This is probably a two-shot or a three-shot only. A great prompt I came across with.
Enjoy! And read my multi-fic, Bully and Benefits when you can.
Strange Things Happen
Summary: Santana Lopez is a popular and famous singer, and because of that she's experienced a lot of unusual things. But nothing can beat the moment she walks into a library and finds a number written on an old book. AU Prompt.
Pairing: Brittany, Santana
Rating: T
Paparazzi, everywhere. To my right, to my left, behind me and in front, they just never stop ganging up on me wherever I go, whether it be inside Starbucks, at my friend's house, at my house and even my mom's funeral grave. Sometimes, I want to grab the nearest gun out of the holster of a policeman and shoot the living daylights out of these jerks, even if it may cost me a bad press and some jail time. It's a good thing I have a great publicist and friend that's always going to make things right. She's like a genius, one night I went out clubbing and made out with a fire hydrant because I was depressed, and she just made it seem like I was fixing the damn thing because I "love" helping the city, which is utter bullshit on my side. But she made it work, and everyone thinks I'm a good person, which I am—I totally am. So it's not unusual when my publicist, Quinn, comes bounding inside my loft with angry hazel eyes, slamming the newest newspaper of the month with my name and picture on it.
"Fighting over a shoe." It was more like a statement than a question, and I'm left rolling my eyes as I lean forward and grab the issue. "Fighting over a goddamn shoe, Santana—are you mad?" she screams, repeating her words with frustration.
I never said she didn't get angry and pissed off whenever a problem comes up.
Shrugging my shoulders, I flip to the main page. "It was her own fault, I saw it first and it's only right for me to keep." I smirked, putting my feet on top of the coffee table as Quinn slumps down on the couch in front of me, bringing out her laptop.
"And you didn't think—that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be bad for your rep? I'm still fixing that time you cut a kid in line for some freaking ice cream." She scolds me as I laugh at the memory.
"It was hot and I needed something cold." I simply reply, closing the newspaper as I watch her do her work.
Quinn peers up at me and frowns. "So you didn't think to wait for just one damn kid before your turn?" she asks, exasperated as she begins to type furiously on the keyboards. "You're lucky Sue's a great source or you'd be New York's top bitch."
"I am New York's top bitch." I tell her, winking playfully.
It doesn't amuse Quinn though. "No, I mean a different kind of bitch, Santana. Now go dress up, we're up for a meeting with Evans about your newest album and if we arrive late, he wont give in to any of our propositions."
I push myself off of my seat and smile at the girl, twirling a lock of hair as she continues to type whilst talking on the phone with someone. God thank the heavens for bringing me Quinn Fabray or I'd be in the dumps. "Oh please, we all know Evans has it bad for you—" I start, causing Quinn to roll her eyes because yeah, everyone knows that. "—just a wink and he's putty on your hands, and we all know who's side you're always going to be on." I point to myself and see her frowning at me, almost like she regrets being my publicist.
"It doesn't matter, I hate being late—it's not polite and it's ill-mannered, so dress up before I go crazy on you Santana." She orders me and I'm holding my hands up in the air as defense as I walk to my closet and pick out a lovely hot dress that'd suit my body well. However—any kind of dress would work on me anyways so why think?
"How's it going with Hudson?" I ask whilst removing my tank top over my head, fixing the straps of my bra to bring my boobs just a little bit higher.
Quinn's still typing and she just hung up from a call with Sue. "Nothing's going on with Hudson, we've moved on and that's it." She cuts it short as I walk in with my dress hanging on my arm, cocking my hip to the side as I give her a narrowed look.
"Oh really? And last night's date was 'moving on'?" I air quote, catching Quinn's attention as she stops moving her fingers and glances up on me, mouth agape and shocked.
"How do you know about that?" she asks, squinting her eyes to me and gritting her teeth.
I smirk and shrug my shoulders, pulling down my sweatpants. "You're not the only one that's good at this whole publicist thing, I got my own eyes and ears." I smoothly reply, throwing my sweatpants back for added measure.
Quinn frowns and shakes her head. "Whatever Rachel told you is a lie." She huffs, making me chuckle because damn, why does she have to be so psychic and everything? I didn't even give a hint remotely close to concluding Berry as a suspect.
"A lie? How could it be a lie when you practically gave goo-goo eyes to the man?" I exasperated, putting my hand out as a gesture when Quinn all about groans, smacking her face.
"Can we not talk about it?" she asks, eyes pleading as I sigh and feel my shoulders deflate; I always did have a soft spot for the girl. "Not now while I fix your shit?" she adds on, clucking her tongue as I smirk and nod my head, opening the zipper of my dress.
As soon as it's on, I don't bother applying make up since I have this thing called natural beauty and make myself a cup of coffee while waiting for Quinn to finish up whatever's she's doing in that damn laptop of her's.
It's after two cups of coffee, a trip to the bathroom and a chapter from The Fault in Our Stars when Quinn finally finishes her computer work and packs up while I wait outside my loft and as soon as I start whistling, she walks out and I'm locking my door close.
"People will not be attracted to that kind of album title." I hiss irritably at the two men and one woman sitting in front of Quinn and I, wearing the most fancy suits I've ever seen.
Evans frowns at me, obviously not liking my sass since the time we first met and leans forward, clasping his hands together in a professional way. "Santana—"
"Lopez to you, Evans." I cut him off sharply, never liking the way he said my actual name since it sounded so bad coming out of his insanely large lips.
He chuckles and shakes his head. "Ms. Lopez, I know it isn't your type of title but having your album named as Hit It Hard is the only thing we'd agree on with you."
I scowl at him and cross my arms together, puffing out my chest as I notice the man beside Evans, Jesse flick his eyes to my boobs. "You can't be serious—" I sneer, tilting my head to the side as I glare at the blonde haired man. "—Hit It Hard is the worst title you could ever make up with in that stupid head of yours."
Quinn snaps her hand to my thigh under the table and squeezes it, telling me to watch my words. I had to bite my tongue from letting other curses shoot out.
The woman, a ginger, who was new to the team since I haven't seen her, straightens up her blouse and smiles at me weirdly, sliding forward two portfolios as I grab them for Quinn and I to see. My jaw drops at the printed picture I see and I'm most definitely sure Quinn's trying not to laugh.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I growl, whipping the portfolio around to show them what they wanted to show me. "Is me wearing a bunny stripper suit seem appealing to you?"
Jesse raises his hand and nods, grinning like a fool. "I made that.," he announces proudly, jumping on his seat. "It's got this come get me look which I think is perfect for you, Ms. Lopez."
"No—" Quinn thankfully interrupts, shaking her head as a playful smile contorts her face, and I know she wants to laugh so badly. "—Having Santana in a bunny stripper suit is not what we wanted, actually any of what you approved is nothing of what we requested." She points out, and I have to roll my eyes at the way Evans watches Quinn intensely. "But, I have to praise you for your good skills in Photoshop." I scrunch up my nose and groan, watching as Jesse raises his hand again and grins.
"I did that, I'm an excellent photo-shopper." He boasts, arranging his suit nicely while giving me a wink. God, Evans and Jesse are pathetic.
"I'm just going to ignore that." I mumble, shaking my head as I sit up some more, giving Evans a fake smile. "And my publicist is right, we didn't suggest any of these." I close both our portfolios and slide it back to them. "We want my album on our terms, not your sick minds."
Quinn leans in and slaps my thigh. "Santana, keep your cool." She whispers to my ear.
Smirking, I thread my fingers together and lean my chin on them. "My album will not be called Hit It Hard—" I growl, glaring daggers at Evan's dopey eyes. "—I mean come on, it makes me sound like I have a fucking penis and I want to 'hit it hard' with all the women in the world in a rape kind of way, I know I'm a lesbian but I will not, for the love of god, have Hit It Hard as an album title, that's just offensive."
The ginger's eyes widen and she shakes her head furiously. "No, we didn't intend to mean the title as a se-sex category, we were talking about how your music is going to hit the stands and uh—" she stutters, clenching her fist to bump the air. "And hit it hard." She ends, almost proud of herself for her good explanation.
But no, even Quinn is holding her stomach to ease the burst of giggles. "Okay, to you, Ms. Virgin—" I hum, watching as the ginger's eyes go bulging out. Totally a virgin. "—it may sound like that, but to everyone in New York city, it is a hidden meaning for rough, attack, rape sex. And no, I don't want old men masturbating to the cover of my album because you want me—" I laugh, poking my chest. "—to wear a bunny stripper costume. No me gusta."
Evans sighs, finally coming into this mess and scratches his blonde hair.
I'm going to ask Quinn later why we picked this recording studio again.
"So what do you want?" he asks, scowling at me. "Since you wont agree to any of our perfect suggestions."
Quinn steps up and flashes her angel smile to Evans, immediately catching his sole attention. "We want what we always wanted." She replies simply, tilting her head to the side. "If you even read our emails, we want Santana's next album to be named Bed of Roses and for her cover photo to be her in a—well, bed of roses."
Evans isn't as happy as when Quinn was smiling at him, holding a finger up. "Hold on, and isn't that implying sex?"
"It's innocent but sexy, sweet but raw, and Santana and red which is a perfect combination." Quinn cuts in, flashing that million-dollar grin and Evans nearly falters.
I join in with a shrug of my shoulders. "Plus, with the word bed, people would be thinking about a first love and also a hot steamy Santana."
Again, Evans holds up a finger. "I thought you didn't want to categorize sex?"
Chuckling darkly, I flip my hair to the side and smirk at him. "I don't want to show sex in a degrading way—and having my album as Hit It Hard is very much degrading, but on the other side, Bed of Roses sounds like a special something. Now who wouldn't want that?" I sweetly shoot back, winking at the furious blonde man as he opens his big guppy mouth to say something when Jesse perks up and frowns.
"Wait, so we're not using the bunny stripper suit?" He asks slowly, face turning pale as he bites his lip and lowers his phone down.
Both Quinn and I narrow our eyes on him and I can feel the steam coming out of my ears.
"No, we are not—what in the world did you curly hair?" I growl, about to crawl up this long silver desk and strangle him when he gulps and adjusts his tie.
"I—I may have, tweeted the photo—virally." He squeaks, and I all about jump off of my seat ready to cut his neck and pluck his eyeballs out when the receptionist walks in with scared eyes.
"Mr. Evans, there's a mob outside the building." She tells him, well more like to all of us.
He pushes himself up and furrows his eyebrows. "What? A mob?"
She nods her head and points out to the window glass walls of the room. Since I'm nearest to it due to my half-attack on Jesse, I walk to the glass walls and peek down, jaw dropping at the mass of paparazzi's ganging up on the entrance doors. Before I know it, Quinn's beside me pulling out her phone while cursing.
"Yes, Tina bring it in." She orders her assistant-intern on the phone just as the said girl comes stumbling inside the room with a suitcase in hand. Quinn hurries to the table Tina places the case on top of, and I glare hard at Jesse, who's peeing on his pants.
I point at him menacingly and hiss. "You're on my list, dumbo." And then I'm being pulled by Quinn, who's already got a mirror and a bowl placed neatly on the silver table, pushing me to sit down on the chair as I whip my hands out. Tina washes my hands clean, and Quinn's tying my hair up in a tight bun, making sure no hair is out of place. After Tina squeezes the towel dry, I lean forward and open my case of blue colored contacts, carefully placing one of them on the tip of my middle finger as I watch myself on the mirror, widening my right eye to put the blue contact in.
Quinn groans from behind me and bends down. "Tina, gel the baby-hair." She orders her intern and Tina scampers to do what she's been assigned to do.
I'm about to place the next contact in when the ginger, who I found out her name is Emma, walks close to me and gasps.
"What're you doing?" She asks me as I blink away the tears after placing eye drops on my pupils. Shaking my head to get rid of the weirdness, I smirk up at the virgin lady.
"What do you think this is?" I retort just as Quinn pulls my head back, enough to place the starting edge of the hairnet of my wig.
When it snaps on the base of my neck, I lean forward and fluff it out, adjusting some crooked parts as Quinn inserts some left over hair under the net while Tina fixes the parts that are already done with.
"You're good." Quinn tells me as I sit up, putting my arms inside the holes of the big coat Tina brought out of the case while I fix my hair again. My hair, which is now a light shade of red. I turn to Emma who's still looking at me like I'm a different person—which I'm supposed to be and the smirk just gets wider.
"I'm like a hot Mary Jane Watson now." I hum, flattening out my hands on the coat. "This is what I do to avoid the papz your stupid Jesse brought." I point to the guy and he squirms in his seat as Quinn hooks our arms together and doesn't bother saying goodbye to our producers as we stumble out, Tina following behind whilst struggling to bring the suitcase that's half-open.
Quinn pulls me close to her and presses on the elevator button. "There's a library down the left side of the street, go there and go out only when I tell you so." She commands me as we step in and Tina's still having a hard time closing the damn thing.
My publicist whips her phone out and calls the driver. "Puck, be there in 5—yes I know it's crowded but you're her driver and that means you're her bodyguard too so get on with it." She shouts on the phone as we come to the lobby level. Before it opens, Quinn turns to me one last time. "Exit the second entrance, most of them are on the main. Tina 's coming with me so it's not obvious I'm alone and not with you." She nods to Tina who's sighing in relief and returning the signal.
I smile at her and lean close to peck her on the cheek. "I love you Q." I coo to my best friend and she rolls her eyes at me.
"I know, I love you too. And I think next time we should try blonde." She hums, fixing my hair a final time as Tina takes that down and the doors slide open with busy people. They don't realize I'm Santana Lopez since I look different and I pushed myself away from Quinn to seem like a stranger as I hug the coat close to my body and walk out, heading for the second entrance-doors as Quinn pretends to hold up her phone and talk to me while going to the main one with Tina.
I don't stop walking and before I know it, I'm pushing the doors open and putting my hand up to shield myself from the various flashes of camera lights from the paparazzi.
One of them lets out a big sigh.
"Shit, it ain't Lopez." He says with a loud voice, making the others drop their cameras when they receive calls that Quinn exited the main side as I'm coolly walking past them with a stride, following her orders as I see a rusty old library come to view. The paparazzi all run to the main entrance as I smirk and not look back.
I seriously love Quinn, and maybe Tina too.
Slowly, I open the creaky doors of the library and slump inside. It's not a bad library, just not modern looking like the one's you see in this generation but a lovely library no less. It's like an ancient themed library and I can't help but smile at the old lady behind the big desk with a pin that says Librarian.
"Hi." I whisper since you're supposed to be quiet. The old woman looks up and flashes me a toothy smile—well toothless since she only has a few remaining. She waves and goes back to whatever she's doing as I'm left in awe. I must really not look like myself since she didn't recognize me.
With that great knowledge, I skip to the very back of the building, realizing it's the romance section and shrug my shoulders as I grab a book, that being The Notebook. Coincidence much?
I have about 30 minutes or so until Quinn loses the paparazzi that will probably be following her around in their rusty old trucks, so reading a book I used to read a couple years back isn't so bad. I open the first page and furrow my eyebrows when I see a number written on the top right corner of the introductory page. The book's pretty old and the paper's like a light shade of brown, which is cool because I'm pretty sure it's about 10 years of age or something.
Tapping on the mahogany table I occupied as soon as I opened the next few pages, I feel something tugging within me as I recall the number on the front page. I frown and scrunch my nose up, wondering why I feel so bothered and curious. Sighing, I flip back to the first page and slide my finger gently across the digits and letters.
Call me 212 555 0018
The handwriting's pretty plain, and the ink isn't as worn out as the book is. If I could estimate a time, I'd say the person wrote this around 2-3 years ago. I mean, the style of writing isn't that of the 90's and its still pretty much black and not faded so I'm lucky guessing. But why do I have this pull inside me that wants to examine this number further?
Shaking my head for sounding so absurd, I slap my forehead. "Just because it says Call me, doesn't mean you have to actually call the number, Santana." I scold myself while rolling my eyes because talking to myself is way more absurd than the former.
I bite my lower lip and check the time on my watch. It's been 15 minutes and still no call from Quinn or Tina or Puck. When in other cases I wouldn't mind them being late since I need some alone time, right now I really just want to leave this place. Staring at the note inside the book, there's this cold sweaty feeling I have under my boobs whenever I get nervous. It's like haunting me and I'm having a deep staring competition with it too.
Before I could pinch myself away from this distraction, my phone rings loudly and I hear the librarian hissing for me to keep it quiet. I cringe in my seat and squeak back a sorry which isn't addressed. I pluck out my phone to read a text from Quinn saying to get out of the library and look for Tina who's picking me up instead with her beat-up Volkswagen because unfortunately, it's taking longer than usual to lose the reporters and paparazzi's. They were lucky enough to discreetly get Tina out of the car without being followed.
I smile and close my phone after replying a thanks and stay safe to my best friend. I stand up and kick my chair away softly before staring down at The Notebook's introductory page again. It's really irking me, that number and all. When in most times, people just ignore the damn thing, but why is that for me, it's like shining so brightly? So brightly, that my eyes would go blind? I snatch the book and go back to the place where I found it, stuffing it in between another set of romance books as I place my hands inside my coat's pockets and duck my head down whilst walking out of the place, briefly waving at the librarian when I see Tina's car.
After I jump in and strap my seatbelt on, I absentmindedly turn my head back to the library and feel my heart beating faster than I've ever felt it do. It was strange, feeling like this over a scribbled number on a book but why does it also feel like I'm going to regret not calling that number?
Strange.
I'm tapping the armchair of my couch repeatedly, making these annoying noises that pisses Quinn off as she throws her hands in the air and removes her glasses, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes because she hasn't slept for two days. It's been two days since the incident attack of the mob, and I'm in house arrest because they've been camping outside of my house for god knows how long. Quinn's on a rampage with talking to a lot of people, most of them just being plain old' Sue and I'm stuck like an animal in a cage.
"Will you stop that?" she growls, gritting her teeth together as she slams her hands down on the table. "I swear, the streams are insane, I might just go up to Jesse and rip out his balls." She tells me with venom dripping out of her voice, shocking me because Quinn's usually patient.
I sigh and push myself up, walking behind her as I massage her tense shoulders, smiling when it eases down. "Relax Quinn, you don't have to stress it that much." I whisper to her kindly, wanting her to calm down because she's done so much already. I know this dilemma isn't like the time with the kid or the shoe-stealing lady. No, those can be fixed nicely but this one's a tough one. Why? Because it's official, it's twitter and there's a damn picture of me, which Jesse tweeted:
It's official! Here's a sample cover title of Santana Lopez's newest album, Hit It Hard.
And who wouldn't see that? Jesse's fucking dubbed to be my producer, so any word coming out of his mouth will be believed to be true and Quinn's having a hard time to fix this problem because shit, so the least Jesse could do was tweet:
There might be some changes, hang on to tight!
Why he didn't reveal the truth is because he has to save his reputation too, if he tells the world that it was actually a joke, not only will he lose his position as a producer, but also no one would want to sign under him anymore—because who would want a false producer? No one. And in return for me not suing him for unofficial news on my contract album release, they can't go against Quinn and I's wishes for my new album. So it's official to us for now that my album's named Bed of Roses.
"Of course I have to stress it, Santana—" she groans, rubbing her forehead as she eases into my touch. "—I'm your publicist, stress is in my job." She chuckles through a sore throat. "Besides, your lucky all you have to do is sing your amazing voice."
I smile at her sympathetically and step back, walking to the kitchen as I reply, "That's not all, I get to heat something up for my kick-ass publicist too because she's a genius." I hum, shimming my butt as I hear her laugh at me.
Stopping by the fridge to toast her some left over pizza, my mind drifts back to the book in the old musty library. I nibble on my lower lip and whimper when my heart starts to beat erratically. I clutch my chest and steady my breathing. This is insane, it's just a number—why am I so fucking interested?
When the microwave rings done, I grab a plate and slide the pizza on top, briskly gliding back to my best friend as I lay it beside her and lean down to kiss her on the forehead. I walk to the coat hanger and get my favorite coat, feeling Quinn's gaze on me.
"And where are you going?" I hear Quinn ask as I twist my neck to face her.
"Outside?" I reply, more like a question rather than a statement.
Quinn shakes her head furiously. "No—Nuh uh, you are not going out there, the paparazzi, Santana!" she exasperates, grabbing her pizza to chew on irritably.
I roll my eyes at her and chuckle. "I'm taking the car, they can't chase me from my garage Quinn." I reply smoothly, watching the wrinkles form on her forehead. I should probably tell her that the more she frowns, the older she gets, but she wouldn't like to hear that.
"There's a reason I'm putting you on house arrest." She grumbles, crossing her arms together.
I nod my head and wink at her. "I know, and two days is enough to keep me in like a birdie." I smile and button up my coat close. "So see ya, Q." I wave goodbye to her and skip off before she chains me to my bed.
Wanky.
Staring at the doors of the musty library is something I should probably call on a therapist about. It's not normal and it's totally weird. No one does this, not even abnormal people. Not like I have anything against them.
Sighing, I push the doors open and stride in, peeking inside to check if anyone was inside and smiled when I see the old lady-librarian checking on some books that's above her desk. I suck in my lips and close the door behind me, staying as quiet as possible because I don't want her knowing I'm here as I tip-toe my way to the farthest end of the library again, the romance section.
I nibble on my lower lip nervously as I scan the shelves for the place where I left the book. I'm about to lose hope when my eyes catch the spine of the familiar book and I'm bouncing towards it. I slip it out of its place and try to fight off the smile encasing my lips as I walk to the back end and lean against the walls, putting a foot behind me to keep me steady as I open the front page and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
It's still there.
Call me 212 555 0018
I feel my butt scooting down and I end up falling flat on the carpet floor. I close my eyes and sigh, releasing a chilly breath because apparently, it's cold inside the library.
Don't do it Santana, that's crazy. You're just uneasy about your new album, your head's getting messed up.
Peeking down at the front page, I roll my eyes and whip back, snatching my phone from my back pocket and turning it on. I chatter on my teeth nervously and whimper, knowing this might be a really bad idea or a good one—I'll never know.
Typing down the numbers, I didn't even know I clicked the call button until I have my phone pressed to my ear and it's making a ringing sound. I nibble on my lower lip and groan, rubbing my frustration away by pinching my skin when it continues to ring.
I just have to ease my curiosity; it's not going to kill anyone. After this, I'm done—I'll hang-up after the first call and word from whoever owns this number and walk away, never thinking of this note and number again.
I'm about to give up because it's obvious this number must be left over by the user, probably an old phone when finally, someone picks it up.
"Hello?"
The air rips out of my lungs as my eyes widen and my heart stops beating. I'm pretty sure I just died for a second there when all of a sudden, life is being brought back to me when the person on the other line says,
"Hello?" again.
I gulp and find my voice when I hear shuffling on the other side.
"Excuse me? Is someone there?"
I seriously need to say something or I'm going to get hung up here. But I'm having a hard time because this is the most heavenly voice I've ever heard, so sweet and pure, light and just freaking amazing to listen to. Finally, I decide to say something.
"Hi." I whisper back, mentally slapping myself a billion times at the lack of words.
"Uhm, I'm sorry, who's this?"
I feel sweat dripping down the base of my neck as I blink a couple of times, cursing at myself because the person down the line probably thinks this is the weirdest moment of her life. Just hang up Santana, you've heard what you have to hear, it isn't some serial killer—unless serial killer these days have sweet voices that make angels seem normal but shit, this stranger probably thinks I'm the serial killer in this situation. My voice is pretty scratchy too so, not good.
The first thing that came to my head was the left-over pizza I gave Quinn and before I could stop myself, I'm blurting random words out of my mouth.
"This is Papa Gerry's delivery, I—I'm calling for, for a confirmation." I stutter, closing my eyes for a second in sheer embarrassment. If Quinn could only see me now, she'd never let this go.
The stranger doesn't reply after a minute. "Oh, uh—I never called for a delivery." The stranger is a girl by the way, if you didn't already know, her voice monotone. There's some whispering before she continues to talk. "And there's no Papa Gerry's in LA."
I feel my face go pale and I don't even know why. Is it because I'm upset this girl is mostly 4,000 kilometers away? Yeah, probably. And what the heck? Was I actually considering going to this woman's house and stalking her?
I'm calling Quinn to hire me a therapist, ASAP.
"S-Sorry, this must be a wrong number—are you sure there's no Papa Gerry's in LA?" I find myself asking, slapping my forehead at sounding so absurd. Of course there's none, I of all people show know that.
There's a giggle down the line and it leaves me jaw dropping. That giggle could move mountains, could stop the war between South Korea and other Korea; that giggle could fucking kill me.
"Yes—I'm pretty sure there's none here, I've lived here my whole life." She replies, and I'm guessing she's tapping her chin too. "Anyways, I'm really sorry you called the wrong number, maybe the person you're looking for is in New York? I visited there before and saw a Papa Gerry's—so uh yeah."
I try but I cant stop the smile forming my face when I hear her rambling, she probably got lost in thought at trying to help me that she forgot. Ugh, Santana snap out of it—you don't even know anything about this girl except her phone number, but that was a random.
"That's right, uhm—Papa Gerry's only exists in New York." I inform her, hearing more shuffling on the other side and I'm pretty sure she's walking or something.
"Really? That's cool—then why'd you call an LA number?" she asks me bluntly, leaving my face to blush a deep shade of red. Fuck, I didn't think deeply enough for this.
"Sorry—what?" I ask back, trying to think of an excuse because this is very, very embarrassing.
The girl giggles again and I'm pretty sure I sense Korea stopping their war. "Didn't you check the number you're calling? The district is LA's code."
I exhale and clear my throat, distracting myself from further humiliation. "I didn't notice that—" I joke, chuckling lightly. "My mistake, please forgive me Ms.—" I try to get her name, desperate to get some kind of information from the angel that belongs to the digits jotted down in this book. Fuck, I'm going crazy.
"It's no problem." She replies, laughing at me as I frown, not liking the fact she didn't catch on to my moves. "Good luck finding the person who called then." She tells me and I can feel her giving me the thumbs up.
I chuckle and roll my eyes, I don't even know this person personally and I'm already guessing her body language. Crazy this is, I tell you.
"Thanks." I husk, frowning when I realize I can't say anything else to keep this going, knowing this was the last time I'll let my curiosities get to me. "Sorry again and have a nice day." I whisper, pushing away that cold feeling in my gut as I keep the act.
She's humming on the other line and it makes me smile slightly. "It's really no big deal. Bye!" and just like that, the most magical moment in my life ends and I'm left staring at my phone, wanting nothing more than to call her number again and be friends with this girl that caught my soul's attention.
Before I could do anything stupid, the librarian clears her throat and I'm looking at her with wide eyes.
She narrows her own orbs at me and scowls. "Are you done?" she hisses and I cringe from where I'm sitting on the carpet floor, shocked to see an old woman get mad.
Aren't they supposed to be sweet and sugary?
I scramble to my feet and stick myself to the wall, hesitantly offering her The Notebook with shaky hands. Other than my grandmother and parents, this librarian scares me. "I—I'd like to borrow this." I mutter, nudging my chin to the book. "Please." I add for good measure.
The librarian snatches the book from my grasp and glares one final time before spinning on the balls of her feet and then walking back to the big desk. After a minute, I'm in front of her, taking the book and running away from the damn place like my life depended on it.
"I must be dreaming."
I snap my head to Quinn and narrow my eyes on her curiously as she continues to stare at me from where she's sitting on the couch in my living room. I was on the stool of my open kitchen.
"Excuse me—"
"—You're not complaining about everything you see." Quinn interrupts me; eyes wide and mouth open in agape. "Usually, you'd be complaining about the air being humid and not good enough for your 'tan-toned skin' but you're not, so this must be a dream."
I roll my eyes and grab a piece of nacho in my plate, throwing it to Quinn as she squeals and covers her face, the nacho not hitting her anyways. "Oh shut up." I retort, clucking my tongue. "I don't get mad about the air all the time."
She gives me a pointed look. "I'm just going to ignore you saying that."
I shrug my shoulders and continue eating my lunch, eyeing my phone laid across the counter, near my glass of water like it's staring back at me too.
"Is your phone broken?" Quinn asks me, catching my attention as I twist my neck to her.
"No—why would you ask that?" I reply, scrunching my nose up as Quinn laughs.
"I don't know, maybe because you've been looking at it for the past 30 minutes since I've arrived?"
I scoff and cross my arms together. "I'm just checking my twitter feed." I reason out shortly, smirking when Quinn glares at me.
"Really? Because if I check my phone, which you logged your twitter into also—your last log-in was yesterday." She hums, removing the smirk off of my face as she winks at me.
"Whatever—" I huff, not trying to show that she's right like always when my eyes widen. "Wait—there's no such thing in twitter." I gasp, pointing an accusing finger at her as Quinn throws her head back and laughs, wiping a non-existent tear.
"I know, you fell for it." She chides, clucking her tongue. "So tell me, what's up with you and your phone?" she asks once more, arching an eyebrow at me.
I gulp and shake my head. "Nothing." I hiss back as a reply, knowing full well if I told Quinn what happened to me 3 days ago, she'd flip on me and yell and do other motherly stuff because what I did is just wrong.
"Doesn't sound like nothing." She retorts, crossing her arms together whilst tilting her head to the side.
I snap my head to her and grit my teeth, showing my Snix side so she'd drop it. "Well it's nothing to me, so nothing."
Quinn frowns, obviously disappointed at me for pushing her away and stands up, packing her things. "I guess I'll go then." She sighs, strapping her shoulder bag on.
I scowl and furrow my eyebrows. "What? Why?"
She shrugs her shoulders and glares at me. "It's nothing." She bites back, already stomping her feet out of the door as I let out a heavy sigh, knowing she'd be running to Hudson's arms because she hates being pissed at me.
We're weird like that.
I eye my phone and shake my head to myself. I shouldn't want to call this stranger again. Heck, I shouldn't have called in the first place! I just thought it would disperse my curiosity, when sadly; it actually heightened it by a hundred percent. Every night since that day I'm dreaming of her voice, of her freaking laugh and the way she'd hum a lot in her words, like she's pondering each one. Oh god, something's wrong with me—I'm observing a stranger on the phone!
Quinn, come back please, I'm going to go insane again.
I jump when my phone rings and I'm snatching it, frowning when it wasn't from the stranger from LA but Rachel instead. What was I thinking? Of course she wouldn't call back, that's more insane than the insanity I'm feeling right now.
Quinn came to me all mad, what did you do this time Santana?
I grit my teeth and tilt my head in confusion. Quinn went to Rachel and not Hudson. That's weird, usually Finn's the guy to be but now it's different. Maybe it's because Rachel lives right across from me, that'd be an easier and faster walk. I used to be her roommate and we'd share the loft rent but this one opened up and I couldn't stand living with her.
Deciding not to reply because Quinn's going to tell her anyways, I roll my eyes at Quinn for being her over-exaggerated self again and open up another app in my phone, biting my lower lip as I come across a number that's stuck in my head.
212 555 0018
I didn't give her a name since I didn't know what her name was, but I also felt like I could give her 100 other pretty adjectives but it would only remind me how weird I am and everything. Call me a fool but it's not like this girl can see me sine she's all the way in LA so I'll bet on my instincts and before I know it, I hit the call button.
It rings only two times before she finally picks up.
"I hope you're not going to try the delivery line on me again." Says the heavenly voice, almost like she knew I was going to call since she didn't bother with a hi, my lips instantly tugging up to a smile as I feel the weight being lifted off of my shoulders at her voice. But then I frown when I take in her words.
"Wha—Delivery line?" I ask, confused.
She giggles and I feel my heart flip for a second. "I'm not stupid, I know you aren't actually a delivery girl from Papa Gerry's." she teases me and it makes me blush because shit, I've been caught.
"And how do you know that? I might actually be one, you know." I tease back, propping my feet on top of the table as I lean back and nearly fall, remembering I'm just sitting on a stool so I jump down and walk to my couch, leaning into the soft cushions instead.
"Please, your voice is too pretty to be a delivery girl."
Is it just me or is she flirting?
I laugh and lick my lips, joy surging through my body. "That's nice of you to say—for a stranger I mean." I point out, scooting my butt so I could place my legs on the expanse space of the couch.
"You're calling me a stranger when you called first?" she shoots back, making me roll my eyes playfully. Who would've thought I could be such a sap?
"Touche." I reply, chuckling lightly. "Touche." I repeat again just because.
There's a silence between us, probably because I should be the one to start. But you want to know the weird thing? It's not weird at all.
"So, since I'm embarrassed enough that you know what I was doing, I'm going to say sorry—" I start off, scratching the back of my head. "For uh—calling you and lying."
She shuffles on the other side and I hear the distant sound of a dog barking. "Hey it's okay, we all do strange things, huh?" she replies, making me smile because she's so understanding but I frown again after.
"Aren't you scared that I might be some murderer or something?" I joke, trying not to grin so much because my cheeks started to ache.
"Hm—" there she goes again, doing that humming thing. "Are you a killer?" she asks me, and I hint playfulness in her tone.
Smiling, I shake my head like she can see me and nibble on my lower lip. "No," I husk, clearing my throat. "I'm not." I assure her, doubting she'd believe me.
Milk on my lucky stars though when I hear her sigh and chuckle. "Then you're not." She says, and is it just me or does she feel the same way I do? The fact that this isn't weird at all, and that even though we're strangers, it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to our lives. Dammit, this is only our second conversation.
"My name's Brittany by the way."
I blink a couple of times before grinning, ignoring the way my cheeks burn from wrinkling too much. I'm more of a pouty girl, so this is very unusual.
I'm about to spit out my name but I remember the fact I'm a singer—a popular singer in New York and the whole wide world maybe. It's like Katy Perry calling someone, and the other person would obviously not believe it. Would this girl—this Brittany, feel the same way if I told her my name maybe?
Clucking my tongue, I shake my head at myself. I don't think there's a bone in my body that can lie to this stranger.
"S-Santana, Santana Lopez." I whisper out, clenching my eyes shut for the inevitable words when surprisingly, they don't come—instead, she says,
"Hi Santana from—New York, I'm guessing?"
A small smile graces my lips as I chuckle and nip on my lower lip. It's a great change to have someone else not scream and tell me they know me, that they want my autograph and my picture or something. It's a great break.
"Yup, with the Papa Grey's." I joke, licking the roof of my mouth as I absentmindedly start playing with my hair.
"Does that place really have good pizza?" she asks, thoroughly amused. "I mean, my sister and I were going to eat there but never had the chance."
It's funny—how comfortable hearing stories from her sounds like. It's also pretty amazing how I'm sure these things only happen in movies or something, never in real life. And if Quinn could only see me now, she'd throw a pickle.
Did I really just say that?
"Yeah, I buy it almost everyday." I reply, biting my tongue from asking further questions like, what's the color of your hair, your eyes, are you tall or short, do you smell like vanilla's or cherry's, what's your favorite color, do you like orange or mango juice—but I didn't want to scare her off.
"That's cool, I buy coffee everyday so it's normal."
I roll my eyes and chuckle lowly. "Buying coffee everyday really is normal, especially in New York—but pizza on the other hand, that's far from normal." I ramble my thoughts out, licking my dry lips.
"Does that mean you're a fatty?" she jokes, and I sigh out at the sound of her laughter again, music to my ears.
Smirking, I look out of my window, seeing more buildings. "And what if I am?" I retort back playfully, shrugging my shoes off because it was getting uncomfy and I didn't want dirt on my couch—dammit, and I had it on for quite a while too.
"Doesn't matter, I have fat friends." She replies and I bury myself further into the couch, hugging one of the throw-pillows to my chest.
I didn't know how to reply to that so instead, I do what she does, hum.
Another silence surrounds us and I really want to ask her all my questions but she stops me.
"I doubt your fat though." She puts in, voice assumingly 100 percent.
I arch an eyebrow at her tone and suck my lips in, wondering why she sounded so sure of herself. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She says, and I feel her playful tone through the ruffling noises in her side. "Because I'm pretty sure you're thin in your twitter headshot–unless the Santana Lopez is actually a fat girl." She teases me and I have to throw my head back and release the roaring laughter out of my trembling lips, hoping the neighbors wont hear me.
So she knew, but she acted cool. That was nice to know.
"No, no." I whisper, tugging my tank top down when it rode up a bit. "That's my picture alright."
"Sweet, I can't wait to tell my sister I'm talking to her all-time favorite singer." I'm pretty sure she has a grin on her teeth and she's walking her dog because the barking doesn't stop and I hear children.
Quirking my eyebrow up, I push myself into a sitting position. "Your sister's a fan?" I ask, licking my lips. "And you believe I'm Santana Lopez?"
She laughs on the line again and I'm left smiling like a fool. "The biggest fan, and I know you're Santana Lopez because I may have listened to a few of your songs, I can tell by your voice that you are the one and only."
My eyebrows arch in amusement. "And you're not a fan?" I shoot back, sitting up when there's a knock on the door. "And—" I drawl, puffing out my cheeks. "—you only heard a few of my songs?"
I open the door to see Tina walking in about to open her mouth but I hold a finger up to silence her, shaking my head. She clamps her lips shut and I close the door when she enters fully.
"I'm a supporter." She shrugs off coolly and I almost believe it. "Yup, just a few since my sister plays it on repeat in the house."
A chuckle comes out of my lips as I turn to face Tina whose face is suddenly paler than her skin tone. I furrow my eyebrows and walk away from her, peeking back to see her staring at the spot I just stood a second ago.
"I should send her a personal autograph then."
"That would make her the happiest girl in the world."
I smile and blush when Tina catches me, face going paler than a while ago that makes me want to really slap some color into that girl.
"I have a question though—" Brittany hums, and I gulp down hard, wondering what it could be.
"Go," I reply softly, nibbling on my lower lip as I open the fridge and bend down to grab two soda cans for Tina and I.
There's a heavy breath on the line and just as I start to think she hung up, she asks, "How did you get my number—exactly?"
A bucket of ice drops over me as my teeth start to chatter, almost like I feel the cold cubes. My eyes avert everywhere around the room, looking for an answer because shit, I didn't think about that. My mouth opens and closes like a guppy fish and I close my eyes, thinking deeply for a good comeback when nothing comes to head. I chew on my inner cheek and look to Tina who's confused as to why I'm showing her my pleading eyes.
"Santana?"
My heart thumps out of my chest at hearing my name come out of her lips. I take a deep breath in and say the only thing I could say that's not a lie—but kind of is too.
"I—I have to go, Tina's here and I uh, I'm sorry I have to go." I ramble, slapping my forehead in humiliation as Tina cracks a smile beside me, wondering who's on the phone to make me such a mess.
There's silence before Brittany's chuckling on the other line. "Okay—" she drawls, and I hear her smacking her lips. "Is it weird to say call me again?" she asks and I shake my head.
"N-No, I'll call you back." I promise her, stopping my lips from tugging up any higher. "If that's okay with you of course."
"That's more than okay for me." She breathes out and I feel something hot shoot down on my lower abdomen.
Gulping, I nod my head. "Sweet—I mean awesome, that's awesome."
Tina giggles and I roll my eyes at her. "I don't want to intrude with you and this Tina girl, so nice talking to you again Santana." She whispers, almost like she can't speak loud at the moment.
I smile a mega-watt smile and hum. "Ditto, Brittany—Uh, bye." I mutter as we hang up and I'm left there standing, with the biggest dope eyes in the world—it wont even beat the ones Evans has when he sees Quinn.
I'm snapped out of my daydream when Tina laughs louder this time, crashing my world as I whip my head to her and growl. "What is it, Cohen-Chang?"
I give her a can and she places it by the floral table.
She shakes her head and holds her phone up. "Ms. Fabray just wanted me to tell you not to forget about dinner in Ms. Berry's house tonight." But in her small eyes, I can see a glint that says I want to know who you were talking to that made you into a hormonal teenage boy.
I scowl and cluck my tongue, crossing my arms together as I pocket my phone. "And you came here all the way to say that?" I exasperat, scrunching my nose up. "Quinn's like right across my loft." I point out to my door.
Tina shrugs her shoulders. "Ms. Fabray ordered me so I can't really complain."
Tapping my chin, I tilt my head up a bit. "You know, I can see a future Fabray-publicist in you." I compliment, rolling my eyes at myself because fuck, one conversation with Brittany made me into this? Insane.
Tina's eyes widen comically though. "Really?" she gasps, nearly crying. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." She chokes out as I shake my head, throwing her a roll of tissue.
"No crying in my house unless One Tree Hill is on, go—" I grunt, gesturing to the bathroom as she runs towards it.
Before I stalk to Rachel's loft to ask Quinn why she's being melodramatic again, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I smile instantly when I read the familiar number.
212 555 0018
Brittany Pierce, I never gave you my last name.
I stifle a giggle by covering my mouth as I type in her name, editing her information. Whatever's happening right now is insanely strange, I could be talking to someone who planned this all along by hiring the sweetest and sexiest voice in the world to trick me into revealing my soft side or, I could actually be talking to a person who might just change my boring, complicated life into a magical one. Whatever's going on is magical already anyways. I guess I just have to take a leap of fate and risk it.
Besides, what bad can this Brittany Pierce do to me?
I soon realized that nothing remotely close to the word bad could be associated to Brittany. Even the word semi-bad (if that's even a word) can come close to describing her. She's like a ball of sunshine and no, I haven't seen her yet but I just know she is. And if her voice is that beautiful, what more beautiful will she be when I see her face? I might just faint and go to heaven. I did find out a few things about her when I called again that night after dinner with Quinn, Rachel and surprisingly, Tina. It seems her and Rachel got really close but Quinn got all-professional and kept her space.
Our time difference was only 3 hours behind, me being the later one so it wasn't a problem when I called her. In New York, it was midnight but back in LA, it was only 9pm and she came home from work. Now that is one thing I found out, Brittany's a screenwriter in Paramount Studios, which is impressive might I add. Actually, it's nice to recall that conversation again.
"I love writing, I was an intern at first but like, they seemed to think my work was good and gave me a small job with a few other screenwriters for this movie and I started from there." She explains to me, my lips curling into a grin as I balance my phone in between my ear and shoulder, pulling some pajama shorts on.
"That's pretty cool, I suck at writing—doesn't it involve feelings and shit?" I frown, stretching up after my shorts are around my hips.
Brittany giggles and it never fails to make me smile. "It's not always about feelings and shit—" she mimics me and I blush when I realize I just cursed. "Like, I write plots about aliens and stuff, there's no feelings there."
"Fine, you win." I tell her while rolling my eyes, unclipping my bra as I put on a big t-shirt and slowly walk to my bed. "Do you get paid good for writing stuff like that?" I ask hesitantly, not knowing if it was a rude question or not.
"Yeah, they pay fine. They pay a lot actually because Paramount's like filthy rich." She murmurs and I arch my eyebrow at this. "And I don't need that much money, I still live with my parents and—oh, god, you must think I'm a loser for saying that." I can almost see her blushing.
I shake my head. "Oh no, Brittany, I wouldn't think of you that way, it's kind of cute." I tell her, wanting to show to her how much I don't care about the fact she's 25—year younger than me—and still living at her parent's home.
She giggles down the line and sighs. "Cute? That's an odd way of putting it." She hums that hum.
I smile and sat down on the edge of my bed, scooting my body to a laying position as I kick the blankets off. "I have an unusual mind." I simply reply, turning to my right cheek so that the phone could stay squished between my cheek and the pillow.
"I noticed." She shoots back and I suddenly yawn, feeling the heaviness of the whole day.
Brittany notices this and there's a shuffling on the other side. "You should go to bed, I bet you're tired Ms. Superstar." She teases, and it makes a lopsided grin appear on my face.
I really don't want to hang up, I seriously don't want to, but I also don't want to fall asleep on Brittany and risk making her hear my ugly snore. Okay, I don't have a snore, I was just joking, but from time to time I'd grunt and make weird uncomfortable noises. Quinn once said I slept-talk but I don't believe her.
"Yeah, sorry—I'll call you." I assure her, eyes brightening awake for just a second before it squints close again.
"Can't wait. Night."
After that night, I woke up with drool on my face and half of my phone covered in it. It was disgusting and just—ugh, disgusting. I washed my device about 10 times before it could get its smooth shine again, and after that, I checked the time to see if it was an appropriate time to call Brittany because you could say I got addicted. But then it was only 10am which means 7am for her, and I doubt she'd be up that early. So I went through my usual routine of checking twitter and doing some Q&A's to start my day off when Evans calls me in for a recording, wanting to start on it ASAP but to me, it's more like he's asking me to come and bring Quinn so he could ogle her the whole time.
But whatever, I know Quinn's a big girl and she can deal with him. So since it was a heavy traffic outside the streets of New York at around 1pm with Puck shouting at intersecting cars, I decide to try and give Brittany a call.
"Hey! I was wondering when you'd call." Was the first thing I heard as my body tenses at how straightforward Brittany was. Does she feel just as happy when she talks to me like how I am to her?
"Aren't you desperate?" I tease, caressing my exposed knee as I nibble on my lower lip, ignoring the various beeping noises coming from the busy streets.
I'm pretty sure Brittany dropped something on the line but I could be wrong. "Shut up." She mumbles and I chuckle lowly when something spurs inside my head.
"I've been meaning to ask you this." I tell her, crossing my legs.
"It's just the third day and you've been thinking that hard?" she replies with a playful tone, making me roll my eyes.
I shrug my shoulders up even though she can't see. "Hey, who wouldn't want to know what the stranger you're talking on the phone to looks like?" I shoot back, scowling at Puck as he gives the finger to one of the drivers. Immature.
"Oh so that's what you were going to ask?" she hums, giggling that lovely tune. "Well, I'm blonde." She starts off and I don't know why but I'm sketching her descriptions in the back of my head.
"Tall."
"Knew it." I blurt out, blushing when I realize what I just said.
Brittany chuckles on the other side. "What do you mean, you knew it?" She asks, curiosity dripping out of her voice.
I shrug my shoulders indifferently. "Just had this inkling you were tall, I dunno."
What I really wanted to tell her is that I'm pretty sure she's a model, and models have long legs don't they? So yeah, pretty sure about that.
"Lucky guess then." She husks out as a reply, leaving my body to shiver. "Let's see, I have pale skin, I'm half-German and—I guess that's all." She finishes but I'm left pouting.
"Your eyes." I tell her.
The horns of the car's beeping outside makes me want to punch the drivers inside them for ruining the hearing aids I have with my talk to the most amazing girl ever.
"My eyes?" she repeats in a question.
"Yeah, uh—what color are they?" I ask, whispering because I'm worried she might think it's weird.
Brittany sighs down the line and I'm hoping it's a positive one. "Blue. They're blue."
Peering out of the window to look at the bright sky, I grin from ear to ear and let out a sigh of my own. "That's nice."
So it goes on like that, I'd call her at night when I'm done doing songs with Quinn and the others whilst Brittany calls in the morning because I wake up earlier than her and whenever she calls, it's a sure that we're both awake and not disturbing the other. You might call it unhealthy but it's nice talking to a person that's not like Quinn or Rachel or Tina.
I'm cooking myself lunch when I hear the ringing sound of my phone, signaling it's Brittany as I smile and dash towards my room, immediately clicking the accept button.
"Hi." I whisper out, going back to the kitchen because I can't leave the bacons to burn. "Just woke up?" I tease, noticing the time since this is the latest she's called me and I've been desperately waiting.
Brittany groans from the other side and I hear shuffling, almost like she's literally just getting up from bed. "Long night, I called as soon as I woke up." She mutters and I feel my heart bursting into a million butterflies because that only means she thought of me as soon as her beautiful blue eyes opened. Now that, just totally made my day.
"How was last night?" I ask lightly, turning the oven off as I carry the pan with one gloved hand, moving to the island counter where my plate lies.
"Went out dancing with Mike and Kurt, it was horrible but fun at the same time."
Mike and Kurt are her best friends in the LA world. She met Mike since she was a toddler and Kurt just recently when she signed up to Paramount Studios. But she also told me she had another bestie—what was her name? Oh that's right, Mercedes.
"Horrible and Fun? Do tell me the details." I press her on, sliding the bacon to my plate as I tilt the pan sideways.
Brittany clears her throat and I hear a door opening before the faucet runs. I'm guessing she's washing her face or brushing her teeth. After a few splashes, she answers me. "Horrible because Kurt fed me tequila like crazy and fun because I get to dance."
Oh I didn't mention the fact that she's also a retired dancer, got a bad injury.
"So your head hurts? You shouldn't have called me then, Britt." I scold her lightly, blushing when I realized I just shortened her name.
Lucky for me, she didn't mind as much. Actually, her voice got even less groggy. "Wouldn't want to miss you just in case you got into work." She admits shyly and it makes a happy sigh come out of my mouth.
"Well you didn't, but seriously, take some aspirin or something, I'll call you later." I assure her, knowing from experience how bad tequila is for a hangover.
She giggles down the line and groans after. "Thanks, now I kind of wish I didn't go out and party that much." She confesses and I have to grin from that.
"I don't—" I tell her, watching as the building of our recording studio came to view. "Or I wouldn't be hearing this side of you."
"Alright, alright—I'll get some sleep so that the next time I call, you wont tease me."
Smiling, we said our goodbyes and the entire time in the studio I was all grins and laughs and fluttery-butterfly-stomach. Evans was the most shocked out of everyone since I didn't say a bad word about his mouth. But how could I when all I thought about was Brittany?
"So you haven't asked me yet." I mumble through the phone while eating my Chinese take-out for dinner.
Brittany hums down the line. "Asked you what exactly?"
I grin through chunks of chicken and gulp down my food. "What I looked like, I mean—aren't you curious too?" I wonder, tapping my chin and then frowning when I feel some oil on it. Gross, why do I eat like a pig when it comes to delicious Chinese food?
"I know what you look like San, you're pretty much around the Internet." She replies with a playful tone, yawning from time to time.
I scrunch my nose up and look ay my clock; it's only 10pm here so it's like 7pm there, why would she be sleepy?
"True that, but don't you still want to ask me?" I joke lightly, rolling my eyes to myself because that was just so lame of me to say. She knows what I look like, why bother asking?
"Okay, fine—Ms. Persistent, what's the color of your hair?" she asks lightly, smacking her lips, which I notice she does a lot. Her favorite Chap Stick flavor is also cherries.
Twirling my hair, I giggle. "Red." I taunt her, smirking smugly.
Brittany catches on to what I'm doing and a chuckle goes down the line. "No, I don't think so." She tells me and I quirk an eyebrow at her.
"Really? Your telling me I don't know my own self?" I tease back, wanting to see where this goes.
"Yes, because I'm pretty sure your hair is far from red." She quips as I stand up and step on the trash bin, dumping the Chinese take-out box whilst licking the sauce off of my fingers.
Shrugging my shoulders, I go over to the fridge. "Since you're so sure of yourself, tell me what I look like then." I challenge her, bumping my hip to close the fridge as I uncap my water bottle and took a swig.
There's a bit of a shuffling in the other side and I hear her greeting her pet dog, Charlie. "Okay, I will." She replies after with a high and mighty voice. "You have black hair, but it's weird because sometimes I think it's brown too."
That nearly made me spit out the water from my mouth because it humored me a bit.
"And your eyes, it's like a chocolate-bar looking. Like a round rich chocolate cookie."
I arch an eyebrow at this. "Did you just compare my eyes to a cookie?"
"Oh shut up—" she tells me and I smile. "You got a button-up nose and—" she drawls, clucking her tongue. "Nice red lips." She ends, but as I open my mouth, she adds something else. "—and a racking body, don't forget that."
Chuckling, I roll my eyes and look down at my own body. "No need to tell me, Britt, I know I'm smoking hot."
"And to up yourself huh?" she teases me lightly, Charlie barking in the background when the sound of a young girl calling Brittany's name comes to my attention.
"Is that Cassie?" I ask, smiling softly when I hear her sister asking Brittany who she's talking to again.
Brittany hums and grunts, probably scooting up the little girl who dubs herself as the biggest Santana Lopez fan ever. "Yeah it is, I have to bring her to her friend's house."
I nod my head even though she can't see me. "I'll wait for your call tomorrow morning then?" I ask, heart beating fast and a bit disappointed today's conversation ended way too early.
"Oh no." Brittany replies and I can sense her shaking her head as I frown, confused. "I'm calling you after I drop her, I need me some Santana Lopez time."
And my heart just melts.
She does call me after dropping Cassie off, I was waiting on bed with my phone clutched to my chest and fighting the sleep away. Just as I felt myself drifting, my phone rings loudly and I immediately clicked the accept button.
We talked about everything and nothing. It's amazing to feel such a connection with this stranger, who turns out not to be a stranger to me anymore. I feel like years being friends with Quinn summed up everything to Brittany in just 4 days. It's crazy but I'd like to think whatever I feel about her is not just one-sided. But I'll never know, and I don't want to push her.
Before I fell asleep, she told me she wished she could see me and I said the same. I really do want to see what this girl looks like, lucky for her she can search pictures of me in the net but that's not me me. Those are pictures for the public, the fans but not for Brittany, not for a girl I'm falling so hard for. Knowing she's blonde and has blue eyes is amazing but I want to see her without the imaginations in my head. I've even gone so far as to search her on Facebook but Brittany Pierce is a common name.
"They're getting suspicious."
I'm tying my hair up into a bun as I narrow my eyes on Quinn, feeling a scowl grace my lips. "Excuse? Who are getting suspicious?"
She drops her laptop on top of the coffee table and removes her glasses, crossing her leg over the other. "The paparazzi, the press, the reporters, Evans, everyone." She emphasizes with a hand gesture. "Frankly, even I'm getting suspicious."
I frown and cock my hips to the side. "And what would all of you be suspicious of?" I retort in a snarky way, feeling my heart sink because I know where this is going.
"The person you've been talking to on the phone, Santana." Quinn sighs, rubbing her forehead. "Lately, the pictures people are seeing of you are either you on the phone smiling, you on the phone laughing, or you on the phone holding your damn chest and lately, twitter's exploding like a mayhem, wondering who in the world you've been talking to."
I roll my eyes and grit my teeth. "Didn't think talking on the goddamn phone would cause such a riot in people who don't even know me." I growl, talking about those damn paparazzi's. So what? Don't all stars talk on the phone? They're insane. "It's just a phone."
She shrugs her shoulders up and sighs. "That's exactly it. It's just a phone and that's why they're interested."
"They're overreacting." I complain back, whipping my head to Quinn. "I'm just talking a lot lately, you talk on the phone for over 24 hours—I don't see people complaining."
Quinn shakes her head at me. "I can do that because it's my job, but Santana—they wouldn't care if they didn't catch you on times like this." She huffs, sliding a few developed pictures across the table as I slowly approach them.
I look down and feel myself go pale. They were pictures of me mostly on the phone, some of them with me talking while hanging out with friends, others are of me texting whilst an interviewer was talking to me and the worst of all, was me yelling at the nearest phone store I found down the street when I lost battery and needed a walking charger ASAP. They knew of the story because damn people inside that store are so nosy.
"They say you've become an addict." Quinn whispers to me, quirking an eyebrow. "I didn't even get to print that picture of you yelling at an old lady for bumping into you and dropping your phone, making the sim-card pop out. You went bat shit crazy just because you didn't know how to insert it back in."
I roll my shoulders left and right, distracting myself because I'm about to go all out. I didn't even think people would talk so much about me just talking on the goddamn phone. Was it weird? No it isn't weird, so why the hell should they bother with me and my magical life with Brittany?
"Who are you talking to Santana?" Quinn finally asks, staring at me with pleading eyes. "This isn't just me being a publicist but me being your friend. I'm worried because it's unhealthy and I don't—"
"What if I don't want to tell you?" I bite back, gritting my teeth. "It's my fucking life, and I know you always fix it but this one, I don't need you in it." It was harsh of me to say but I was being cornered by my best friend, I can't have that now.
Quinn flashes me a sad smile and stands up, walking close to me as I feel tears prickling on the sides of my eyes. Dammit, why do I feel like crying?
"Then how about this, why don't you want to tell me?" she asks instead, combing fallen blonde hair behind the lobe of her ear.
I exhale a shaky breath and close my eyes shut, whimpering.
"Because if I say it out loud, and—and tell someone—" I stutter, shaking my head furiously. "It's just going to prove more and more that she's real and I wont be in that dream again." I confess, biting my lip.
Fuck, Brittany is the realest thing that's ever happen to me.
How is it so far? Probably a two-shot or three-shot!
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