A belated New Years fic.

Enjoy!

C O U N T D O W N

Alright, at five minutes to midnight
You see our name in city lights
We'll make the clock stop
Make your heart drop and come alive

- five minutes to midnight, boys like girls

10..

"I just don't get it," you huff, sending your sugary blonde bangs into a haphazard frenzy as you adjust the glitter-frosted angel wings back into place. "I thought Halloween was, like, two months ago. Why are the Marvils throwing a costume party on New Years?"

"When Merri-Lee decided that costume parties were the new black," the amber-eyed beauty says in a bored voice, crossing and re-crossing her slender legs from the powder blue bedspread. "All the stars are doing it now- Brangelina, Donald Trump, the Cruises, you know. Everyone who's anyone."

"Oh…" Nodding as if you understand, you continue to fret and fidget in front of the mirror, examining the tight lace bodice on your simple white dress and delicate angel wings. You don't think that you'll ever understand Westchester. Being the new girl in town was your forte, but it had just been two weeks in this confusing, designer-obsessed hellhole and all you learned so far was to 1) never (ever ever ever) wear black shoes with an all-navy outfit, 2) never question Alicia Rivera's devotion to Ralph Lauren (note to self: if ever wanting to commit suicide, just suggest to her that you think RL is a cheap rip-off of Lacoste) and 3) cute guys at Briarwood are a dime a dozen- don't let the pretty face blind you from the cocky, egocentric attitude and general asshole-ness.

"Kuh-laire!" Massie whines, and you wince. Sure Massie was nice and all (well, okay, a tad overbearing, a bit of a control freak, sort of high-maintenance and at times, downright scary) but the popped syllable, 'I-have-attitude-and-will-snap-my-fingers-in-a-Z-formation-because-I-can-do-that' nickname was just plain 'ah-nnoying'. "Stop preening- you look fine, mkay? Ah-dore the whole Claire Danes-inspired Juliet angel costume and your makeup and hair are flawless, courtesy of moi. Kemp won't be able to take his eyes off you," she adds slyly, dropping a heavily-shadowed eyelid into a sultry wink.

"Ugh, don't remind me."

"Speak of the devil- he just texted you. hey babe, you're my new years kiss tonite. meet me in the center of the dance floor and wear some of that cherry lip gloss stuff ;) xxx. kemp. Ehmagawd, what a sleazy jerkoff."

You roll your ocean blue eyes. You barely met Kemp Hurley for a couple minutes at the Block's OCD Benefit and since that moment, that admittedly cute, but perverted (and irritating as hell) boy would not leave you alone. He somehow got a hold of your number and texted you every single frickin' day, flirting incessantly and asking you out to the movies, A Slice of Heaven and the park. On multiple occasions you blatantly stated that you weren't interested but it had no effect on him. On the contrary, it actually just heightened his resolve even more.

"You know guys," Massie says from the bed, reading your expression. "They think no means yes and get lost means take me, I'm yours," she giggles, quoting the Disney movie the two of you had watched a couple days before, Hercules. But you're pretty sure even Meg sweet Megara wouldn't know what to do if she encountered the likes of Kemp Hurley.

9..

"Dude, I'm so gettin' lucky tonight," your best friend brags, straightening his black silk tie with a smirk. Barely listening, you button up the Oxford Sammi bought for you specifically for the occasion and grunt noncommittally. Kemp ignores your lack of attention and continues on, slathering liberal amounts of some fancy hair gel into his afro while checking himself out in the mirror. "I'm going to be getting some major lip action with that hot Florida chick who transferred to OCD a couple weeks ago. She is effing hot, man. And she wants me so bad."

You roll your deep brown eyes and slip your arms into a ridiculously expensive-looking black blazer- the tag says Rudolph Laura or something weird like that- and run a hand through your shaggy, dirty-blonde hair. Knowing Kemp, his newest conquest was probably some busty peroxide blonde who thought that hooking up with him would somehow raise her social status. Poor, deluded girl.

"Derrick, man, you have gotta see her. She is totally banging," His expression goes dreamy and you inwardly groan, bored of your friend's never-ending tirade. "But I have dibs, D," He breaks out of his reverie and his tone has a warning edge to it. "So don't even think about trying to tap that. She's mine, got it?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Hurley."

8..

I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore, you think to yourself with a sinking feeling, uncomfortably glancing around the dense crowd bumping, socializing and grinding under the shimmering glow of the enormous disco ball and flashing technicolor lights. You freeze on the staircase but Massie digs her talon-sharp nails into your arm warningly before tugging you down with her, a winning fake-smile plastered onto her face.

Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say blares from the speakers as the two of you make your way down the opulent spiral staircase. Immediately, a swarm of ninth-grade boys gather near the bottom of the stairs, staring up at Massie like a goddess who descended from heaven, dressed to the nines in her sweeping, ruby floor-length satin gown embedded with tiny crystals and sewn with gold thread.

"Kuh-laire, they're looking at us. Pretend to act bored," Massie instructs sternly into your borrowed Cartier diamond-studded ear as she clutches onto your arm.

"Us? Um, Mass, I'm pretty sure they're just looking at you."

"Are you blind?" Your companion hisses through her beaming, laser-whitened smile. "The entire left half of that group is staring at you. You're definitely not going to be alone when the clock strikes twelve, that's for sure. Oh, hey boys," she says in her normal, flirty tone and winks playfully.

"Massie, hey!" An incredibly cute, black-haired boy with one green and one blue eye dressed as in a white and red soccer uniform pushes through the group of admirers and takes her hand with a smile. "I was waiting for you to come."

"Cam, I'd like you to meet my new friend Claire Lyons- she just transferred from Florida," Massie introduces, slipping her arm around his waist with a pleased smile.

"Hey Claire," Cam says in a friendly voice, smiling warmly. "I'm Cam Fisher, affectionately known as Massie's whipped boy toy," he adds with a chuckle and the brunette in his arms blushes and smacks his shoulder before quickly pecking his smooth, stubble-free cheek. Second Chance by Shinedown starts playing through the built-in Bose speakers and Massie squeals, grabbing Cam's hand and pulling him into the crowd to dance, shooting you an apologetic grin and a quick I'll find you right after this song, 'kay?

You nod stiffly, silently cursing her for leaving you alone, vulnerable and lost at this wild party. People were staring and whispering, sending furtive glances in your direction- typical "new girl" syndrome. You have no idea where to go or what to do. This night could not get any worse.

Suddenly an arm wraps around your slender waist and a husky voice whispers, Hey babe, miss me?

It just got worse.

7..

You hate parties, you really do. The whole dry humping to Jay-Z and Lil' Wayne and shitty spiked punch and random makeouts on the dance floor between couples who have no thought of how others react to massive PDA wasn't really your thing.

"D'man!" Nikki Dalton and Layne Abeley, notorious partners in crime and the only actually cool girls at OCD squeeze through the crowd and throw their arms around you.

"Hey Nik, Layne, whattup?" you greet, a smile breaking out on your face unwittingly. Nikki shakes her blunt, jet-black bangs out of her startling emerald eyes, which rove across your blazer and tie with a curious look.

"What are you supposed to be dressed up as?" she questions, raising a dark brow. Layne pulls away, light green eyes looking you up and down as well.

"Uh…" You struggle to think of something. Honestly, you really couldn't care less about the whole costume theme but the two of them would probably yank your hair out if you told them that. "Danny Ocean. Yeah," you state, remembering the Oceans trilogy you and Sammi had watched the week before.

"Don't bullshit me, Harrington," Layne snorts, folding her arms across her chest. "You just made that up. Besides, you are not nearly as hot as George Clooney."

"Yeah, definitely not," Nikki agrees, flipping her dark hair over her shoulders. "You have no creativity whatsoever."

"Oh yeah? What are you two supposed to be then, huh?" you shoot back, irritated.

"We're a sexy-version of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum from Alice in Wonderland, dumbass," Layne says in a duh-voice and they pose to show off their Crayola-red skinny jeans, canary yellow tanks with pale blue silk bowties stitched into the corner and plain red baseball hats sitting atop glossy, straightened hair.

"Whatever. You guys look like you lost a bet with a color-blind… clothes person," you mumble lamely and the two of them glance each other before rolling their eyes simultaneously.

"Is that the best you can do? You're really losing your touch, D," Nikki giggles, hooking her arm with Layne's. "Listen, we're going to go find Griff and Plovert. We'll see you around, 'kay?"

They wave and skip into the crowd, leaving you alone once more. Just great.

6..

"Let's dance, baby," Kemp murmurs in what he probably thought to be an alluring voice in your ear and you wince inwardly. Five seconds into the party and he already found you. All hopes of slipping into the crowd unnoticed to avoid him are gone. But even if you did get away from him, what would you do? Massie would probably be joined at the hip with Cam the whole night, so you would probably wind up just sitting by yourself in some random corner until she decided to go back to the estate.

"Whatever," you mutter and allow him to drag you onto the dance floor where everyone is doing some weird gyrating thing to the beat of David Guetta's Sexy Chick. Um, ew?

His hands grope at your waist greedily and he practically mashes himself up against you, a victorious smirk playing across his lips. You jump away from him like he's on fire with a little yelp and glare.

"Okay, listen. If you want to dance with me or whatever, you need to follow some rules. Actually one rule, really. Unless it's a slow dance, do not touch me. At all. Get it? If you break this rule, I will break your face," you say in a low, dangerous voice, but he just looks amused.

"Sure thing, princess," he winks and immediately grabs your waist again.

Asshole.

5..

Kemp winks at you from the crowd, his arms wrapped around the waist of some lithe blonde- you can't see her face, only gold-streaked curls that tumble to the small of her back.

From the back at least, she looks like she'd be beautiful.

4..

The clock strikes five minutes to midnight and thoughts rush through your head and blur as you try to think of a way not to be within Kemp's grasp at midnight. There was no way you'd start the New Year attached by the lips with some sleazy manwhore.

"Hey Kemp…" you drop your voice to a sultry whisper and gaze up at him from under your golden lashes. He looks down at you, surprised then pleased at your seductive tone.

"Yeah, babe?"

"Um, can you get me a drink? I'm feeling really thirsty…"

He hesitates but a bat of your glitter-dusted eyes and he's putty in your palm.

"Of course."

3..

You get tugged into the crowd unwillingly by Kristen Gregory and Alicia Rivera (your most rabid fangirls- they even started a "Every time I see Derrick Harrington, I have the urge to jump him" group on Facebook- major ego-booster, but kinda creepy nevertheless) who are dressed in lingerie and some form of animal ears, a la Mean Girls according to a sneering Layne.

You wince as the two of them drape themselves all over you, batting their glittery eyelids with the speed of a hummingbird and purse their practically reflective lips. You normally thrive under this sort of thing but dude, seriously. Were they both expecting kisses at midnight?

You glance around the room desperately looking for a chance to escape.

Suddenly you feel yourself falling to the oak-paneled floor because something moving incredibly fast hits you and you shut your eyes with a groan when your head collides painfully with the ground.

When you finally manage to pry your eyes open, you're slightly surprised to find yourself in heaven.

Well, it has to be heaven- there's an angel lying on top of you.

2..

The boy you knocked over is staring at you strangely and you immediately jump off, apologizing profusely and holding out your hand to help him up. He takes it slowly and continues to stare, chocolate-brown eyes wide with curiosity.

"Um, sorry about at that," you mumble, adjusting your angel wings to distract yourself from the fact that not only was said boy ten million different types of hot, but he must have definitely noticed the way your normally alabaster skin was flushed a deep red. Give it up for Claire Lyons, lobster extraordinaire! "I should have watched where I was going- I'm really sorry if I ruined your suit, but um, feel free to send me the bill, well maybe not me, but Massie because she said she'd pay for anything I ruined, which is probably going to end up being a lot and..." you ramble, eyes darting around the teeming crowd to avoid making eye contact with this incredibly good-looking guy. You finally decide to shut up and it becomes painfully obvious that the crowd around you have started screaming the countdown to the New Year. Suddenly, an unmistakable afro and the heavy (read: suffocating) scent of Old Spice catches your eyes (and nose, unfortunately) and you know Kemp's coming back. The clock is ticking…

Gorgeous blonde dude is still looking at you and you know that there's only one solution.

1..

Okay, so maybe she's not an angel. She's just some blonde girl dressed up as an angel but that doesn't take away from the fact that blondie is completely and totally-

"I need to ask you for a quick favor," Angel- er, girl- whispers frantically, pushing up against you in a manner that's much to close for comfort considering she's a total stranger. But you can't bring yourself to mind- quite the contrary in fact. "Um, I…" she trails off and you can't help but notice the way a spray of light freckles dusts her ski-slope nose and how her eyes, huge and Disney princess-like, widen in a completely innocent, desperate way. "I need you to kiss me."

And her ethereal, golden hair- wait, what?

You're completely flummoxed and nothing's making sense right now, but one thing is certain- there's nothing you'd rather be doing than obeying and slamming your lips against Angel's pale mouth.

So you do.

Happy New Year!

You're free-falling.

You hate cliches because cliches are meant for infatuated, immature teenage girls (aka, inferior beings) who have nothing better to do than come up with a million different ways to describe this kind of moment- fireworks exploding, time stopping, violins playing under a starry sky.

But no, this time it's not a metaphor because you have in fact been sky-diving and you know that there's no feeling in the world better than the exhilaration that comes from falling without restraint, the wind rushing past your ears and the Olympic gymnast-worthy somersaults your stomach performs.

Except for the rush that comes from kissing mysterious, blonde boys in the toxic midst of frenzied, elated screams, technicolor confetti falling from the ceiling and the blare of noisemakers and popped champagne.

He pulls away when your breath grows short, flushed and smiling in such an intoxicatingly sweet way, you can barely stop yourself from pulling him down again for that effervescent moment of soft pressure from his lips. You decide that there's no sight more perfect than this beautiful boy with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, cheeks flushed and tousled blonde hair sprinkled with pieces of gold and emerald confetti, grinning like a lovestruck idiot in the center of Dylan Marvil's rented country club hall.

"So, do I get to know your name... or should I continue to call you Angel?" he asks, arching a golden brow and you can't stop the elated grin from spreading across your face.

"Claire. Claire Lyons," you manage to get out and he smiles again, but this time it's more warm and tender than you've ever seen on a person.

"Claire, huh? Well Claire Lyons, I'm Derrick Harrington," he starts and you immediately decide that Derrick is the most perfect name in the entire world. "Happy New Year," he whispers and leans in again.

Cue the cliches. But this time, you can't bring yourself to care.

OHMAGAHH... I'M DROWNING IN FLUFF.

But that's okay =)

Review, please?