The Young and Lost Club

When he first spots her, across the room at the flashy bar, he can hardly believe it’s actually her. After all, usually when the two of them were home in Maryland, one would call the other and ask to hang out, but it has been a good three weeks since he has last spoken to her, and nearly two months since he’s actually seen her.
She looks good. No, good isn’t strong enough, “good” has never been strong enough. She looks incredible. He had supposed, subconsciously, that the breakup had maybe done some damage, maybe dulled her beauty somehow, but instead, it seemed to have enhanced it. Then again, Clark had always been stunningly, devastatingly beautiful. Gorgeous was usually the first word that came to mind when you met her, but Alex knew better: Clark was never one to be defined by a single adjective. She was many things: bitchy, witty, smart, sharp, talented, cocky, arrogant when it came to life, shy when it came to her own personal talents, a mess of emotions that Alex could never even attempt to decipher.
They were friends, but they were never close friends. Alex had spent many good times with her, albeit, most involved getting trashed. It was their sort of thing, to get together on a Sunday afternoon, watch all the football games (but like the true Marylanders they were they only had love for the Ravens), and drink cheap ass beer. Clark was cool like that; she was always “one of the guys”, in fact he couldn’t think of a single female friend she had.
He always tried to keep his distance. He knew what Brendon thought of him, and in all honesty, he had never done anything to try and negate that image. Brendon wasn’t really a friend, per se, rather an acquaintance through Pete, and normally Alex didn’t care if the girl he liked had a boyfriend or not, he’d pursue her just the same. Clark, on the other hand, was different. He knew she was much to savvy to fall for his charm, and the last thing he really wanted was for her to think he was a jackass.
This time though… this time was different. From what he’d heard, Brendon had left her, and she was fair game. He forced his way through the crowd, and tapped her on her shoulder. She spun around, and Alex nearly had to use everything in his willpower to keep his eyes on just her face; god forbid he look like a pervert. She was simply beautiful, maybe a little thinner, but still as sexy as the first time he’d seen her. He grinned at her. “Well hello there.”
“Alex!” She sounds genuinely happy to see him, and she hugs him, her arms tight around his neck. “I thought you were in L.A?”
“Rian’s grandfather died, he wanted to come back for the funeral.”
“Well tell him I’m sorry to hear that.” She brushes her black bangs out of her eyes, and catches him watching her every movement. It’s hard not to, she was absolutely flawless. “How are you doing?” She asks, taking a sip of her drink.
“Can’t complain. How about you? I heard about Bren-“
“I don’t want to talk about that.” She says sharply cutting him off completely. She irritably grabs her drink and finishes it avoiding looking at him, but she doesn’t look too annoyed, so Alex persists.
“Sorry,” he says, with a cocky grin. “What should we talk about?”
She shrugs, playing along. “You pick the category.”
He decides to go for it. He leans in close and says in her ear, “How about we talk about how if I don’t get to take you home tonight, I’ll be really disappointed?”
She considers him for a moment, her lips pursed. “Jesus Christ, Gaskarth.” She says finally. “At least buy me a damn drink first.”
He grins and waves the bartender over.

Two hours later, the two stumble into Alex’s apartment. He shuts the door and pushes her up against it, his lips and hands roaming everywhere, pushing himself against her, making so he is flush against her tiny frame.
“I’m not a one night stand kind of girl,” She had told him this when they walked to his apartment not far from the club.
Alex got this often. “Who said this was a one night stand?” He had said cockily to her.
Clark is entirely torn. While on one hand, Alex is charming and hot and she has always felt something between them , it all feels forbidden. And she can’t help but notice that while his lips feel incredible, they are not Brendon’s lips, and while his hands are making her ache with desire, they are not Brendon’s hands. But he’s unzipping her dress, and she, without thinking, (And God, she knows it’s better not to think about it, not to think of him) is pushing him to the bed and straddling his hips, making him groan and moan. He’s saying her name as the remaining offensive clothing is removed, and they are both panting as they continue their game of domination vs. dominated.
He’s moaning her name, but she can’t help but notice that it’s not the way Brendon said it.

Hours later, the two lay exhausted in Alex’s bed, sheets and clothing lying tangled on the floor. Alex is vaguely aware that he’s just had the best sex of his life, and the thought of her leaving is inconceivable. He’s known as the King of One Night Stands, but he always feels an attachment like no other when he lies with the girl about to fall asleep. More than anything, Alex fears being alone. He brags about the girls he’s had, but he secretly, late at night, misses all of them. Clark is lying on his chest, absentmindedly tracing circles with her finger on his hip bone. He feels an overwhelming feeling of sadness and fondness for her. He knows that she is, and always will be “Brendon’s Girl.” He knows that even though she is his tonight, she will never really be his. He knows that she will always be out of his league, and it makes him sad.
“What’s that?” He says suddenly, grabbing her hand and studying her wrist.
“It’s a tattoo, stupid,” she says teasingly, and she sits up slightly to show him at a proper angle. It’s a delicate thing: a dandelion with the seeds blowing up her arm. “Do you like it? I got it about a month ago.”
“It suits you.” He says. And it does. “What does it mean?” He traces the outline of it.
She is quiet for a long time, and just when Alex thinks that maybe she isn’t going to answer: “Everyone leaves.” She whispers. “Everyone floats away from me.”
She looks so sad, that Alex kisses her, and she responds eagerly, perhaps welcoming the change of topic, wrapping an arm around his naked waist, pulling him closer. She’s sucking on his neck, when before he can stop himself, he says, “How the fuck did Brendon give you up?”
To her credit, even though the words wound her beyond belief, she pushes him over so she can be on top, and grinding her hips into his, making his eyes close in bliss, she says, “Because he’s a fucking idiot.”

The morning after is not awkward.
She gets up, steals some jeans which are far too long on her tiny frame, and a t-shirt of his and uses his hair straightner, while Alex watches her, laughing as she makes jokes and criticizes his apartment for being too messy. He remembers the one time he saw her apartment in New York, and it was spotless and the epitome of cleanliness. She had once told him that she couldn’t live with the rest of her band mates anymore because they were slobs, but she still went over once a week to wash their dishes and do the laundry. Her dynamic with the rest of her band is fascinating to Alex, her role alternating between a mother hen and one of the guys. She’d make all the beds, and make a filthy “that’s what she said” joke all at once.
“Are you sure you can’t stay and get lunch?” It’s his last desperate plea to make her stay.
“I wish I could, but I have recording in about 2 hours and I have some things I need to do.” She says, slipping on her shoes.
He sighs, and unlocks the door for her, and she hugs him, but he grabs her forearms so she can’t leave quite yet. “Thank you for a great night.” He says. She gives him a small smile, and he tries to kiss her, but she turns her head.
“Now, now Alex,” She says, teasing him again. “Friendship rules, remember?”
He shrugs, and grabs the back of her head and kisses her full on the lips. “I’m never one for the rulebook,” He reminds her when he lets her go.
She considers him for a moment, her face entirely clear of emotion, before stating, “Goodbye, Gaskarth.” He watches her leave in bewilderment, seeing clearly, and for the first time, that this is not the same Clark. The old Clark would have never left without one-upping him. He was wrong before: the breakup may not have done physical damage, but Clark was scarred just the same.
By the time she gets to her car, she is sobbing.