The first thing she does, is smile, figuring she'd be one of God knows how many admirers.
But then the blonde gives her this incredible grin and beckons for Santana to come closer.
Her eyebrows shoot up. She looks around, but people have all gotten back to their dancing. She points at herself, mouthing 'me?'
The blonde nods enthusiastically.
Like a sad, light-depraved moth to the flame, her feet move on their own accord, carrying her towards the VIP area with the glass windows.
It is at that exact moment, of-fucking-course, that one of her best friends, Noah "Puck" Puckerman grabs her by the arm and yanks her away from Brittany's gaze.
"Hey, having fun?" He yelled into her ear over the deafening sound of the dance track.
She nods, smiling up up him. Puck grins back, as if to say "I told you so, Lopez." and gestures in the direction of the bar, where they'd be able to hear one another. Santana lets him guide her there, through the midst of sweaty bodies.
Puck's the guy that has a guy for everything, from drugs to fake id's to winter clothing. He knows probably better than anyone the social scene in LA and New York. Officially, he's Santana's personal assistance, but everybody knows that he just sort of tags along with the brunette, a part of her entourage.
They've been best friends since high school, but never went down the obvious route of dating. They'd made out a couple times, sure, just to test the waters, but nothing ever came of it.
Santana orders a gin and tonic, and Puck asks for a beer and the bartender's number (which was discreetly slipped to him on a napkin)
"Where are the others?"
Puck shrugs, "No idea, pretty sure faberry left," - Santana rolls her eyes. Faberry was the nickname they'd given to Quinn and Rachel, and on the occasion when they'd all go out together, those two were always the first to leave. Quinn says it because 'someone has to be responsible around here', but their incredibly unsubtle eye-fucking went by pretty much noticed by everyone. - "I haven't seen Mike and Artie around either." Mike Chang and Artie Abrams were her two co-stars. It's been rumored at one time or another that she's dated these guys. She thought about it, of course. Mike was ripped, but too nice for her taste and Artie was obsessed with Tina Cohen-Chang, one of the show's producers.
Just to be clear, Mike and Tina aren't related. In fact, Santana suspects there may be something going on between them. Asians.
The barkeep hands them their drinks, along with a suggestive smirk at Puck.
"Really, Puck? This is one of the few places I'd actually like to come back." Santana glares at him. The place was nice, crowded, and the music was good. Absolutely nothing to do with the blonde she'd just seen.
"The ladies just want a piece of the Puckster. It's not my fault I get laid every night and you choose to go home to your vibrator instead of on some guy."
The brunette smacks him on the arm, only half playfully. "Fuck you, unlike somebody, I'm not a slut, thanks."
"You wish, Lopez. We both know you want me."
"I'd rather rip out both my eyes." Santana deadpans without missing a beat.
He put a hand on his chest, feigning hurt, "Ouch."
She sips her drink as Puck turns to flirt with the bartender, who was blatantly ignoring the other clubbers.
Her glass must've been spiked or something, because her mind drifts back to Brittany. Fine, Santana admits the woman is nothing if not attractive and a gifted dancer. She wants to see the blonde again, in a less crowded setting, sure. Wants to see her dance. Preferably sometime soon. The way Brittany moves so effortlessly, with such grace and confidence is incredible to watch, she can't help but be drawn in. Not like on a date or anything, obviously, she can't stress the fact that she's straight enough. Contrary to what Quinn might say whenever she so much as smiles at another female.
"You think I can charm my way into there?" Pucks says casually, taking a swig of his beer, snapping Santana back to the present.
Oops, she didn't realize that while her mind was occupied, her eyes had subconsciously found the subject of her thoughts. Good thing Puck didn't seem to notice her staring, or if he did, he didn't say anything. Well, he just did, but it wasn't about her staring.
Anyways.
"What, the VIP room?" She manages to sound calm and nonchalant, turning back to the bar. She was, after all, a Golden Globe winner.
"Yeah, I'd love me a lap dance." It's exactly the type of thing Puck would normally say when eyeing up a girl, and normally she'd just laugh it off, girls that get drunk and hook up with guys like Puck know what to expect, but this time, Santana doesn't like it. She doesn't like the thought of his hands tainting the blonde's body.
"Oh, really? Would you also like me to spit in your drink?"
Thank God for the barkeeper, who was now shooting daggers at Puck. She has to stifle a laugh, as he quickly turns to the woman, all apologetic. He deserved that one.
With Puck occupied, she allows herself to look around the club for Brittany again, but the blonde seems to either have disappeared into thin air, a figment of her overactive imagination, or more likely, gone home. She doesn't want to think about whether or not she left with someone.
Sighing, she leaves a 50 dollar bill on the bar (she's got more money than she knows what to do with) and tells Puck she's tired and wants to go home, to which he responds with a wave, heading back onto the dance floor, the bartender not far behind.
The air is crisp outside and Santana takes a few deep breaths, sobering up, not that she was drunk to being with. She opts to call a cab instead of calling for her driver. She usually hates how taxi drivers would try to subtly glance at her in the mirror, wondering if she was who she was, some of them would even ask for autographs. That's why she'd hired her own chauffeur to get her around town, actually she had asked Quinn to do the hiring, same thing. Unfortunately, he'd asked for a night off.
Thank God this particular man was only concentrating on the road, paying no attention to her. The ride was over before she knew it, and Santana gives the driver a huge tip, even asks for his number so she could call him next time she needed a cab ride.
After greeting the doorman, whose name, unbelievably, was Norman, she goes straight up to her penthouse, changes into her home clothes, and falls into a dreamless sleep. Except, she actually dreams about blonde hair, blue eyes and killer dance moves.
It's been exactly 2 weeks since that night and Santana's pretty damn sure she's gone positively, clinically insane. Every single time she sees blonde hair, her heart does a double take, but thankfully it's never been the real thing. Whenever she has any free time, during lunch breaks, she finds herself going through YouTube videos uploaded from Brittany's VEVO account, scrolling down the blonde's twitter feed and even looked through some tumblelogs, she thinks they're called. Some were really nice, if a little obsessed, and others were downright stalkerish.
Santana's not stupid, as clearly stated earlier. Everyone in the industry knows one another, and Brittany Pierce was only a couple of phone calls away, so she's not exactly looking for a needle in a haystack here. But then Quinn would find out...and that would be a problem. You see, Quinn Fabray had this delusional idea in her head that everyone she meets is gay, until proven otherwise.
To this day, she's still convinced that Puck is bisexual.
After a long day of shooting, one of the show's executive producers, Will Schuester, gathers everyone around.
"So listen, I've some good news. The role of Heather's been casted, and the lovely Brittany Pierce is going to play her."
Santana instantly perks up at the name. Because no fucking way.
After a round of polite clapping, Will continues, passing out what seems to be scripts. "We only knew a few days ago, and the writers just wrote her in earlier today. So, the script's been changed a little bit. Sorry guys."
She almost snatches her's out of Tina's hands and scans through the pages, looking for any scenes she might have with the blonde.
The next day, she gets up bright and early. After doing all the necessary things, she grabs her phone and calls for her Mercedes to be pulled out front.
Within the short span of time it took for her to ride the lift down to the first floor, the car is already there, ready to go.
"Morning miss Lopez." The driver greets her cheerily, handing over her usual cup of cappuccino.
"Morning Blaine." Leave it up to Quinn Fabray to hire a gay chauffeur. Still, he manages to get her coffee in the mornings, as well as responsible enough not to have sex in the backseat. Santana takes the hot beverage and takes a much needed sip. Quinn's probably already tweeting spoilers and fanning (read: starting) the rumors by now. The minute she got home last night, there was already a voicemail waiting for her:
"Let's meet up for lunch tomorrow, I've got big plans, you'll see. I honestly couldn't have written that script better myself. Alright, Rach is calling me, so I better go. See how much better it is out here? Ok, bye."
The ride went by uneventfully, Santana just scrolling through her twitter feed, and yup, sure enough, she's getting bombarded with questions.
She arrives on set and notices a couple of photographers there already, awaiting the arrival of Brittany, so she manages heads straight for her trailer without getting her picture taken.
Around 10 minutes of fidgeting and memorizing lines later, she hears a car pull up, followed by the unmistakable flashes of digital cameras. Brittany's here.
Oh God oh God oh God.
No, Santana internally scolds herself, grabbing a bottle of ice cold water and taking several large gulps, don't freak out, she probably doesn't remember you anyway, so who cares. OH GOD BUT WHAT IF SHE DOES, fucking awkward. Another gulp of water. Alright, you're just gonna go out there and do your thing.
Right.
A knock on her trailer makes her jump in surprise.
"Hey, come on out, Brittany's here." Santana ignores the unintentional double meaning of that sentence and reluctantly steps outside.
The blonde is even better looking in daylight. Her long, slightly style blonde hair falls effortlessly on her shoulders, eyes bluer than the ocean and deliciously red lips-
"Hey, I'm Brittany," Brittany states the obvious, extending her hand, "Big fan of your work."
"Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Santana." It comes out slightly higher pitched than she would've liked, but whatever, the blonde doesn't seem to notice. "We just love this show I guess." She says, then laughs awkwardly.
"And I'm Quinn, her manager." Out of nowhere, Quinn pops up. This can't be good. "So I heard from Will over there that you two are gonna have a couple of scenes together, huh?"
"Hey, Quinn, and yeah, I'm really looking forward to it. I've been watching the show since the pilot."
"Cool, because I know for a fact that Santana here is really looking forward to shooting with you." Quinn smirks, glancing at her enraged-under-the-surface client.
At that moment, someone from hair and makeup with superb timing drags Brittany away, leaving a very pleased with herself Quinn and a ready to kill someone Santana.
"What the fuck."
"Oh please, you should be thanking me. I saw how excited you got when I told you she was single."
"You weren't even looking at me. You were too busy staring at the Victoria Secret models."
"...Well first of all, they were hot, ok. I mean the underwear, the underwear was hot. And second of all, tell me you weren't Googling her relationship status on your phone to make sure."
"I was texting my boyfriend!"
"Ex boyfriend." Quinn interjects immediately. "Don't lie, you broke up with him the moment I told you Brittany was single."
"I broke up with him the day after!" Santana huffs, and her manager just looks even more smug. "For a completely unrelated reason!"
"The reason being he had a dick." Quinn counters, not missing a beat.
Well, someone who's not her in the relationship did, and thought that although she was a good "beard", it was time for him to fully embrace himself, but that's beside the point.
"We didn't want the same things."
"You mean you two both wanted the same thing."
"Hey Santana, we need you in hair and makeup." Dianna, her trusty makeup artist, comes just in time to drag her away from the lesbian queen over there.
Shooting one last death glare at a smug Quinn, who has the audacity to mouth 'lunch later, k?' at her, Santana goes to prepare for her scene.