A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story! It is my hope that the chapters to come will be longer than this, but I thought that I would just put up something short to see what kind of response I get. I have a lot of ideas for this story and I am excited to see where it goes.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Cassandra Clare.

"I'll leave my number on the counter," the guy standing at the foot of my bed tells me as he buttons up his pants. He stretches, and his arms knock over a massive pile of notes, homework I never bothered to finish, and in progress sketches.

I stretch out across my bed, languishing in the silky feel of my five thousand thread count silk sheets against my naked body. "Mm, don't bother," I tell him, my voice slow and drawly. "I won't call you."

"What the fuck?," he says. "We had a good time last night. Why are you being such a bitch right now?"

I sigh and sit up, letting the covers pool around my hips. I smirk when his eyes float down to my chest. "That's right, buddy. We had a good time last night, but I told you that that was all that I was interested in," I say, effectively drawing his attention back up to my face.

"I thought that it was supposed to be the chick that's all clingy after you sleep with her," he says his voice taking on a whiny quality as he drags his hand over the dark brown stubble on his jaw line, managing to both turn me on and off at the same time, which let me tell you, is quite disconcerting.

"That's what they all think, honey," I tell him, patronizingly. I throw the covers off of me, and climb out of bed, my green eyes flashing with annoyance. I walk across the room and pull on my shimmery, dark blue robe. I look up at the guy as I tie the knot, and glare at him when I catch him surveying my body appreciatively, his hands hovering over his belt. Jesus, he thinks I want to go for round two, doesn't he?

I walk over to him, and poke him in the chest, hard. He jerks back, and claps his hand over top of mine in surprise. "What the hell are you doing?," he asks me, his voice hoarse.

"My god, will you watch the language? My window's open and there are kids that live in this complex. Now get out of my apartment, whatever your name is."

He puts his hands on his hips and glares at me. "Seriously?," he asks. "I went home with you last night and you can't even be bothered to remember my name?" I have to stifle a laugh, because he looks so much like a pissed off socialite right now, with his dark brown hair all gelled up, and his clothes that probably cost more than his tuition.

"Well, apparently," I snark. He's really starting to get on my nerves.f

"My name is Liam, if you even care."

I look at him as if he's an idiot. "No, I really don't care. Now will you please leave. And be quiet on your way out; I don't want you to wake up my mom."

He huffs out a breath. "Okay, fine," he reluctantly agrees, gathering up his items and walking out of my bedroom. Praise Yahweh, he finally left. The guys that I bring home normally don't give me that much trouble, but I guess that he's a clingy one.

"Hey, Izzy," I greet my best friend as I open the passenger side door to her cherry-red Honda Civic.

"Hey, Clary," she responds, her sunglasses blocking my view of her chocolate brown eyes that are the same color as the short, revealing dress that she is wearing. "How's life going?"

"Pretty good. The guy that I took home last night gave me hell this morning. I thought that he was going to start throwing shit around, and wake up my mom."

"Wow, sucks for you. And he was hot, too."

I sigh, and lean back in my seat, putting my worn out tennis shoes that are the total opposite of Isabelle's eight-inch heels on the dashboard. "Tell me about it." I close my eyes and Izzy turns up the radio. We listen to the blaring music until we pull into the school parking lot. Isabelle pulls into her parking spot toward the front of the lot, and we get out of the car, and walk into the school.

I hurry to my first period class, because we are already running a bit late. I slide into my seat next to my other best friend Simon. "Hey, Lewis," I greet him, dropping my extremely heavy backpack on the floor.

"Hey Clary," he says, with his signature kind of smirk, but kind of not. His black gamer shirt is making the dark brown of his eyes look brighter than they actually are. "How's it going with your latest conquests?"

"Shut up," I laugh, slapping him gently on the arm. "And the guy this morning sucked, for your information."

"Oh, wow, poor you," he mocks me. "Every guy that you meet is attracted to you, you're super popular without everyone hating you, and you can do whatever you want with practically no parental supervision, your life really sucks."

"Yes, it really does," I reply, miffed.

"Okay, sure," he says, his voice exaggerated. We both look up as the teacher calls us to attention, and I sit back in my seat, putting my books on my desk.

"Bring!" The bell jolts me from my drawing. My math teacher likes to hear himself talk, and he has one of the most monotone voices ever, so his class is the perfect environment for me to draw and not pay attention in. I am slow to gather my stuff together, even though I see Isabelle impatiently waiting for me outside the room. I finally get my stuff together, and walk out the door to meet her.

"Hey." She nudges me, smiling. "Guess who's down the hallway and looking at us?" I look down the hallway and my gaze locks with the one and only golden god. Jace Wayland. He smirks at me, and not even Simon's cute little, half-smirk, half-not. It's an evil smirk, filled with malevolence, and his golden eyes have a smug look in them that makes my green ones flash in return.

"Whoo, you guys are getting me hot, girl." Isabelle's voice pulls me out of my silent war with the demon who thinks he's a god, and I look over to see her fanning herself.

"Jesus, Izzy. What are you doing?," I ask, laughing.

She throws her hands up in protest. "What?! I'm not doing anything!"

"Right. Sure you aren't," I respond sarcastically. "Come on, Iz, you know I hate him. Nothing is ever going to happen between us. I would rather tear my own throat out, no matter how palpable you think the sexual tension is."

"Well, that's good to know because I'm pretty sure it's so thick you could cut it with a knife."

"Shut up Isabelle."

"Okay, okay. But one day, you're going to tell me why you hate him so much."

"Yeah. One day," I tell her, wistfully.