Title: Seeing Red
Summary: When Santana suffers a brutal attack during the WMHS Halloween festival, a deadly plot for revenge is set in motion. Senior Year AU. CONTENT WARNING: Rated M for language & strong violence, including a graphic depiction of rape.
Disclaimer: I own nothing other than an original character or two.
A/N: This is the first time in a while that I've started posting a story I'm still in the process of writing. So bear with me. The editing might be a little choppy, but I'll try not to take too long between updates. I have no clue how many chapters there will be total. Guess we'll have to wait and see together. I started writing before the premiere, so I won't really be following the current season of the show. With a few minor exceptions (e.g. Quinn's a punk, Santana's back on the Cheerios). Also, this is first and foremost a Santana fic, but Brittany, Quinn, Rachel and Sue will all be featured throughout. And I'll warn you once again, some very bad things happen to some good characters in this fic. Cosas malas, people. Please don't think I take any of it lightly, because I do not. And please read and review, it keeps me motivated.
CHAPTER ONE
"Hold still."
"But it tickles."
"Do you want them to look like hearts or just rosacea?"
Santana pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh as the brush neared her face again. Goose bumps sprouted along her arms and legs as the bristles swirled over her skin, mixing the red greasepaint into the apples of her cheeks. To keep from fidgeting she grasped the wooden seat below, hands between her thighs, and tucked both feet behind the stool legs. It was an entirely unladylike position, especially since the pleats of her Cheerios skirt didn't provide adequate coverage. But with all the activity in the gymnasium, she doubted anyone would notice. Most of the school got flashes of her Spankies on a regular basis anyway. You couldn't do a cartwheel or back handspring without giving the crowd a little peepshow. Coach Sylvester never came right out and said so, but her insistence that the members of her squad always be dressed in "gender appropriate" attire got the message across loud and clear: Cheerios were eye-candy, expected to flaunt it every chance they had. Santana didn't mind. It made her feel special and powerful being a part of such an elite group. Now that she'd been reinstated to the squad and knew what it was like to navigate the halls of McKinley High without its protection, she wore the uniform with even more pride.
That was why she chose a costume she could blend her uniform into. The hooded cloak matched the school colors so perfectly, it looked like Little Red Riding Hood had been a Titan herself. Its hem rested just above the bottom of Santana's skirt, which was fuller than usual because of the black lacy petticoat underneath. Her knee-high white stockings and shiny Mary Janes added a flirtatious charm to the ensemble. With ribbons securing her hair in pigtails, one beneath either ear, she looked downright adorable. She knew it to be true because everyone at the WMHS Halloween festival had been telling her so all evening. The only drawback was the small wicker basket she'd borrowed from her mother. What seemed like a cute accessory to store candy in turned out to be a receptacle for her friends whose costumes left them without pockets or purses to hold loose belongings. So far the items she'd collected ranged from the mundane—hair barrettes and lip gloss—to the truly bizarre—Rachel Berry's cell phone and a cigar case with a flask attached. The latter was courtesy of Quinn Fabray's father, albeit unknowingly. Misplaced during his post-divorce evacuation of the family residence, the sterling silver container now belonged to his daughter, who had used it to spike the punchbowl the minute Principal Figgins turned his back on the refreshments table. Santana fully supported Quinn's new and improved bad girl image, but there was no way in hell she would take the fall for that little punk. If Russell Fabray's name hadn't been engraved alongside the slender tube, Santana never would have chanced getting caught with it in her possession.
As for Berry's cell phone, the offer to tote it around came from sheer mischief. And maybe some jealousy. Rachel hadn't stopped bragging about the gadget since her fathers bought it for her, and with good reason. Equipped with the latest bells and whistles, it was one of the best phones on the market. Far superior to Santana's. She had every intention of returning it at the end of the night, but not without making a few crank calls and snapping plenty of obscene pictures first.
Heaped inside the basket, a colorful, sequined sash hid the other contents from view. It was just a cheap fabric square from Hobby Lobby, but Santana favored it over everything else she'd accumulated. An hour earlier, Brittany had gotten fed up with trying to keep it knotted around her waist and stuffed it into the basket. Now, large hoop earrings and a paisley headscarf that clashed horribly with her Cheerios uniform were all that remained of the blonde's gypsy costume. The long ends of the scarf grazed Santana's knee as Brittany leaned closer, dabbing the watercolor paintbrush in place several more times. Her radiant blue eyes were distraction enough, but the cluster of cinnamon-colored freckles on her nose was nothing short of mesmerizing. Absorbed in counting each tiny speck, Santana frowned when Brittany stood back to survey her artwork.
"So cute," Brittany said, nodding her approval. She put the brush aside and reached for one of the handheld mirrors that rested on the table amid the plastic color palettes, goopy makeup crayons, and murky glasses of water. "You look like Truly Scrumptious in that doll scene from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But way hotter. And not scary."
Santana grinned and posed seductively in front of the mirror. On top of being an incredible dancer, Brittany was also a gifted artist. The pink and red hearts that adorned Santana's cheeks rivaled the work of any so-called professional whose booth lined the midway at a theme park or county fair. Yet another quality that made the blonde so appealing. "Never seen it, but I'll take that as a compliment," Santana said.
"Oh, my gosh. Are you serious?" Brittany's eyes widened in shock. "But it's, like, the best movie of all time. After That Darn Cat!"
"Didn't see that one, either." Santana shrugged, attempting to look sheepish rather than amused as Brittany continued to gape in horror. She got to her feet and patted Brittany's shoulder, urging her to take a seat on the empty stool.
"How did I not know this already?" Brittany asked, slumping onto the seat and shaking her head forlornly. Before she had even gotten comfortably situated, her misery vanished and she clapped her hands, bouncing with excitement. "I've got it. Tomorrow night you're staying over and we're having a movie marathon. I'll supply the DVDs and popcorn, you can bring the cuddles and sweet lady kisses."
Hoping the face paint masked the heat she felt climbing up her neck, Santana kept a neutral expression. During summer break she and Brittany had snuggled their way through an inordinate amount of cheesy 1980's movies, but the contact had been light, innocent. When the school year began, bringing with it the scrutiny of peers and renewing Santana's pact with Dave Karofsky, her relationship with Brittany once again became platonic. There was more at stake—for both of them—this semester, their status as popular cheerleaders tenuous at best. Even Brittany comprehended that one misstep would likely get them kicked off the squad for good. Still, something about the Halloween festival had affected them this evening, making them a little reckless, a little less guarded. Maybe it was the paper cups full of Hawaiian Punch and vodka from Judy Fabray's liquor cabinet; or maybe the chilly October air that, before it drove the games and other festivities indoors, made the girls huddle together in the quad, relying on each others' body heat for warmth. Whatever the reason, Santana didn't want the night or the sense of freedom to end. She almost didn't care who found out about her feelings for Brittany.
"It's a date," Santana said, meeting the blonde's gaze as she spoke. She held it for a moment, pleased to find blue eyes looking back with just as intently as her own. Flourishing a pink makeup crayon, one of the few that hadn't been smooshed flat at the tip, she queried, "Butterflies or rainbows?"
"That's such a hard decision." Folding one arm underneath the other, Brittany tapped her fingers against the side of her head, resembling Winnie the Pooh. Think, think, think. "Can I have a rainbow here and a butterfly there?" She pointed to either cheek and flashed a wide, toothy smile, obviously convinced she would be indulged no matter what the request.
And she was probably right.
Santana rolled her eyes, but dutifully began sketching a pattern of ovals on Brittany's left cheek. She had yet to attach the butterfly wings to a thorax when Coach Beiste's voice announced through the loudspeaker that hayrides would commence in five minutes. Students were to gather in the parking lot immediately if they wished to participate.
"Crap, I'm not done," Santana said, filling the shapes with hasty pink scribbles. At first a hayride had sounded lame to her—something she would have enjoyed in ninth grade, perhaps, but certainly not in twelfth. Then Brittany's enthusiasm worked its magic on her, as it so often did these days. Now she couldn't think of anything she'd rather do than nestle into a pile of hay with her best friend, their bodies shielding each other from the cold, jostled together by Lima's bumpy roads. And there was always the possibility of stealing a kiss or two along the way...
"You can finish it when we get back."
"No, I can't. It'll be time to go home by then."
"Oh, yeah. Well..." Brittany waved off the green crayon poised near her face as Santana rushed to dot a head and antennae on the Pepto-Bismol-shaded blob she'd rendered. "I'm sure I still look awesome." She stood up and looped her pinkie around Santana's, tugging her towards the gymnasium doors where a herd of teenagers disguised as black cats, hobos, and everything in between, were filtering into the hall. Everyone else was keen on the idea of a hayride, too, it seemed. "Come on, or we'll miss the best spots."
Like a dazed parent being led through a toy store by an ecstatic child, Santana allowed herself to be dragged halfway out of the exit before she noticed that the crook of her elbow felt empty. "Shit, I left my basket on the table," she said, halting so abruptly the people who lagged behind swerved to avoid collision.
"Don't worry about it. No one's even in there to bother it."
Santana cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder. The gym was abandoned and would most likely remain that way until the teachers got tired of roaming through town with their caravan of high-schoolers. But if anything did happen to Rachel's phone, Santana would never hear the end of it. And though Quinn's father was a total asshole, the flask was one of the few things she had left of him. "I should grab it real quick. It's got everyone's stuff in it." Santana giggled when Brittany clamped onto her wrist, refusing to let her go. Prying herself loose a finger at a time, she said, "It'll just take a second. You go on ahead and save me a seat."
"Fine." Brittany heaved a sigh and pouted her bottom lip, then reached around to swat Santana lightly on the rear, hurrying her along. "Watch out for the big bad wolf," she called as she sprinted for the double doors that opened into the quad. Her long strides carried her past a group of freshman girls who looked on in admiration as she mounted the outer stairs with the ease of a gazelle.
"Keep dreaming," Santana said under her breath. Smiling, she turned on her heel and trotted back across the basketball court. As she approached the free-throw line where the table stood, she skidded on the slick floor, the flat soles of her shoes providing no traction. Her hands shot out reflexively, heart skipping a beat in that precarious moment before she regained balance. Glancing around self-consciously, she resumed a slower pace, almost tiptoeing as she became hyperaware of how loudly her footfalls clacked in the large, vacant room. There was something spooky about the lack of noise in a place that normally teemed with excitement and cheers. She snatched up the basket without pause, daring to walk a bit faster in the opposite direction. Once she was outside, she relaxed. Laughter and chattering voices drifted over from the parking lot on the far side of the building. Coach Beiste could be heard above the revelry, delivering staccato commands through a bullhorn. It sounded like she was yelling at someone to quit horsing around, but a gust of wind carried the words off before Santana made them out.
She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, wishing she had taken her mother's advice and worn her varsity jacket. But she hadn't wanted its bulk to make her look like a hunchback beneath the red polyester hood, or to detract from the rest of her costume. "Silly, vain little girl," her mother proclaimed affectionately. "Someday that cute behind you're so worried about covering up is going to freeze right off."
At the moment, Santana couldn't disagree with the prediction. She silently cursed Ohio and the frigid temperatures that seemed to be creeping in earlier and earlier each autumn. More eager than ever to be wrapped in Brittany's warm, peppermint-scented embrace, she jogged to the stairs, head bowed against the cold.
When he said her name and stepped from the darkened passageway to the football field, Santana drew a quick breath. It was barely audible—not even strong enough to be called a gasp—but he moved forward with his hand out in a reassuring manner.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."
"Then why are you lurking in the shadows like a serial killer?" Santana squinted up at him, unable to get a clear look at his face in the muted glow from inside the school building. Other than the distant haze of security lights in the parking lot around the corner, there wasn't much outside lighting on campus. Classes were conducted during daytime hours after all.
He turned his head, peering sideways for a moment and revealing the patch over his right eye. His creativity went no further. Clothed in the same jock attire as usual—jeans, T-shirt, letterman jacket—he looked more like an athlete with an ocular condition than a pirate. Typical dumb boy. When he chuckled at her question but didn't answer, Santana said in a dry tone, "Nice costume."
"Thanks. Yours, too." He gestured vaguely at her, then shuffled his feet and stuffed both hands into his pants pockets. "You look real... pretty."
"It's a lot more effective when you don't pause as if you're about to hurl." Santana jiggled her legs back and forth as another breeze nipped at her bare thighs and ruffled the edge of her skirt. The open pleats twisted in on themselves, displaying the white lining underneath. She smoothed them down and clucked her tongue with impatience when he failed to respond again. "Well, this has been a swell chat, but I gotta go," she said, moving past him, clasping the rail as she ascended the first step. The metal bar was cool to the touch, and she released it.
"Hey, wait," he said, catching her by the elbow. "Can you come with me for a minute? I really need to talk to you about something."
Santana huffed, glancing back at him with an annoyed expression he probably couldn't see behind the stupid eye patch. That was okay—it would be just as evident in her voice. "Um, it's not a good time for me. I'm going on the hayride."
"Please. It's important." He sounded urgent, which was rare for him. Normally he had two modes: dull and duller. "It won't take long."
She studied him for a second, her curiosity piqued by his nervous energy. She had always considered him easy to read, his attempts at deception weak and laughable. Their classmates were too frightened by his brawn to notice what a terrible liar he was, but a master of intimidation herself, Santana saw right through his macho act. Despite his best efforts, Dave Karofsky never fooled her. She wasn't going to let him get away with being mysterious now. "Okay, but this better be worth it," she said, sighing as she faced him. Their heights were almost level from her position on the stairs, and she leaned forward with her eyes narrowed. "And if it's some kind of douchey Halloween prank, I'll give you a real reason to wear that patch. ¿Comprende?"
Karofsky nodded solemnly, a slight twitch in his jaw as he set it, and swallowed like he had a lump in his throat. Santana had learned that about him, too—piece of cake to control. He took even the most outrageous threats seriously, and he gave into pressure faster than most guys half his size. Sometimes Santana felt a little guilty for manipulating him so well, but then she remembered what a jerk he could be when left to his own devices.
Loosening his hold on her elbow, he slid his hand down and captured hers, chafing it gently between his palms when he felt how cold it was. "Come on," he said, guiding her off the steps and interlocking their fingers as he headed for the corridor to the football field.
Though it went unseen as they wandered along the dark path, Santana arched her eyebrow at him. It wasn't unusual for them to hold hands, at least not while at school. Occasional displays of affection were necessary if they wanted others to believe they were a couple, and this one had become automatic. But she'd repeatedly told him not to twine their fingers together—his were too thick, too callous, and she disliked the way they pinched at hers, cutting off circulation. Wriggling free, she wiped the sweat from his palm on the leg of his jeans, her nose crinkled in disgust. "God, lay off the baby oil," she said, mostly to elicit a reaction. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.
"Huh? Oh." Karofsky rested a heavy arm around her shoulders, pulling her close until she was tucked snugly against him. "Sorry."
"What is with you?" she asked, easing to the side to put some distance between them. His burly frame helped block the wind as they emerged next to the stadium, so she didn't shrug him completely off. But she did gaze up at him with suspicion, balking as he attempted to usher her through an open gate in the fencing around the bleachers. Before everyone had migrated to the gym, games of flashlight tag, cornhole and—for those idiotic enough to dunk their heads into a tub of cool water in these temperatures—bobbing for apples took place on the turf. A floodlight was still on, illuminating the far end of the field and casting strange shadows over everything else, including Karofsky. "You're being really weird. And that's coming from someone who remembers when you used to eat paste and lick the chalkboard."
He tried nudging her forward, but when she kept her feet firmly planted to the ground, he sighed in aggravation and scanned the dark recess beneath the bleachers. As she turned her head to see what he was looking at, he moved in front of her, cupping her face in his large, clumsy hands. "Just let me do this, okay?" he said, his voice low, pleading.
"Do—"
The question was cut off as he pressed chapped lips to her parted ones, working at them roughly, his tongue probing. He tasted like the sloppy Joes and sour cream and onion potato chips that Finn Hudson's mom had served on paper plates in the cafeteria when everyone lined up at dinnertime. At first Santana was too stunned to object, but as he plunged deeper into her mouth, gagging her, she flattened her palms against his chest and shoved with all the strength she could muster. Although he didn't budge, she succeeded in breaking the kiss. A thread of saliva still joined them, quivering in the air like spider's silk, and she hastily brushed it away, wiping at the moisture on her lips and chin.
"What the hell is your problem, Karofsky?" she demanded, thumping a fist to his sternum. They had made out at Puckerman's birthday bash at the beginning of semester, and sometimes they pecked each other on the cheek in the halls, but he'd never tried to kiss her without permission—or an audience—before. He knew better.
Grabbing her wrist as she prepared to hit him again, Karofsky put his other hand behind her head, drawing her close like a lover confiding a secret, and hissed into her ear, "They know about us. They're gonna out us tomorrow at school if we don't do this. Just shut your hole and pretend you're into it."
"Are you fucking retarded? You think I'm gonna stand here and let you maul me?" Santana leaned back, evading him as he bent in for another kiss. He sucked at the curve of her neck when he couldn't get to her mouth. He groped her butt with no more finesse than if he were testing the inflation of a football during practice. "Get off!"
"Please, Santana," he whispered through gritted teeth, tears of frustration glimmering in the eye that wasn't shrouded by black plastic. He blinked until they were gone, his arms constricting around her. "I'm not ready for people to know. It'll ruin my rep. And yours. You've done half the guys on the team, anyway." When that didn't deter the squirming, he clasped her by the shoulders and stuck his face directly in front of hers, every pockmark and ingrown hair visible. "I've helped you and put up with your shit this whole time. You owe me..." His lips were on hers again, rubbing them raw.
Santana reached for his hair, gathered a fistful of the short strands, and yanked. For a moment nothing happened, but when she gave another vicious pull, simultaneously kicking him in the shin, he finally jerked away from her. She smacked him across the face so hard that it turned his head and made her palm ache. "Asshole," she said, massaging her hand as she glared at him and retreated a few steps. He stayed where he was, looking at her with utter defeat, flexing his jaw as if she had knocked it out of place.
Several other choice names came to mind while she straightened her disheveled skirt and cloak, but as she prepared to tell him how many ways he could go fuck himself, someone behind her applauded and said, "Damn, Karofsky, she just made you her bitch." She spun around and searched the darkness under the bleachers where the sound had come from. Whoever had spoken was too well-hidden for her to see at a distance, but after some laughter—she heard more than one voice now—and scuffling noises, three figures strolled into view on the other side of the fence. The shortest boy was the easiest to recognize, even though a large Stetson hat concealed part of his Richard Simmons afro. She'd noticed Jacob Ben Israel stealing furtive looks her way earlier in the evening only because he couldn't be missed in that full cowboy regalia, which included chaps and boots with spurs. It hadn't struck her as odd—he stared at her from behind his horn rimmed glasses every other day of the year, too, especially since becoming Sue Sylvester's top investigative journalist for The Muckraker. To his right loomed the much heftier physique of Azimio Adams. Also a member of Sylvester's news crew, Azimio had formed an alliance of sorts with Jacob, each exploiting the others' skills in order to get the best scoop. With Azimio as muscle and Jacob as the brains, the two were a formidable pair who coerced secrets out of almost everyone. Everyone except Santana.
And there in the middle, leading the small pack, was Lee Bowman. At 6-foot-3 it didn't take much for him to stand out in a crowd. Running back for the Titans and star of the McKinley track team, Lee's impressive stride had been earning him titles like "speed demon" and "roadrunner" since sophomore year. That was also the year Santana lost her virginity to him in the tree house his father—one of Lima's most prominent attorneys—had custom built for him when he was ten. She dumped him three days later, to the chagrin of his parents as well as hers, all of whom believed the teenagers were a perfect match. Her father was particularly fond of "the Bowman kid," but then, she'd never told him about the mean streak Lee concealed behind his choirboy looks. Even as a fifteen-year-old with no prior experience dating boys, she sensed he was trouble. And not the fun kind.
When he finished clapping, he slid down the aviator sunglasses that were balanced on his nose and flashed an immaculate smile at her. Daddy raked out a fortune to fix those gnarly teeth of his, too. She'd hated the scrape of his braces when they kissed. Rounding the gap in the fence, Jacob and Azimio trailing close behind, Lee reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and extracted what looked like a beer can inside a brown paper sack. He took a swig as he approached, and Santana could tell she'd guessed correctly. From the smell of him, he'd already had a few.
"Care to reenact that for us?" he said, pointing at the bleachers. "It was kind of hard to see and hear from back there."
"That's because you're wearing sunglasses at night, dumb-ass," Santana said, crossing both arms through the handle of her basket. She edged away from him, listening for Coach Beiste and the bullhorn. She wanted to be in the parking lot getting yelled at and goofing off with everyone else—with Brittany. But anger kept her in place. Besides, if any of the guys thought for a minute she was afraid of them, they would use it against her for the entire semester.
"Always the charmer," said Lee.
"Bet I know how Karofsky's half went," Azimio said as he elbowed Lee. Obviously a little inebriated, he giggled and rooted under the collar of his hoodie, withdrawing the surgical mask tied around his neck. Looping one of the strings over his ear, he tried to dangle the shield across his eye like a patch. He spoke in an effeminate, lisping tone: "Santana, stop licking Brittany's pussy and come make heterosexual love to me. That's right, mm-hmm... now bend over..."
"Asshole," Lee answered in falsetto, pretending to backhand Azimio.
"Ooh!" Azimio squealed in delight. "If you insist."
The parody continued, but Santana was too rattled by the mention of Brittany to hear its final act. Instead, she looked to Karofsky for an explanation, but he was shaking his bowed head and running a hand through his hair in a repetitive, agitated motion. She settled for Jacob, his gap-toothed grin fading as she fixed him with a harsh glare. "What is this bullshit?" she asked.
"Word through the grapevine is you and Karofsky are not, in fact, lovers, but simply posing as each others' beards to avoid public ridicule. You've been spotted canoodling with Brittany S. Pierce on numerous occasions and—"
"Shut it, Katie Couric." Lee swatted the brim of Jacob's hat down so it covered half of his face, then leaned on the fence to sip his beer. He offered the can to Santana, his dimples showing when she shot him a disgusted look. "Been a long time since we touched base, Red. Seems like I hardly know you anymore," he said in a quiet voice, tweaking one of her pigtails. He laughed when she slapped his hand aside. But he also stood to his full height and spoke louder. "Imagine my surprise when I start hearing all these rumors that you've gone lesbo. I didn't believe it at first because... well..." She was a dim reflection in his sunglasses as they scanned her from head to foot. "Look at you. Plus, there's our whole history."
"You have a history?" Jacob asked, still resituating the Stetson.
Lee ignored him. "But the more I listened to Karofsky bragging in the locker room about how he can't get you off his dick, the more I started to think he was compensating for something. So I quizzed him on specifics, and, y'know, he just couldn't provide an adequate description?"
"And that's supposed to mean something?" Santana said. "It's Karofsky. He probably doesn't remember what he ate for breakfast."
"Cock," said Azimio.
"Yeah, but you're not the kind of lay a guy easily forgets, are you, Lopez?" Lee fiddled with the tab of his beer can until it broke off, then flicked it to the ground near Santana's shoe. "He didn't even know about your scar."
"She has a scar?" Jacob sounded as if he might burst with excitement.
"Yep, on her belly. Looks like a little caterpillar." Lee tilted his head affectionately. "Cutest thing you ever saw."
When Santana was thirteen, an acute case of appendicitis ruined the first month of her summer vacation and left her with a 3-inch appendectomy scar on her lower abdomen. Once it healed she had grown fond of the blemish, especially after her father dubbed it a war wound, but now she hated it for being such a revealing, intimate detail. She felt exposed as the boys stared at her. The wind made her shiver.
"I called him on it," Lee continued, "and he tried to recant all the other stuff. Said you wouldn't put out. But I knew that wasn't true because Santana Lopez never says no, right?"
Santana didn't bother responding; any defense she gave would be weak at best. She'd made that exact claim herself more than once. But how could she explain that things were different now? She was different. She no longer needed to search for some elusive spark, because she had found out what was missing—who was missing. Even if she weren't hiding her sexuality, those were private feelings she didn't want to share. Lee hadn't finished, anyway.
"So then he confirmed that you're a dyke and he's just acting like your boyfriend out of the kindness of his great big non-gay heart..."
"Thanks a lot," Santana muttered to Karofsky. Busy scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the asphalt, he wouldn't acknowledge her.
"But that doesn't sound like him. He doesn't help people for no reason, and if he's the man he claims to be, he sure as hell wouldn't let you emasculate him all the time. I mean, he's gotta be queer to go along with those Bully Whips uniforms."
"Should be called the Pussy Whips," said Azimio.
"I'm not a queer," Karofsky said quietly, fists clenching and unclenching at his side.
Lee gestured at him with the can. "That's what he kept saying to me. So I told him to prove it."
"And you wanted him to do that by, what? Bringing me here to have sex in front of you?" Santana asked, more incredulous than angry. That soon changed.
"His idea, not mine."
She cast a disdainful look on each boy, receiving only smirks from Lee and Azimio, a convulsive gulp followed by a weaselly grin from Jacob, and absolutely nothing from Karofsky. Despite finding them all repugnant, it was Karofsky who infuriated her the most. Maybe they weren't friends, but she had at least considered him an ally. If the situation were reversed, she would have lied like crazy to protect him. "First off," she said, leveling her tone, though chattering teeth and hurt feelings made it difficult, "calling someone else queer doesn't work when you're dressed up like the fucking Village People. Seriously, I'm recommending Mr. Schue recruit you guys to sing 'YMCA' at the next assembly."
Scowling, Azimio tucked the surgical mask under his collar and whapped the brim of Jacob's hat down.
"And second... go to hell. You're just a bunch of sick, pathetic little pervs who aren't getting any themselves. Next time, whack off in front of the computer at home where you belong."
Coach Beiste's one minute warning to stragglers filtered over from the parking lot, a thin, wraithlike version of her normal baritone. Dry leaves skittered along the path ahead as if they were racing to join the others already packed into the wagons. Anxious to do the same, Santana motioned for the boys to let her pass. "Now get out of my way, please. There are actual human beings I'd rather be hanging out with."
"You haven't denied the allegations that you're a lesbian," Jacob said hurriedly, and even the fringe on his suede vest danced with anticipation. "If you walk away now, I can only assume that they're true. I'll be forced to run this story in The Muckraker."
Chin lifted defiantly, Santana tried to appear more confident than she felt. She knew she might end up regretting her decision, but she also wasn't about to let a twerp like Jacob Ben Israel bully her. "I don't give a shit what you print in that lame-ass paper. It's full of gossip and lies, and no one believes the stuff they read in it, anyway."
"What about Karofsky? Is he gay, too?"
Santana glanced at Karofsky. He finally met her eye, his features twisted in desperation. "You're on your own," she said to him, shouldering past Jacob. Lee shifted back and forth a few times, teasingly blocking her exit until she stopped to glare at him. She heard Azimio taunting Karofsky—"There goes your fag hag"—but ignored it, pressing on when Lee laughed, genuflected as if she were royalty, and moved aside. She refused to turn when the insults grew more vicious, accompanied by sounds of a tussle. Instead, she quickened her pace, ready to escape the mess and salvage the remainder of her evening. As she comforted herself with thoughts of talking to Brittany, who would surely know how to cheer her up, something slammed into her from behind. She stumbled forward, the basket clattering to the asphalt as she put both arms out to break her fall. Just before impact, another powerful shove sent her reeling sideways into the chain-link fence. It pinged noisily as she bounced off and dropped on all fours to the grassy strip beside the pavement. The earth was soft from the previous day's rain showers, but her wrists gave with a sharp twinge and she crumpled onto her elbows.
"Tell them I'm not a fag," Karofsky snarled when she looked up, slightly dazed, and saw him standing over her. He reached down and seized the collar of her cloak and uniform, jerking her upright until she was on her knees, facing the other boys. Their shocked expressions hinted at smiles, as if they expected the scene to become humorous, as if they awaited a punch line to the joke Karofsky and Santana were staging. "Tell them," he said again, shaking her.
"Let me go, you goddamn—" None of the words that came to mind were strong enough, so she swung at him instead, landing a blow to his thigh. He didn't even flinch. She aimed for his crotch the second time, but he batted her fist away like it was an annoying bug. She tried to bite him; he shook her harder. "You fucking cocksucker—"
Karofksy raised his hand high in the air. For a moment the paint that had transferred to his skin when he kissed her shone in the moonlight, a smudged red heart in his wide open palm. He slapped her with a force that would have laid her flat had he not been supporting her. The idea seemed to occur to him, too, and he flung her facedown onto the grass a second later. "Bitch," he spat.
Santana lay still, letting the cool, damp ground soothe her inflamed cheek. She talked tough, and she'd participated in a fair share of girl fights, but no one had ever hit her like that before, least of all someone with Karofsky's strength. It wounded her pride almost as much as it stung her flesh. An unbidden tear trailed across the bridge of her nose, slipped into the blades of grass, and was lost. One of the boys—she couldn't be sure which with her head turned, ear pressed shut—said, "Show her who's boss, Karofsky."
Frightened by what the tone implied, Santana scrambled to get up, only to be flipped over and pinned on her back by Karofsky. He crawled on top of her, straddling but not sitting on her pelvis. His hands restrained her shoulders, and she tugged at his elbow, trying to bend his arm—any small advantage better than none. Getting no results, she searched for a weak spot in his emotions. "I'm sorry," she said abruptly, her taut voice not conveying the sincerity she had hoped. "I didn't mean to call you that." And she honestly hadn't intended to; it was just one of many curses she used in heated moments.
"Too late now," he said, that single eye of his staring down at her. It wasn't covered in black like the other, but it was every bit as empty. "Should've kept your big mouth shut when I said so. This is your fault." He began pawing at the front of her uniform, squeezing her breasts until she winced. Unsatisfied with the grip he was getting through the layers of polyester shell, stretchy white turtleneck and bra, he slid his hands under both tops, twisting and pinching. Brow puckered in concentration, he fumbled with the bra cups and didn't notice her fingernails until they scraped across his cheek, drawing blood. She attempted to knee him in the groin, much to the delight of the boys who watched. Or at least a certain boy.
"Look out, she's a ball-buster," Lee said.
And after a moment, Azimio added, "I dunno, Top Gun, she might be too much woman for him. Even if she is a dyke."
Though the assault on his privates had missed, Karofsky let his full weight rest against Santana's middle to prevent another. She still kicked her legs, heels digging into the ground for some kind of leverage. They wore away at the grass until her shoes slid uselessly in the mud. "Get him off me," she pleaded to the bystanders, singling Jacob out when she looked at them. "Please. Make him stop."
The two others were busy riffling through the contents of her basket. Jacob stared at her with a mixture of fear and fascination, his body shifting almost imperceptibly. If he'd wanted to step in, he never got the chance: Lee helped himself to a piece of the watermelon-flavored bubble gum that Becky Jackson had been excited to share with her fellow Cheerios, then he slung an arm around Jacob's shoulder. "Dude, you should be filming this," he said, passing Rachel Berry's cell phone to Jacob. "It'll be the best shit you ever posted on your blog."
Jacob glanced up at Lee, then down at Santana. The phone emitted small, cartoonish beeps as he fiddled with buttons, hunting for the video feature.
Karofsky's hands were all over her. He was yanking at the waistband of her skirt, his big, thick fingers unable to locate the tiny zipper tab on the hip. When she threw wild punches at his chest and face, he caught one of her wrists, secured it above her head, and tried to nab the other. She fought hard to keep it from him—and she screamed. She gathered as much air as her rapidly pumping heart and lungs allowed and shrieked the only thing she could think of: "Help!"
"Jesus, shut her up."
"Naw, they won't hear her over the trucks and Beiste. They're leaving, anyhow."
"Yeah, but that shit hurts my ears."
"Pussy."
The conversation was a low hum—a car radio tuned softly in the background—as bright white fireworks exploded inside Santana's eye sockets. Karofsky had his hands on either side of her head, slamming it against the ground. By the third blow, she was convinced he would bash her skull in. The back of her sinuses burned the way it did when she was little and hadn't yet learned to dunk in the swimming pool without ingesting water. She began to cry, body going limp beneath him. Apparently that was what he wanted, because he released her head and moved further down, disappearing from view while she gazed at the starless sky through a blur of tears. He finally figured out that he could lift her skirts and pull down the Spankies. He crammed them into her mouth when she mumbled something in Spanish, a prayer her mother had often used to calm her after childhood nightmares.
Her whimpers became stunted puffs as they were absorbed by the underwear. She started to panic, gagging and heaving for breath as the cloth got sucked deeper into her throat with each inhalation. "Breathe through your nose, stupid," Karofsky said, and she obeyed. If she hadn't been so limber from all the Cheerios practice in recent weeks, it would have hurt to have her legs forced that far apart; he was between them, lowering his zipper. The sound made her more lucid, cleared her addled brain. She tried to roll away from him, but he held her in place with his left hand, exposing his penis with the right. He wasn't hard yet.
"Don't look at me," he ordered, pushing her face sideways as he rubbed himself against her thighs and between her legs. He did this for several moments, his fingers clenching tighter and tighter at different parts of her—breasts, hips, arms, knees. He flushed red with exertion as she watched, only briefly closing her eyes tight when he tried to grind into her. But nothing worked.
"How much foreplay do you homos need?" Azimio asked, sounding bored.
Lee popped a bubble. "One-Eyed Willy can't get it up," he said, lips smacking.
"It's just because you're all watching," Karofsky said vehemently, thumping his fist on the ground close to Santana's head. "I can't do her with you asswipes standing over my shoulder. Besides, she's too dry. That's all it is." He repeated the latter phrase a few more times, zipping his pants as he got to his feet. Then he let out a furious roar and attacked the chain-link fence, kicking and pummeling until it shuddered halfway down the football field.
Santana curled into a protective ball, expecting to be his next target. When he left her alone, she pulled the sodden underwear from her mouth, clutched it where they couldn't see, and hacked with an intensity that nearly made her vomit. Tongue adhering to the roof of her mouth, she tried to produce enough saliva to spit the lingering taste of laundry detergent into the grass. She struggled to sit up, but got no further than propped elbows, overcome by wooziness and the sensation that her brain was about to pop like an engorged tick inside her skull. "C-can I go now?" she asked, too humiliated to meet anyone's eye. She was shivering uncontrollably and wanted nothing more than to run home, crawl under the covers and cry in the solitude of her safe, warm bed.
"Show us your tits first," Jacob said, the phone poised at arm's-length, camera lens directed at Santana.
Azimio laughed and clapped him on the shoulder approvingly. "Yeah, otherwise it's too anti-climatic."
"Climactic," Lee enunciated. "This isn't the Weather Channel, dipshit." He pushed the basket and his beer into Azimio's chest, waiting for them to be received, then ambled towards Santana. Sliding the aviator sunglasses to the top of his head as he neared her, he offered out his hand with a chivalrous grin. She stared at it warily, afraid to move, knowing this was some kind of trick. His fingers beckoned her to reach for them, but she shook her head. "Well, guys," he said in a loud voice that made her jump, "I guess she likes it on her back. She just needs a real man to get her motor revved. Don't you, Lo?"
During their month-long endeavor at a relationship, he had taken to calling her that—Lo. They bickered playfully about what their celebrity power couple name would be. Santana wanted "Leelo" because one of her favorite Disney movies was Lilo & Stitch; Lee insisted upon "Lobo." Like the wolf.
When she didn't answer, he nudged her thigh with his Converse sneaker, inching up the black lace that lay torn and drooping after Karofsky's mistreatment. She crab-walked away from him, but bumped into something solid, her hand resting on top a different pair of shoes. The feet inside them belonged to Karofsky—she recognized his jeans—and she recoiled.
She was trapped between both boys. As she forced herself to glance up, ready to beg, grovel, weep, whatever it took, Karofsky spoke to Lee in a hushed tone:
"Maybe we should just let her leave, bro. She's probably too small for you, anyways."
"Damn, not only a gigantic flaming butt-pirate, but also a moron." Lee waved him off with disgust. "They're built for it," he said, pointing at Santana. "Unlike your boyfriend's asshole. Now let me worry about the lady. You go hit on Brokeback Mountain over there."
"Hey!" Jacob protested.
Karofsky visibly seethed with rage as he tore the patch from his eye. Santana willed him to start a fistfight, or at least argue long enough for her to make an escape, but he hung his head and drifted over to stand sullenly beside Azimio and Jacob. She watched him go—her would-be rapist and possible savior—taking her last shred of hope with him. You're on your own, she thought. It echoed in her mind, and when Lee snapped his fingers in front of her face for attention, she drew one knee back and drove a vicious, hard-soled Mary Jane into his shin. The sunglasses flew off his head as he leapt aside, cringing and swearing. He bent to grab them up and she kicked him again in the shoulder, almost toppling him. While he was off balance, Santana clambered to her feet and looked for a place to run. There were few options. They had her cornered by the fence, and she knew at least two of them could easily catch her if she tried to get past—three, with Lee quickly recovering. Out of time and choices, she turned and darted inside the gate to the football field. If she was lucky, there would be another gate open elsewhere. Or maybe she could hide. Maybe they would even decide not to chase her.
"She knows how I love a good sprint," Lee shouted.
"Go get her, Speedy," Azimio said just as loudly.
And Jacob added, "¡Ándale! ¡Ándale!"
Santana yelled for help as she raced along the track that bordered the field. But at the sound of footsteps pounding the springy surface behind her, she conserved her breath and focused on moving faster. Although she was agile from years of gymnastics, running had never been her strong suit. It left her winded and hurt her ankles. Now she ignored the pain, the burning lungs, and just ran.
Lee was gaining on her, though. She didn't have to look back to know his fingers were the ones that grazed her cloak. She also knew he was taunting her; unless she had broken his leg with that kick (god if only), there was no way she could outrun him. Suddenly veering to the right, she bolted up the nearby ramp to the bleachers. Hurdles. Lee always had trouble with hurdles.
She hadn't counted on the tiers still being wet from yesterday's rain. Her shoes skidded precariously as she dodged across benches, legs threatening to shoot out from under her at any moment. Lee seemed to be having the same problem. She heard his Chuck Taylors squeak in protest—"Whoa," he said—followed by a heavy clang that made the aluminum plank vibrate beneath her. For a second, spiteful, razor-sharp triumph cut through her, but it changed to terror when a dark hand appeared from the slot between benches and seized her ankle. Azimio's hand, it occurred to her as she fell.
She landed crosswise on one of the seats. Somewhere a bone snapped. At first she wasn't sure if it had been a rib or her outstretched arm, since blinding pain went through both. But when she dropped from the bottom tier onto the ground, she instinctively cradled her right arm, waves of sickness rolling through her. She barely registered the sight of Lee, unharmed by his spill, hopping down to stand above her with a smug expression. "You're pretty quick," he said, hauling her up by the waist, "for a girl."
With Santana dangling from his arm like prized game, he joined his friends under the bleachers. He deposited her unceremoniously in the dirt, amongst the cigarette butts, loose coins and bottle caps. Grateful to have landed on her left this time, she continued to protect her injured arm, fading in and out of consciousness. She woke to an agonized scream she didn't realize came from her own mouth until Lee—gripping her right shoulder to reposition her—covered it. The pain brought everything into sharp focus. She was on her back again, and Lee was undoing his belt buckle. Jacob and Azimio were a few feet away, illuminated in an eerie blue glow from the phone. ("Get ya some, Top Gun," Azimio said.) A short distance from them, Karofsky leaned against a post with his head down, hands in his pockets.
"Please, don't," she implored weakly, then said it over and over. Lee knelt between her thighs, showing no signs of stopping, so she switched tactics: "I'll tell my dad." It was a flimsy defense that made her feel like an eight-year-old tattletale, but she didn't care. Her father was the most powerful man she knew.
Lee paused only to smirk. "Your daddy is a spic gynecologist who's a generation away from mopping floors at my dad's law firm. Who do you think has more clout in this town?"
"You'll get kicked off the team. It'll go on your record."
"You're the school slut. Nobody'll blame me." He put a finger to his lips, signaling for Santana to be quiet, then tugged down his pants and boxers. Resorting to "please" and "don't," she tried closing her legs, but he kept them apart with little effort. The ground was cold and gritty against her bare buttocks as he pushed her skirt up; briefly, she fretted about where she had dropped the Spankies and who might find them. He didn't waste time fondling or groping the way Karofsky had—didn't need to. He thrust himself inside of her and clamped his hand over her mouth when she cried out. With the other, he elevated her hips and drove in vigorously, punishingly, a groove forming in the dirt as her body rocked beneath him. She gagged and pried at his hand, gulping air when he moved it aside in annoyance. She restricted herself to small, involuntary groans so he wouldn't silence her again. Afraid he might touch her arm, she complied as he manipulated her hips, buttocks and legs into the positions he wanted. He'd definitely matured since the tree house. Back then they had both been nervous and unsure of themselves. In fact, all the boys Santana had slept with since then were like that. But, now, Lee knew how to do things even Puckerman didn't—and they all hurt.
"Huh-uh, keep 'em open," he burred when she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for him to finish. Not getting an immediate response, he blew in her face until she blinked, the sickly sweet smell of watermelon gum flooding her nostrils. "Good girl. I've missed looking into those gorgeous brown eyes."
For a while the faint guttural noises they made were in sync. Then Lee's gaze became fixed, pupils dilated, and he leaned closer, bearing down with his full weight and strength. Santana clenched her jaw till it ached, grasping the soft sleeve of his leather jacket just to have something to hold onto. Hours seemed to pass before he finally grunted like a quarterback getting sacked, and slumped on top of her. He panted into her hair for a long time as she concentrated on short breaths, unable to expand her chest with him lying on it. Eventually he propped himself up enough to kiss her forehead. "You never forget your first," he murmured, then sat back on his haunches, pulling his pants up. After he stood and stared blankly at her for a moment, he went to retrieve his beer and a high-five from Azimio.
Santana put her legs together gradually, wincing at the soreness between them. She wasn't sure if the wet feeling was blood or semen, but she didn't want either leaking onto her Cheerios skirt. Drawing her knees up, she smoothed the pleats with a violently trembling hand and rolled onto her side. It was the side facing them, but she couldn't turn the other way because of her right arm. Bending the left one, she rested her head against it and refused to look at them. It's over, she told herself. It's over.
"You're up next, Zeem," said Lee, chomping that damn gum.
Fresh fear surged through Santana so quickly she heard a rushing in her ears. But she remained mute and immobile, hoping by some miracle it would make her invisible. Or at least make them lose interest. She peeked at them askance, praying with more conviction than she had since elementary school.
"I dunno, man," Azimio said, grinning from ear to ear despite his hesitant tone. "Looks like you worked her over pretty good."
"Oh, she can handle it. She's like my dad's Prius. Gets great mileage," Lee said, rocking his pelvis suggestively, "and rides like a dream."
Azimio laughed and shook his head as he glanced towards Santana. "But if my mom finds out..."
"Dude. She won't. And it'll be our word against a dirty little Mexican skank." Lee lightly punched the "M" that adorned the front of Azimio's letterman jacket. "Everyone knows she's done most of the team. 'Cept you. Don't tell me you never wanted a piece of that."
"Well... she is fine..."
"Yeah, she is," Lee said emphatically, delivering a second, harder punch. "Probably be your last shot before she's a full-fledged carpet muncher, too." And another.
Third time's a charm.
"All right." Linking his fingers, Azimio stretched his arms and made an arrogant display of cracking his knuckles. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapping them on with the same affectation. Then he freed the surgical mask from beneath his collar and playfully shoved Lee out of the way. "Step aside, son. Let Dr. Feelgood show you how it's done."
Lee whooped encouragement and nudged Jacob until he joined in.
Santana ordered herself to get up!, inwardly shrieking at her limbs to move!, but they weren't cooperating. Her good arm wobbled when she leaned on it, and her legs were too shaky to support her. She dropped heavily onto her bottom as she tried to stand. Bits of earth embedded under her fingers as she clawed at it, managing to squirm a few inches away.
"Where you going, girl?" Azimio said in an amused tone, catching her by the ankle and dragging her back to where she had been. He giggled when her shoe came off in his hand. She thrashed while he attempted to stuff it on her foot, but the kicks she dealt in just a sock were ineffectual, humorous to him. Gathering a fistful of dirt, she hurled it in his face and brought the game to an abrupt end.
"Fuck." He blinked reflexively, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. They were red and watery when he cocked his arm and flung the shoe at her chest. It bounced off with a dull thud that doubled her over, clutching the spot and coughing.
"Need some help, doc?" Lee asked teasingly.
"Naw, I got this," Azimio said, swiping moisture from his cheeks. To Santana, who resisted being pushed onto her back yet again, he added, "Have it your way," and knocked her flat on her stomach. She almost blacked out—and would have preferred it—when her arm flopped against the ground. But Azimio denied her even that small victory by rubbing her face in the dirt until she gasped for air. "How do you like it?" he demanded as she sputtered and wheezed on the flecks she inhaled.
Thankfully, he soon tired of revenge and for a few blessed moments his hands left her. She clung to the freedom, wanting it to last forever; knowing it wouldn't. And sure enough, the respite was interrupted by the sound of his jeans unzipping, the awareness of him kneeling behind her. She began crawling on her belly like a soldier in combat, but he captured the waistband of her skirt, and yanked. Several stitches popped along the seam, and she abandoned the struggle, afraid he would rip the material entirely from her body. Instead, he swept the pleats upwards, revealing her backside, and gave it a brisk slap. "Skinny little ass," he said, his disappointment evident. "I thought Spanish girls were supposed to have some booty."
I'm Puerto Rican, you stupid motherfucker. In her mind, Santana shouted it at him; on the outside, she had to summon the strength just to lift her head and turn it in the opposite direction. She wouldn't give Lee the satisfaction of seeing her face while this happened. And it had started. Azimio was rubbing his cock against her, growing stiffer as he slid between her buttocks and squeezed them in his hands. Every muscle in her body tensed with fear and discomfort, and she whimpered unintelligible requests for him to stop. They were ignored, of course, but he at least spared her the degradation she'd expected—sodomy might have made him seem gay after all. So he raped her the same way Lee had, plunging in just as ruthlessly, jarring her slender frame with each thrust. She was still wet enough from Lee to ease some of the friction, but Azimio was larger and less skilled. If she hadn't already been torn, he guaranteed it.
The rhythmic sound of his flesh bucking into hers, light and fluid like waves lapping against a dock, was the only noise he made. Santana blocked it out, her thoughts drifting elsewhere, carrying her far away from the present horror. She wondered where her friends were... (did they notice she was missing?) They must have reached the town square by now... (would they look for her?) Perhaps they had cajoled the adults into stopping at the Lima Bean for cocoa to warm themselves up. Brittany would get the gingersnap latte, though. That was her favorite. She always offered Santana the first sip, before the cream dissolved.
Tears of relief poured down Santana's cheeks. She was so glad Brittany had gone ahead. She couldn't bear the thought of the girl witnessing this. Or worse yet, being hurt by the boys, too.
Brought back to reality by Azimio pulling out, Santana used the edge of her cloak to wipe at the dirt caked on her lips, under her runny nose and to the cheek she wasn't resting on. It had started to dry already, forming a hard, pinching crust over her skin. She flinched and hid beneath the cloak when Azimio gave her a parting slap on the ass. He walked away, not bothering to acknowledge her with words.
"Too tight," he announced to the others. "I've had better."
"You're full of shit," Lee said, chuckling nonetheless. And after a brief pause:
"Saddle up, buckaroo."
Jacob stammered nervously—excitedly?—as he replied, "You said I could only come along to get the story."
"I'm feeling generous. And this is the story now. Once people find out you banged a hot cheerleader, they'll see you as something more than a greasy little shit stain. You'll get all kinds of action."
"She's not really my type."
"If she's breathing, she's your type. No offense, dude, but look at you. Then look at her. When are you ever going to have another opportunity like this?"
Jacob took a long time to answer. Santana bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood.
"I must admit, I was titillated when I overheard Xavier Martin talking about the blowjob she gave him last year. He said she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose."
Santana shook her head feebly, though she doubted anyone would notice. But that wasn't true, what Jacob had said. She'd never given a blowjob to Xavier Martin, whoever the hell he was. In fact, she disliked performing oral sex—at least with guys—and had only tried it once when Puckerman claimed that every Cheerio he dated gave great head. She hadn't even worked up the courage to suggest it to Brittany back when they were still fooling around. It required a level of intimacy she was unprepared for, despite her best efforts to treat sex casually. She wanted to tell Jacob that the Xaxier person had lied, but it took every bit of energy just to slide her left arm forward and raise up on one elbow. Her lower body was numb with cold and trauma, knees unwilling to bend. She wished she could push her skirt down.
"Guess you piqued her interest," Lee said, leading Jacob by the shoulder as they approached Santana. He motioned for Azimio to follow.
"I don't want to," Santana said, her dry throat and chattering teeth producing little more than a broken whisper. She rasped the words again, watching their shoes advance from the corner of her eye. Jacob's spurs jingled with each step.
When the boys stood overhead, Lee set the basket and beer aside and squatted next to Santana. He inclined his ear in her direction. "Come again?"
"I don't know how. I've never done that." It was partially true. The experiment with Puck had been brief, and though he raved about it, she had no clue what she was doing.
Lee snorted behind his hand, as if his mirth couldn't be contained. "Right. We totally believe you," he said, sweeping a tousled pigtail off her shoulder for a better view of her face. He tilted her chin up, forcing eye contact. "And we're here to help you learn. You're a... mildly intelligent girl, you'll catch on." Resting his palm on her back in a comforting manner, he then grasped a fistful of cloak and uniform and lifted her into a kneeling position.
At first, being upright alleviated the pressure on her injury. But relief was short-lived as the limb dangled uselessly, feeling unnaturally heavy. The strain on her shoulder became intolerable, as though her arm were rending itself from the socket. Dizzy with pain, she swayed and started to drop over when Lee released her clothing. She caught a whiff of latex as another pair of hands offered assistance—one grabbing the nape of her neck, the other her chest. Through a haze of nausea, she watched Lee intercept the phone from Jacob (the hands must be Azimio's) and urge him forward with a kick to the rear. Timidly, the boy stepped up to Santana, his eyes enormous behind their frames, and fumbled with the buckle of his chaps. He moistened his lips and attempted to smile at her.
"I can't," Santana said tearfully. "I'm gonna throw up."
Lee panned the camera lens in Jacob's direction. "Doesn't look like she fancies you much, either. Jewish cowboys must not do it for her. Too bad you don't have any pussy in there for her to eat out." He angled the lens at Jacob's crotch.
"Maybe he does," Azimio chimed in. "He's got that hermaphrodite vibe."
The football players snickered, waiting expectantly while Jacob glanced back and forth at them, his cheeks coloring. Avoiding Santana's bleary gaze, he unzipped his jeans and lowered them to his calves, chaps and underwear going with them. "Nope, all male," he boasted, displaying himself inches from her.
"I stand corrected," said Azimio, tightening his fingers on Santana's neck when she cringed and tried to turn away. It hurt, but she ignored the warning and continued to squirm until he trapped her head between his hands. He held her still as Jacob leaned in and tentatively rubbed against her cheek, then, as he became more aroused, over the rest of her face. She squeezed her eyes shut when he neared them, grazing the lids; opened them again when he kneaded her breasts with a rough, greedy hand. She hated to see what he was doing, but it made her feel more powerless not to.
Within seconds he was fully erect, stroking her compressed lips with the tip of his penis. After several light nudges failed to coax them apart, he applied a bit of force, prodded, and said, "Suck me. Now." Not getting the desired results, he wrapped one of her pigtails around his fist and yanked. Santana gritted her teeth, determined not to scream or open her mouth for any reason—even if he pulled the hair right out of her scalp, as it seemed he might. But the other boys were laughing at his predicament, and he came up with a quick, simple solution she hadn't considered. He let go of her hair and pinched her nose shut.
Santana couldn't shake him off, or move her head at all, with Azimio's vicelike grip in place. She wrenched at Jacob's hand, but she was too tired and weak to overpower him. And he was the one boy of the group she'd been certain she could outmatch physically. Hot tears sprung to her eyes when he brushed her hand aside with ease. She fought back emotion and the need for oxygen, but she had already been out of breath from the start, and it was a short battle. The moment she parted her lips just enough to inhale sharply, Azimio looped his arm around her head, clutching her lower jaw in his free hand. His fingers dug into her cheeks, preventing her teeth and lips from closing.
"What if she bites me?" Jacob asked, hesitating as he was about to enter her mouth.
"If she tries it, Azimio will break her jaw," Lee said matter-of-factly.
"You gonna bite him?" Azimio growled, his arm crushing at her skull, demonstrating his strength to do as Lee had promised.
"No." Santana sagged in his embrace, repeating the word until she couldn't anymore. Jacob filled her mouth to capacity, suffocating the final protest. Eventually he remembered to let go of her nose, and she took in deep, frantic breaths through her nostrils, trying not to choke on him. She followed the orders he moaned, doing her best to "lick" and "suck" as instructed, hoping that it would relieve the fullness at the back of her throat. But he didn't give her the chance to obey one command before moving on to the next, his eager thrusts making her desperate to gag. Fortunately his lack of self-restraint brought him to an early climax and stopped him from jamming himself any further down her throat; but the dank, bitter taste of his come was just as much of an assault on the senses. Unable to block the reflex, she swallowed when he withdrew. It was more than her upset stomach and abused throat could handle.
Azimio had released her at some point, and she wavered for a moment on her knees. Then she bent forward and retched violently, covering Jacob's cowboy boots in a dark layer of vomit that resembled blood in the dim lighting. He hadn't finished pulling his pants up yet, and he leapt back with a disgusted cry. "Oh, that's nasty," said Azimio, but joined in with Lee's riotous laughter. Santana leaned unsteadily on her hand, shuddering and dry heaving until she sank to the ground in exhaustion. She longed to lie down and let the sick feeling pass, but she would not resume a submissive pose in front of them. Though she had to hunch over and rest on her elbow, she stayed seated. She only half-listened to the conversation the boys were having, failing to absorb most of it.
"If I were you, I'd edit that part out for your blog," Lee was saying.
"Seriously, dude," said Azimio, "if she wasn't already gay, you just sealed the deal. And ruined my love of fruit punch. Nice going."
"Yeah, well, it won't be a big loss. She's nothing special." Jacob shook one leg and then the other, flicking the mess off his boots. When he stepped towards Santana again, his pants and chaps were up—but still undone—his penis exposed. He stared at her coldly for a moment, then urinated down the front of her uniform as he added, "Definitely no Rachel Berry."
The acrid scent reached Santana before her mind connected his actions with the warmth spreading across her chest. She recoiled, using both feet to scoot herself backwards, the abrasive dirt skinning her thighs. Harsh, wheezing coughs racked her body, but there wasn't anything left for her convulsing stomach to expel. She was drained of everything except the tears that poured down her cheeks in a ceaseless flow.
"Goddamn it, now she'll stink like your piss." Lee knocked Jacob's hat off and shoved him aside.
"Aren't we kind of... done with her?" Jacob asked, righting himself and stuffing the hat back on his head. He accepted the phone when Lee handed it over as if nothing had happened.
Lee didn't answer. He stood above Santana, his nose wrinkled in disdain as he studied her and the filth nearby. She prayed that it would repel him; that his aversion to the smell would put an end to whatever cruel plan was forming behind his blank, unfeeling eyes. But once again God turned a deaf ear on her requests. Snaring her by the collar, Lee dragged her a few feet from the rancid puddles, scooping up the basket and beer can along the way. For the first time since being tossed into this hell pit, she noticed that Karofsky was still there with her, lurking at the outskirts. She started to say his name, to make some sort of appeal to him, but another pungent liquid began to seep onto her breast. When she glanced up in confusion, Lee emptied the remainder of his beer into her face. She hissed and rubbed at her stinging eyes with the heel of her palm. After a moment, Lee stayed her hand and blotted something soft on her closed lids. She cowered from him, but he continued to dry her off with the familiar-smelling cloth. Cautiously, she peered at him through blurred, itchy vision and saw that he was holding the sash from Brittany's gypsy costume. Her expression must have been a dead giveaway.
"You want it?" he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking as he offered her the sash.
Santana did want it. She wanted to snatch it from the monster whose vile hands didn't deserve even to touch it. But she was too scared to reach out or let him know he held something of importance to her. When she looked at him mutely, he brought the fabric to his nose and sniffed the peppermint body mist that was Brittany's fragrance of the week.
"Nice," he said, coiling the sash around Santana's neck as if it were a scarf. Crouching beside her, he took a whiff at the surrounding air and, deeming it acceptable, rummaged through the basket at his feet. He picked out a couple of hair barrettes and chucked them into the dark crevices under the lower bleachers. "You've got a lot of crap in here, Lo. Most of it's pretty boring, but—" Suddenly, like a little boy who had discovered the toy surprise in a box of cereal, he brandished a miniature pack of Sour Patch Kids. "Can I have these?"
Santana continued to stare. Now that her body wasn't under attack, the full extent of her injuries had begun to set in. It was all she could do to remain conscious.
Lee tucked the candy in his pocket. "Anyway, like I was saying. There is this one thing I found really, really interesting..." His hand disappeared into the basket again, revealing the humidor and flask an inch at a time. The dual container was the shape and length of a cigar and twice as wide. Its silver finish glinted in a slant of light from between the bleacher tiers. "Russell Fabray," he said, enunciating slowly as he squinted at the engraved side. He leveled it in front of Santana's face, too close for her eyes to focus on the name. "Huh. Now, what in the world are you doing with something that belongs to Quinn's daddy? And what the hell is it?" The outer cap popped off as he fiddled with it, and he stuck his finger in the cigar hole, then unscrewed the flask lid and tipped the whole thing upside-down to check that it was empty. He waited patiently for an answer.
"It's a flask," Santana whispered, her voice brittle, crackling. She couldn't get it to stop shaking. "And cigar holder."
"Ah. Neat." He resealed the container and tapped it lightly on her thigh. "You didn't steal this, did you?"
"No."
"So, Mr. Fabray gave it to you? Don't tell me you're one of his mistresses." As Lee spoke, he trailed the cylinder along Santana's outstretched leg. "I knew you slept around, but I didn't think you were a home wrecker."
Santana tried to bring her legs together and fold them beneath her, but it was too painful. "It's Quinn's. She spiked the punch." The secret seemed so trivial now. There were much worse things than detention or getting suspended for a few days.
"With this? Nobody's going to get buzzed from what you can store in here..." He turned the tube over and over in his hands, tested the heft of it in his palm. Balancing it between his index fingers, he asked, "What would you say that is? Seven inches?" He suspended it vertically in the air. "Kind of phallic if you ask me."
"Just let me go home," Santana said quietly, avoiding his gaze. Her flesh crawled as he went on prodding and stroking with his new souvenir. "I won't tell anyone what happened. I promise. I'll say it was a stranger. I'll—" She was babbling, the words reaching a shrill pitch when the rounded silver tip circled her breasts, then slid down her abdomen. It brushed the inside of her thigh, and she pushed it away. But Lee kept putting it back, obviously enjoying the shoving match that ensued.
"Come on, man," Azimio said, peeling off the latex gloves and blowing into his cupped hands. "Let's get out of here. It's too cold for you to be dicking around."
"We're staying until everyone's had his turn," said Lee.
"Aw, shit, screw Karofsky. That homo already had his chance. If we gotta wait on him to get it up, we'll be here all night."
"Oh, right. Him," Lee murmured, his voice low enough for only Santana to hear. He flipped at the pleats of her skirt with the end of the flask. When she almost knocked it from his hand, he seized her upper arm and hauled her off the ground in one frighteningly swift movement. She staggered alongside him, tripping on her own feet as he took several long strides towards Karofsky. Halting, Lee threw her against the other boy's chest, leaving him little choice but to catch her. "Well, I'm a fair guy. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. So, Karofsky's gonna have another go. If he can pull it off, I'll believe him when he says he isn't a faggot. If he can't, we'll toss him a big coming out party tomorrow during lunch."
Santana groaned into Karofsky's letterman jacket as he struggled to keep her upright. She was dead weight in his arms, and her head lolled when she tipped it back to look at him. His face hovered above hers, eyes brimming with tears. But regret wasn't the only emotion she saw there; he was conflicted, too. After a futile attempt to control her rag doll limbs, she rested her cheek against him with a weary sigh, and asked, "Dave?"
"What'll it be, Dave?" Lee echoed impatiently.
Glancing from Santana's dirt-encrusted face to Lee's menacing one, Karofsky gave a helpless shrug and shook his head as if they expected too much. "I..."
He hesitated a moment longer than he should have.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Lee said in an exasperated tone. "Are you so incredibly gay you don't even know how to fuck a girl? Okay, look, I'll teach you how it works." Grabbing the hood of Santana's cloak, he ripped her from Karofsky's arms and dumped her at his feet. It might have been excruciating, had she the time to comprehend it. But Lee was instantly on top of her, drowning out the rest of the world with his tall, athletic frame. His hands were everywhere at once—smothering her cries, bending her body to his will. Though she was vaguely aware of him speaking to Karofsky ("It's really easy. If you can't get a hard-on, just use something else. Here, Russell Fabray will show you what I mean"), none of it made sense until she felt it:
White-hot jolts of pain from pelvis to abdomen...
Breath gone...
Can't scream...
God, it hurts so bad...
As the skewering motion continued below, Santana disconnected from that half of her body. She split herself in two, focusing only on what she could access from the waist up. Air. That was one thing. She guzzled it into her lungs, then released it in a scream that lasted until her voice gave out. But Lee denied her that power as well, muffling the sound beneath his palm. So she let him have her. Retreating into her mind—the one safe, untouchable place she had left—she slipped free of the shell that belonged to him now, and became a spectator with the rest of the boys. That wasn't her writhing, sobbing, bleeding in the dirt while Lee twisted and rutted with the flask. Santana didn't know who that poor girl was, but she pitied her.
And she cheered when Karofsky finally pushed Lee off the girl, his face contorting as he removed the gory flask. She waited for him to pick the small girl up—carefully, of course, because she looked so battered, so broken—and rush her somewhere warm and comforting; somewhere people who loved her might still be able to piece her back together. But her anticipation turned to outrage as he tossed the flask at Lee and said, "Fine, I'll do it! Jesus Christ! I'll do it if you just... just keep your mouth shut."
Pathetic, fucking coward, she thought. You are a sick, fucking loser who's worse than all of them. You were supposed to help her. You could have stopped this. I hope you burn in hell.
Santana blinked up at Karofsky when he dropped on top of her. Their eyes met as he began to rock. He, too, was under the same impression as his buddies: that manhood should be proven by violent thrust. Try as she might to separate herself from the brutality like she had a moment ago, something kept her tethered to her body and the solid ground beneath it. Something in his eyes told her she needed to hold on with an iron fist. "Stop looking at me like that," he grunted. But she had nowhere else to look. She memorized everything—the beads of sweat on his forehead, the dark slashes that were his eyebrows, the way his lip curled up in concentration. And the image that seared itself in her brain, the last thing she believed she'd ever see: his merciless expression as he caught both ends of the sash around her neck, and pulled them tight. "It's your fault," he was saying while he strangled her. "It's your fault."
"What the fuck are you doing? You're going to kill her."
"Aw, shit, man. She's turning blue. I'm getting the fuck out of here."
"You stupid asshole, let her go! What the hell is wrong with you? I'm not going to prison for this."
"Is she breathing? Somebody check her pulse."
"I'm not touching her. She looks dead. I'm leaving. I have to go."
"Me, too. Come on, Karofsky. You're in deep shit. Just... I don't know—forget about her."
The boys scattered like autumn leaves from a windswept bough. Under the bleachers another draft ruffled the girl's red cloak, but not a soul looked back to see it fluttering farewell.