laughter dancing in her light eyes.
“No,” he said slowly, bringing his mouth very close her hers again. “I won’t let it die this time.”
“You better not.”
“I promise.”
Clarke opened her mouth, presumably to ask for yet another reassurance, and probably rightly so after what they had put each other through, but he cut her off, smiling as he kissed her again instead, because he was most definitely in love with her, and, as she said on that first night: all’s fair.