A/N: New story up! Okay, so this is another 4-parter, because I really needed a break from WIME. So, while I sit on it to incubate, I've decided to drop another random fanfic. It's not my best, I'm on the fence about this one, but I hope you like it!
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Build You Up
Part 1
It's amazing, so amazing how
I've survived this road
I've never really known him—never really had the chance to find out who he is, what's his story—but like everything else in this school, you only get as much as what everyone tells you. Nobody really believes the hushed gossip, of course—considering there's just so many—but he's always been a mystery—the quiet guy who keeps to himself, appearing and disappearing as and when he feels appropriate—and most of the time, people don't usually care.
I know I don't—not technically.
That is, until Mr. Schuester decides to pair everybody up for a mid-semester lab project.
"Alright, on the board is a list," he announces to the class. "Find your partners and get cracking."
Rachel Berry—a.k.a. Miss Eager Beaver—as usual, is the first to bolt out of her seat and scramble to the front. Squealing in glee, she spins around with what can only be described as a toothpaste-commercial grin, and skips back down the aisle.
"Who'd you get?" I ask anxiously, half-hoping that maybe this time round I'd be lucky enough to work with my best friend.
"Puck!"
It's like a gag reflex, and I really don't mean it, but my nose instantly scrunches up in slight disgust. Noah Puckerman is the resident Casanova—that necessary bad boy stereotype—who's been shamelessly flirting with every breathing female within a mile radius ever since he discovered puberty did wonders to his manhood—literally—and his ego. I open my mouth to offer a comment when Santana Lopez slides into the conversation with a snort of disdain and does it for me.
"Did I just hear you say that you'll be working with the Fuckerman?"
Rachel crosses her arms defensively over her chest. "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
"You're seriously going to rely on that ass of a douche with your grades?" she smirks, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Do I have to remind you of that one fucking time he fed weed to Lord Tubbington?"
"It was an accident," the petite brunette insists, hands wildly flailing in the air. "Besides, he actually apologized to Brittany about that, didn't he, and—"
Here we go again.
I love these girls to death, and most of the time, their back and forth bantering are rather entertaining, but after a while, you sort of know when the argument is a train wreck waiting to happen, and my role—the ever-present mediator—gets the honor of diffusing the situation before that actually happens.
"Well then, I guess I'm going to go check who I'll be partnering for this assignment—"
"No need for that," Rachel stops me. "I already did it for you. You're with Sam Evans."
I cock my head to the side, wondering if I'd heard her wrong. "What? Really?"
The only response I get is a positive nod of her head.
"No way," Santana yelps, and even before the words escape her mouth, I'm making my way to the board.
I see it—his name—typed out in the column aligned next to mine.
Where Puck is on the social chain doesn't even compare to the magnitude of what Sam Evans is capable of. The rumor mill spins just for his existence alone. Ever since his dad was convicted for conspiring in murder and gang activity, everything about him is classified as dangerous. It's just safer to stay away.
He sits at the far back corner of the room in his own parallel universe, his shaggy blonde hair falling over his forehead as he hunches forward to scrutinize the words in the textbook like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. A million horrifying scenarios flash before me—re-enactments of tales that have been flying around—and I'm trying to ignore the God-awful feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.
And then his eyes—green and piercing—snap up, instantly locking with mine. It spears through me, snatching the breath right from under my feet, as though he's deciphering the inner depths of my soul. An involuntary shiver runs down the length of my spine at such intensity, and I'm once again reminded of why people tend to fear him.
Forcing myself to tear my gaze away, I turn instead to face my chemistry teacher. "I'm sorry, Mr. Schue?"
"Yes, Quinn?"
"Is there any chance that perhaps I can have another partner instead?"
His thick brows spring up at my unsuspecting request. "Well, what's the problem with Sam?"
"Erm…" Where do I even begin? "Well, you see, I've been thinking of applying to Yale, and this assignment, being a big percentage of my score, I can't afford to screw this up, and—"
He gives me an apathetic grimace. "I'm sure you won't then."
"But you don't understand—"
"Look, Quinn, the list is finalized. Unless you can find somebody who'd be willing to trade partners with you, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about it."
With that, he picks his stuff up from the table and waltzes out of the classroom, leaving me to my defenses. Defeated and out of options, I steal a moment to calm myself. This isn't how it's supposed to be, but I figure the best I can do right now is to bite the bullet and accept whatever it is that Sam Evans has to offer me. Regardless of what Mr. Schue probably thinks, I really do have dreams that I wish to accomplish, and if it means that I'll have to brave through the fury of a hurricane, then so be it.
But just as I turn once more to brace myself for impact, I realize that he's gone.
Finn isn't all that thrilled about it, either, and I can't blame him. As a boyfriend, it's an ingrained job to be overprotective—and I mean that in the best way possible—but when I break the news to him during lunch, it looks as if I've just unleashed the beast.
"That son of a bitch," he growls, his fists clenched tightly by his sides, and I almost believe that he might actually cause some serious harm to anybody unfortunate enough to get in his bad books. "If he so much as lays a finger on you—"
"Finn, relax," I say, praying that I don't sound as uncertain as I feel. I'm already concerned enough for the both of us. The last thing I need is for Finn to get all crazy. "I'll be fine, really. It's just a project, and we'll probably have to meet up after school—"
"I'm not leaving you alone with that freak," he exclaims, loud enough to draw some unnecessary attention. "Are you sure there's absolutely no other way to this?"
Not wanting to stir up any more drama, I grab his wrist and tug him over to a quiet corner away from prying eyes and ears. Any sign of distress can send off warning sirens that will undoubtedly cause an even bigger mess.
"Look, Finn, I'm sure it's not going to be that bad—"
"What? Quinn, do you even hear yourself?" he bursts out in frustration. "Sam Evans is blood related to a felon, and for all we know, he's probably one too. Just last weekend, Puck mentioned something about that kid hanging out with a bunch of mobsters or whatever. I'm telling you, he's dangerous, and I'm all but worried about your safety."
Underneath all the hysteria, Finn Hudson is actually rather sweet, and I'm sure his heart is in the right place, but he really isn't helping the situation. "Those are just rumors, Finn. You believe all that crap?"
"Quinn, you haven't seen what he—"
"So do you. I mean, have you actually seen him get arrested? Has he threatened you before? Have you seen him hold a gun to someone's head, or beat the shit out of someone, or all that nasty stuff people keep accusing him of? Why don't we give him the benefit of the doubt?"
Frankly, I don't even know whom I'm trying to convince here, but I just needed to hear it out loud. For a couple of seconds, Finn doesn't say anything, and then he slowly shakes his head.
"Trust me, Quinn. He's not who you think he is."
Against my better judgment, I wait by his locker after school. Sam and I don't have last period together, but I did catch a glimpse of him in the hallway right before English Literature so I'm certain that he's still around.
"What are you doing here?"
I jump, startled at the deep timbre in his voice—so foreign to my ears—and whirl around to find him regarding me with a casual tilt of his head, a certain curiosity in his otherwise guarded features. Now that he's up close, I notice how his eyes are so much more striking than what I'd thought, and that he has a faint scar cutting across just below his partially oversized lips.
The speech that I'd diligently been replaying over and over in my head shoots straight out of the window, and I realize I'm probably looking like a fool, standing there gaping like a fish out of the water.
"Fabray?"
He knows my name.
He knows who I am.
Yet, it feels as though I've just swallowed a bucket of sand.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I manage to grate out. "I—erm—I just, you know, think we should—erm—talk about the chemistry project. Soon. Any time you're free—I'm good."
His face remains impassive. "Sure."
"Great, great." I crack a stiff smile. "Tomorrow after school?"
He nods his head once, and then sort of shifts awkwardly, and all of a sudden I realize that people are watching us, probably trying to ensure that I get out of this alive. Not used to being the object of scrutiny, I self-consciously smooth out the imaginary wrinkles on my skirt.
"Quinn!"
I heave a small sigh of relief when Finn comes sauntering towards me in his prized letterman jacket and wraps his arms around my waist. Instinctively, I lean into his broad frame, glad to hide out in his shelter.
"Hey, Evans."
"Hudson."
The exchange is curt—insignificant, even—and before I know it, he's gone again.
"I heard that he was involved in some sort of brawl at a bar," Rachel randomly blurts out from her spot on my bed as she tries to apply some cherry red nail polish to her toes. "Probably a staring incident."
"You're fucking with me, right?" Santana deadpans, looking up from her sketches to one of her most recent creations. "A brawl?"
"I'm positive. He smashed a bottle through some goon's head and all that. The cops were involved; it was pretty dramatic."
I have to resist rolling my eyes because the more I hear about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. Just earlier on, I've been warned numerous times—on separate occasions—by people I hardly know, to abandon ship. They tell me that it's not worth it. "Where did you even hear all this from?"
Shrugging her shoulders, Rachel mutters, "people in school."
"And you believe them?"
"He's got a scar and all to prove it."
The one below his lips.
Oh, God. Could it be true?
"Quinn, as much as I hate agreeing with the Hobbit right here—"
"Hey!"
"—I've heard something similar too," Santana informs me, her expressions dead serious. It's a stark contrast to her carefree, sassy personality—one that I don't get to see often—and in all honesty, I'm grateful that they're trying to look out for me, but I'm already peeing in my pants as it is without them fanning the flames. "Look, I have an idea. Why don't we just pay Puck a sum to trade partners with you? I'm sure he'll do anything for some dough. I know for a fact that his cigarette stash is running low and his mom is refusing to increase his allowance."
"Do you think he'll agree to it?"
"A hundred percent."
"No way. Nuh-uh. Not for a million bucks."
"What? Why not?"
He stares at me like I've just grown two heads. "I think you know why not."
"Oh, come on, Puck."
"Quinn, I'm going to be brutally honest with you here, okay," he says with a hint of regret in his tone. "You can drop a grenade in my pocket and I still wouldn't trade partners with you. No offense to you, of course, you're Finn's girl, and he's my pal and all, but it's Sam Fucking Evans."
"What if Rachel agrees to sleep with you?" She'll kill me if she finds out, there's no doubt about it, but she should also understand my desperation.
His laughter is hollow, the humor completely lost. "Tempting, really, and I don't mean no disrespect to my lab partner, but it's just not worth it."
I've been waiting a good half an hour and he's still a no show. I'm starting to get this nagging feeling that he totally bailed on me. Lifting my arm up, I check on my wristwatch for the umpteenth time since I've arrived at his locker, my patience already stretched thin.
Sam might not appreciate it, but I've taken great pains in avoiding another thorny episode from occurring—more for my benefit than his, really—so right when the last bell had rung, I had lingered in the hallway, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible while the students thin out. Finn insists that I meet my lab partner out on the bleachers where he's within distance in case something happens, but there's no way in hell I'm sitting under the scorching sun, sweating uncomfortably as I try to work on a project.
Forty minutes now, but who's counting, right?
I'm going to be kind enough and grant him another five minutes.
And another.
And another.
"What a fucking ass-hole," Santana spits out venomously from the other end of the line. A string of colorful, rich expletives promptly follows suit as I listen on, resting my head on the pillow and staring blankly up at the ceiling. "And he didn't even bother to text or call you?"
"Well, in his defense, he probably doesn't have my number," I rationalize logically because I'm way past being pissed off. Besides, I really hate staying mad, fuming and seething for hours to end. It's exhausting to say the least, which is probably also why Finn and I are together for as long as we are. He does something bone-headed and I'll be mad for a bit, but he knows I won't pitch a fit.
"He could've at least left you a note or something."
"Yeah, whatever. Nothing I can do about it now—"
I hear the doorbell ring. Since my parents are out to some fancy dinner party, I'm left to my own devices for dinner options, so I do what any normal teenager would do. I ordered pizza.
"I'll call you back, San. My food just arrived."
"Later, Quinnie."
Tossing the cordless phone aside, I hop off my bed and pad down the stairs. I grab some cash along the way and think nothing of it as I open the door.
And then I see him.
Even though he is clad in that ugly red-and-yellow uniform with his signature blonde hair tucked underneath a cap, fringe boyishly peeking out, there's no mistaking those intriguing Kelly eyes, that full lips and that telltale scar. I can't help thinking that he almost looks like any normal eighteen-year-old guy.
"Sam," I gasp out.
"Fabray?" He takes a step back to check on the number by the side of the house. "You live here?"
"Erm…yeah," I reply, feeling that same nervousness that comes whenever I'm in close proximity to him. A chill breeze brushes against my bare skin, and all of a sudden I'm aware that I'm standing before him dressed in a flimsy tank top and shorts. "Is that my pizza?"
"Pepperoni and mushrooms?"
I nod my head, not exactly trusting myself to talk because the anger from the afternoon—one that I've been containing all evening—starts to resurface with a burning passion.
"That's kind of disgusting," he comments as he hands the box over.
Quirking an eyebrow, I slap him the exact change. "What is?"
"Mushrooms," he shrugs.
Of course, I can't leave it at that.
"You stood me up."
He seems confused at first, and somehow or another, the irritation I had for him earlier gets mysteriously swept under the rug, along with the many snarky remarks I've saved up to throw at him. Is it possible to be afraid of being angry?
"Oh, that. Something came up."
Wow, not even an apology.
And then he just turns around and makes his way to the company's motorcycle, but I realize I need an answer.
"Tomorrow, then?" I call out, the pizza still in my hands.
"Sure."
That's what he said the last time.
He tucks the cap into the back pocket of his slacks and puts his helmet on. Somewhere from inside the house, I hear the chime of my cellphone, and I realize that I should probably give Sam my number. Finn isn't going to like it, I'm sure, but I'll be damned if I fail this chemistry project.
"Sam, wait!"
His foot freezes in the air from where he's about to start the engine. Quickly setting the pizza down atop the drawer by the doorway, I run up to him.
"Give me your phone," I demand, holding my palm out.
He stares at me—that same way he had in the classroom—and my heart starts pounding a mile a minute, even as he reaches to pull the device out of his pants; no questions asked. Fingers trembling, I key in the digits to my phone, stumbling through the numbers before shoving it back into his hands.
"No excuses now," I mumble.
"Enjoy your pizza."
He comes in late for class, strolling through the door and doesn't even bother greeting the teacher before slinking to the back of the room where he usually sits. Nobody gives him a second look—nobody is stupid enough to even try, anyway—but after that run-in last night, I can't help but think that Sam Evans is simply misunderstood.
I mean, surely, if he were somehow involved in gang activity, he wouldn't be delivering pizza. He'd probably be stoned somewhere in a bar, engaged in a gunfight or another, earning himself another scar, or probably out working for a mob. Taking a calculated risk, I sneak a glimpse over my shoulder at him.
Oh, great, he's fast asleep.
"I can't stay long," he tells me as he dumps the books into his locker. "You have me for half an hour and then I'll have to split."
"What? Why?"
He shrugs, slamming the door shut. "None of your business."
Fine.
"Okay, then, what do you propose we do for half an hour?" I really don't mean for the sarcasm to come out, and the instant it reaches my ears, I wish I could take it back, especially when Sam just fixes me with another one of his stares. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it—"
"You want to come over instead?"
I blink, unsure if I'd heard him right.
"Huh?"
"I'm babysitting Stevie and Stacey tonight," he informs me rather monotonously. "If you're so hung up over this assignment, you can come over and we'll work on it."
I can only assume that he's talking about his siblings, but I don't think being in a house alone with him is a good idea. The things I've heard—the wild parties, the drug raids—echo in my head, and I suppose Sam senses my hesitation.
"You scared?" There's a slight mocking to his smirk.
"No."
"Well, then, which one are you unsure about? The child prostitution or the meth?"
How is he so nonchalant about this?
"Neither."
"The drug raids?"
"You're kidding me, right?"
He snickers then, rolling his eyes. "So you're one of those who actually believe all that shit about me?"
"I don't." A little white lie doesn't hurt anybody. "And it's not like you're ever there to deny it."
"Why? Are you going to believe me?"
"Maybe."
"You should work on your lying a bit more."
"So he just stormed away?"
"Yeah, and we have yet to even start on the assignment," I grumble, huffing as I flop down on the couch. "How is it coming along with Puck?"
Rachel snorts in reply. "I have more luck training a monkey than getting him to sit still for barely ten minutes. He's got the attention span of a goldfish."
"I swear, guys are more complicated than we are."
"Darn right about that." There's a short pause, and then she continues. "What do you think his story is?"
"Who? Puck?"
"Sam."
"Obviously the rumors aren't true, right?"
I can just imagine Rachel's thoughtful pout as she ponders on. "I wouldn't exactly rule them out if I were you. I mean, he was at the scene when the police showed up at that bar."
Again, where does she hear this stuff? "I should apologize to him, you know."
"What for?"
"Assuming the worst."
I spot him during lunch as I'm heading towards the cafeteria. He stops at a water fountain and bends over to have a drink, so I grab that opportunity and jostle my way over. Inhaling a deep breath for a final boost of courage, I square my shoulders and timidly poke him on the back.
"Hey."
Sam doesn't answer me right away, but rather languidly wipes his mouth with the back of his hands, cautiously darting his eyes around. "Can I help you?"
"What happened to your eye?"
There's a fresh cut right above the line of his eyebrow that he hadn't even bothered to conceal, and by the looks of it, seems pretty deep. Reaching up, he haphazardly rearranges his blonde hair so that it falls over and hides the wound.
"Kitchen cabinet."
Sure.
"Are you babysitting again?"
"Yeah," he nods.
"Okay, then. Meet me at your locker after school and we'll go to your place."
I can tell that he's not entirely convinced with the plan, because he narrows those green eyes of his and studies my face as though he's uncovering the secrets to life. "What about your boyfriend? He won't mind?"
"We're just working on a project," I counter, feeling my initial confidence crumble before me. Damn Sam Evans. "I'm sure he understands."
"Alright, then."
"Are you out of your fucking mind? Quinn, he's a fucking criminal!"
My boyfriend is totally blowing this out of proportion, and right now, I'm just glad that we're out on the football field instead of having this overdramatic scene in front of the entire student body. He tugs on his dark chocolate hair and paces around heatedly.
"He's not a criminal, Finn," I retort. "Just because his dad is in prison doesn't make him a felon."
"He's dangerous."
Planting my hands on my hips, I glare right back at him. "So I've been told, but I've talked to him a couple of times and I've never once felt that my safety is in jeopardy. He delivered pizza to my house, for goodness sake."
"He knows where you live?"
Okay, I probably shouldn't have said that.
"Well…" I really don't know how to phrase this to him in a way that will make him stop overreacting. "It's not like he was stalking me, right?"
"Stalking you?" he flares out. "That motherfucking creep."
And then he goes on and on about it.
Oh, God, just kill me now.
"Finn!" I yell, cutting him off mid-rant. "You need to stop freaking out. I'm just going over to his house so that Sam and I can work on the project. I can't afford to fail this assignment. Look, if it makes you feel better, you can pick me up afterwards, alright?"
He gathers himself long enough to nod. "You'll call me if anything happens, right?"
"Sure. I'll let you know if he starts cooking meth."
"You can't be serious."
I'm staring at his sports bike; wary and apprehensive about how this is all going to play out. Honestly, I don't even know what I'd expected—maybe a beat-up truck or something—but definitely not a two-wheeled accident machine. Pointedly, he pushes a spare helmet—one that he keeps in his locker for some odd reason—into my hands, but doesn't offer me any assurance that my life is safe and intact.
Sam is already fitting on his own full-faced helmet—his visor tinted black—before I can further grill him on road issues, and as he goes about straddling the bike, I can't help but think of how in control and comfortable he is. Then again, maybe a beat-up truck isn't his type after all.
"You can walk if you want to."
My thoughts immediately fly to Finn, and how he's going to shit himself if he finds out about this. Vowing to never mention it, I take a swift glance around the empty parking lots before slipping the helmet on. And then I stare at him, totally clueless as to what I'm supposed to do next.
"Step on the foot rest and bring your leg over," he explains. "Hang on to my shoulders for balance if you have to."
Gingerly, I follow his instructions, feeling his toned muscles ripple beneath my fingertips when I dig my nails a little too deep into his flesh. He doesn't even flinch when my arms automatically tighten around his waist, hard enough to choke a bear.
"You alright back there?"
I swallow audibly.
This better be worth it.
A/N: Okay, so that's basically part 1, and this story is done by the way, so I'll be updating the subsequent chapters progressively. And let's just say I think it'll be really hot to see Sam riding a bike, like I'll totally weep in front of him. Anyway, let me know what you think!
Song used: "Build You Up" by Kim Taylor