Pull me and push me in 'til I hear you singing,
'Cause this is the real thing.
-This Providence, This Is The Real Thing
~!~!~!~
You haven't found much time for social outings lately, but when a Friday night suddenly opens up, you figure it's the perfect time to head over to see what the big deal is over Coyote Ugly.
Sure, you've seen the movie with Piper Perabo going from shy Jersey girl to superstar practically overnight. Hell, you've imagined living that life once in awhile, although yours always, always ends with you singing "Don't Rain on My Parade" on a real Broadway stage.
That's a reality now; at least it will be when the show opens in two months. You're a star born from a tiny Midwest dream. Sometimes it's hard to balance classes at NYADA and your rising fame, especially when your roommate's biggest feat is bringing home wads of cash from bartending while wearing barely there shorts.
Part of you is jealous of Santana with the way she's obviously so comfortable in her own skin at all times. She doesn't second-guess her wardrobe choices, and she's content making loads of money without any real potential for it to take her anywhere. She parades random girls through the apartment on occasion; she doesn't come home on other nights. Santana is living the teenage dream while you're acting like a responsible adult all of the time.
It's probably frowned upon for a future Broadway star to be heading into Coyote Ugly alone after eleven on a Friday night, especially when you notice that the crowd is made up almost entirely of a male population. Hips and shoulders bump into you and you teeter on the heeled boots that Kurt helped you pick out for your big night on the town.
Maybe you should have just gone to Callbacks with the rest of your NYADA classmates. It's quiet there and you've quickly become a crowd favorite now that you're being linked to a major production, but hanging out with a bunch of superficial theatre kids has become an every day affair and you feel the need to spice up your life while you can.
It takes nearly half an hour before you're able to push your way up to the bar and a tall blonde greets you before you even have a chance to really glance around for Santana. You order a cosmo, which you know is fruity and delicious thanks to your newly acquired fake ID, but you're embarrassed when you see the bartender scoff as she puts the glass on the bar surface and starts to pour into it.
You drop the money next to the drink with a large tip (these are working girls after all - Santana pays her rent solely on her tips) and you stand awkwardly near the bar, trying to see around the bigger men for a glimpse of your roommate.
The bar is loud and incredibly busy and you're not sure what you expected. You finally catch a glimpse of Santana's hair as she whips around to pour a row of shots for some frat boys a few yards down the bar. You try to wave, but she's already moving onto the next customer before she notices you.
Suddenly, the music volume increases tenfold and the song changes abruptly. You watch in awe as the four bartenders (all young and beautiful, you notice) climb up gracefully onto the bar surface. You scramble to pick up your cosmo before one of them knocks it over and you shuffle awkwardly back to have a better view.
They start dancing and it's all gyrations of hips and hands tangled in their hair and you feel mesmerized by Santana's legs in her jean shorts and cowboy boots. It's not like you've never noticed that Santana is a pretty girl - maybe not in the flawless way that Quinn is, but undoubtedly gorgeous, nonetheless - but there's something in the way that she looks so free as she grinds seductively on the blonde that has you gulping down your cosmo and clenching your thighs together at the sudden surge of arousal.
Just when you don't think it could get any worse, an older woman tosses a microphone up and Santana catches it, running a hand through her messy waves. The song changes again and all of a sudden you're reliving Santana singing "Valerie" in her cigar-smoky voice that sends chills down your spine.
There are no poodle skirts or judges this time and Santana plays on the men in the audience as she commands the stage - er, bar top - with ease. You find yourself wishing that singing was still just for fun, that you could just belt without fear of losing your voice and jeopardizing your whole career. Santana gets to do just that and she sparkles in the tiny spotlight of the dim bar. She looks young and alive and, god, so fucking sexy.
You don't know where all these conflicting thoughts are coming from, but all you can think about is getting to see Santana out of those shorts, possibly still in the cowboy boots, and most definitely under you. Men reach out to touch her legs and it makes you want to slap their hands and tell them to respect your friend. Yet at the same time, you wish you could be running your own hands up her inner thighs as she lays back on that bar.
When she's done performing, you know you have to get out of there before you do something foolish. The entire subway ride home, the scene flashes through your mind. Your vibrator gets a good workout in the empty apartment upon your return and it's Santana name slipping from your lips when you finally fall over the edge.
You're still wide awake when Santana wanders in around four in the morning and you quickly stash your vibrator back in your night stand before you venture out into the living room. She looks surprised to see you, and you realize it's silly to have waited up for her. Your cheeks flush and you want to ramble some ridiculous excuse about insomnia, but instead you announce that you went to the bar that night.
She gives you a knowing smirk and you have a weird feeling that she can read your every thought. Maybe it's written on your face, but all you know is that even now, after a night of working at a grimy bar, she still looks impeccable.
You know it's up to you to make the first move - Santana will never do something so vulnerable - and you do. It's a short peck because your hands are sweating and you feel like you're losing control with the simplest touch of her lips on yours.
"Do you want your own private show?" she mumbles against the shell of your ear, her hand finding your hip.
All you manage to do is nod before you're stumbling towards her bed.