Hello everyone. I'd been planning this fic for quite some time before the break-up ep, and kind of lost some motivation after my babies broke up. I thought I'd post it, see what you guys think, in the hopes that it would spur me on to the point that it didn't matter if brittana are canon anymore : ( Hopefully they'll be canon again someday. They better be lol! Btw, this is not G!p. I dislike G!p with a passion :/

Well, I hope you guys get some enjoyment out of this.

Ever seen the TV show Dallas? Well if you have, the way that those characters live? - that's my life. I half wish I could say that my life isn't nearly as chock full of drama, but, in the end it always is. Whether it be a seemingly genuine smile from someone close who secretly wants something from you, or a doting father that has a secret side family; you can't trust anything. That's why I live the way that I do. I lavish in all of it, taking whatever I can get, even if it means taking from others, even if it means seeing families homeless, children out on the street shivering from hunger and the winter's bite. This world, my world, it's a hotbed of betrayal, sibling rivalry, power struggles, money, and most of all oil; the best thing ever to happen to my parents in the late eighties!

I'm Santana Lopez by the way, not that you didn't already know it. You should have. I mean, when people think oil, doesn't the Lopez name automatically spring to mind? It should. However, I'd get it if you knew of me via the magazines and the newspapers too. My affinity for sexscapades with various women has been front page more times than I care to acknowledge, my not so personal life available for morning reading over bacon and eggs before people go to work, but hey, I'm only twenty-four right? If your father was Miguel C Lopez, you'd feel like you could do whatever the fuck you wanted and have enough money to make the mess ups go away too.

But this, tonight, wasn't going to be one of them. I was going to flick my finger at the domino, and it was going to successfully collapse into the one behind it, setting off a trail of falling dominos with a pot of gold at the end of it, for the collection of the Lopez family.

So, I put on an amused giggle and slipped two fingers around the stem of my champagne glass, lifting it from the cream table cloth. The golden fizz filling it sloshed back and forth as I tilted it towards Quinn in toast.

"To a long meaningful friendship," she smirked, holding her glass out to mine.

For a change, I was going to do daddy proud.

"To a long and meaningful friendship," I repeated, finalizing it with a small clink of our glasses.

To be honest, Quinn Fabray wasn't anything but a fake sanctimonious bore in my opinion, not that she would ever know that from the smiles and compliments I've been forcing her way all night. She's that bat her eyelashes innocently at you across the table, whilst running the toe of her heels up and down your calf type, not that she's been doing that to me. No, to do that would be in violation of her moral code, which seems to consist of an endless scroll of things that Jesus would disapprove of. She has these really coy eyes too, and she's been taking the most delicate bites of food from her plate all evening, but she's not fooling me.

I know a wolf in sheep's clothing when I see one. I am one; they don't call me Satan for nothing.

"So uhm," Quinn hummed around another bite of chicken, "you have someone special in your life, Santana?"

Like she was genuinely interested. She'd probably flickered through a copy of People! Magazine before coming here tonight, and probably thought she knew everything about me.

"Hmm," I slurped, quickly sucking in a long string of spaghetti. Shortly after, I reached for my napkin to dab the splashes of sauce that had splattered at the corner of my mouth.

Quinn only chuckled, but still her eyes were wide, encouraging an answer out of me.

"I'm not really a relationship kind of girl," I finally said with a swallow of food, briefly raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes at her in a silent acknowledgement and complaint of just how pesky spaghetti could be.

She chuckled again and closed her eyes with a nod, before opening them. "So how come you're not a relationship kind of girl?"

I shrugged. "People get on my nerves?"

Quinn forked another bite in past her lips, her entire face alight with mirth as she chewed and tried not to choke on the laughter bubbling in the back of her throat. "Finally, there's the person I've read about," she teased, chuckling softly. "But seriously, you're actually really cool, nothing like how the media portrays you."

"Well," I said, sighing out a large breath of mock relief, "I'm glad I get your seal of approval."

"Don't be so sensitive; I didn't mean it like that," Quinn placated, though glints of playfulness remained shaping the mirth in her eye.

Continuing to fork trips of pasta and mince into my mouth, I shrugged; it didn't matter anyway. She was just a means to an end, and I wasn't going to fuck this up, so I swallowed down the demon on my tongue, and smiled across at the blonde, letting her know that it was ok for her to relax back into that beautiful ivory skin of hers.

"They make you out to be some sex crazy succubus, but you're really respectful and gentlewomanly. Opening the door for me when we walked in, and pulling my chair out? - I wasn't expecting that, so thanks because I was actually," she squeaked, momentarily lowering her gaze as her cheeks blazed pink, "a tad nervous about coming to dinner tonight."

I am sex crazed. Women are beautiful, and I have a real tough time keeping my hands to myself when I spot one that takes my fancy, hence those articles about me turning the likes of Taylor Swift, Emily Blunt, and Jenifer Carpenter out. I loved sex with women, everything about it, the oxymoron of soft but aggressive, the sight of pink flustered nipples, the smell, the taste, the wet-and-stickiness. If I don't get to touch a woman that I've taken an interest in, I've been known to sulk for up to two months. But that doesn't happen very often.

"Santana?"

When my mind cleared of me slurping on some faceless woman's pert nipple, Quinn's confused face re-appeared before me. "Where'd you go?" she asked, reaching for her glass.

I smiled cheerily. "No place special. About you being nervous; there was no need, but I get it. The media's a terrible thing."

"Yeah..." she solemnly trailed off into her head, which I could tell was quickly filling with memories of her father's recently dropped rape case.

I wasn't about to bring it up. One: I needed her to like me if this thing was going to sail smoothly. Two: I wasn't here to dredge up her past, especially one that I wasn't supposed to know about. But I always do my research. Always.

I let Quinn chew on her turbulent memories in silence as I glanced around the restaurant for any faces that I might know. I wasn't surprised when I spotted Mr. Emoto, an aging Japanese man that my father had made extensive business deals with over the past two years. He quickly felt the weight of my stare and winked whilst flashing me that 'charming' smile. His wife was sat across the table from him, with eyes less friendly as she regarded me, though she needn't worry herself about someone as young and attractive as me trying to take her husband from her; I was more interested in what colour her lingerie was, to be blunt.

Mr. Emoto swatted her hand, which was coiled on the surface of the table, and motioned towards me, prompting his wife into forcing a quick tight smile my way. He then winked at me again.

Fucking creep, I thought, smiling back toothily as I gave him a small wave.

To the chorus of Quinn's silverware clinking against her plate, I let my eyes skate towards the bar area, where quite the tall blonde woman was perched on a bar stool, which was shaped like an elegant snake. She was taking a bottle of Budweiser to and from her lips, swigging long and smooth gulps. Her full head of blonde hair was a little frantic as it sat in a quickly thrown together bun, and her true body type remained a secret to me; swallowed by a gigantic grey hoody with sweatpants, just as roomy, to match. There was also a long duffel bag hung high up on her shoulder, prompting me to surmise that this was merely a winding down drink after a workout at the gym. Where ever she'd been, she stuck out against the Prada pinstriped tailored suits, and the Gucci dresses in this place like a diamond's glint.

Something inside of me piqued, something that felt a lot like interest.

Brow furrowed like a determined detective, I eyed this mystery of a woman and asked Quinn, "hey, do you know that lady over there?" I subtly nodded in the beer swigging blonde's direction, and Quinn, looking relieved to see the end of our silence, eagerly span in her seat, her eyes finding the woman at the bar with a concentrative squint.

It was common for one member of the elite to know of another, even if they'd never exchanged words or a business deal. I sat hoping that Quinn knew of the blonde, because I've been in this life one hell of a long time and I'd never come across the woman who'd been so bold as to wear sweats in an upscale establishment such as this. All I needed was a family name, and I'd be able to flash a few notes at Ben and have a little research done.

With a shy smile, Quinn returned her gaze to me. Her cheeks were flustered, blotching down the porcelain flesh of her neck.

"What?" I asked.

"You, err, you really don't know who that is?" Quinn whispered across at me.

I merely shrugged. "People know who I am, not the other way around."

She took her pale jittery hand to her neck, drawing her palm down it in what appeared to be a coping mechanism for stress, before reaching for her glass of champagne and gulping down what was left of the golden fizz.

What was she so nervous about?

"Who is she?" I pressed, growing impatient.

"Mistress Sheridan," Quinn whispered, as if the title bared ominous weight behind it. "Mistress Brittany Sheridan."

"Mistress?"

Quinn merely nodded, placing her empty glass back to the table with a gulp and slight wince.

A smirk gradually carved its place out in my expression; I felt it in every cell of my body. "She's exquisite on the eyes," I said, still eying this Brittany woman.

Quinn suddenly broke. "Look, if this is you trying to mess with me Santana, then I don't think I want to continue with this friendship."

I frowned down to my toes. "What?"

She studied my face for a moment. Then her pursed lips parted, accommodating a large breath out of them which deflated her tense shoulders. "Nothing."

"What else do you know about Miss Brittany?" I asked, eager for more information.

"Why?" Quinn exasperated, dropping her silverware to the table with a pointed clunk.

I took a moment to eye her just as she had me seconds earlier, and a story began to tell itself to me. A story where Quinn was a secret client of Brittany's, and perfect, boring, sanctimonious Quinn was afraid that I knew about their dealings. Still, I've been told that I have an over active imagination.

"Maybe I want to book an appointment with her," I smirked.

Quinn's face crumpled in disapproval, and she began to scurry to collect her bag. "I don't agree with people who use services such as that," she told me, standing up. "It's immoral, the type of thing that breaks up families."

Shit! Things were not supposed to go this way. She needed to sit her ass down and eat the rest of this boring meal with me, so that her father would consider us Lopez' friends, and sign his business over to my father, without hiccup, when propositioned.

"I was kidding," I quickly back peddled, flashing a toothy grin. "Sit down."

"I don't think that you were," Quinn bristled.

I sighed, bored with being nice at this point.

"Take care of yourself Santana." With that, Quinn absconded the establishment as quickly as her heels would take her, and I began to drum my fingers to the table as I stalked Mistress Brittany's back...

"Good evening," I smirked, taking up a seat on the bar stool beside the one that Mistress Brittany was perched upon.

"Evening." She nodded, once, though never actually looking at me. Her eyes, which were a sparkling complexion of blues, were far too engaged in riding the curves of the burlesque dancers up on stage.

I really wasn't used to being ignored.

"So, what have I got to do to get you to look at me, huh?"

The Mistress suddenly sighed and slid her bottle of Budweiser away from her, finally looking at me, although from the corner of her patterned blue eye. "What do you want, exactly?"

At the unexpected impudence, my eyebrow lifted all on its own. "Are you always this rude when people try to make conversation with you?"

A smirk slowly grew into her features as she regarded me full-on. I felt heated under the intensity in her complete gaze. It was unusual, to say the least. "Thank you, but I'm not interested," she said, grabbing her bottle of beer again, and taking it to her lips.

My left eyebrow shot up to join the other, and my head violently nodded itself back in offence. "Excuse you? I didn't offer you anything, Miss Brittany."

She stared at me, from crown to soles, and I expected, from her, some kind of reaction to the fact that I knew who she was, but she simply turned her attention back to the women on stage. "You offered conversation which, once again, I'm not interested in."

I slammed my palm to the bar's surface, looking for a flinch or some type of reaction from her, with no success. "If I wasn't so caught up in wanting to ride your fingers right now, I'd probably throw the rest of this Budweiser in your jerk of a face. How about that?"

"How about," she responded, calm as the clouds floating in the sky, "you go and bother someone else?" She made her lithe pale fingers walk through the air, illustrating the suggested course of action that I should take, like I was deaf, dumb, and inept. "I'll never fuck you. That's not what I do," she enunciated, to the point that her lips were still ringed around the last word she'd spoken moments after she'd spoken it.

For a moment, I faltered, not knowing how to deal with the concept of being told no. No wasn't something that people like me should ever have to hear. Dad had taught me that from young, and I believed it like it was a crucifix that hung around my neck. So I reached into my purse for the roll of fifties that mom had given me yesterday. I held it up in the serene purple light floating over the bar, then tossed it at Miss Brittany like she was nothing.

She wanted to make me feel like nothing? Well two could play that game. She was a fucking dominatrix for fuck sake; who the hell did she think she was?

Miss Brittany bowed her head to look down at the thick roll of notes that had pelted her lap, whilst I demanded, "I'd likes to book a session." I tapped the bar top as if to light a fire under her ass. "Now!"

Something smug floated over her unique features and she slowly shook her head from side to side. "Bold."

"Bold?" I was growing impatient. When I asked something of another, I expected to hear, 'how high?'

"Yes," she said, collecting the money and stuffing it down into the cleavage of my tight black dress with as much sass as I'd employed whilst tossing it at her. "Very bold of you to treat someone you're willing to sub for with such little regard. You have no idea what you're in for, do you princess?"

I touched my twenty-five-thousand dollar pearl choker absently, then dropped my hand back to the bar. "How about you stop talking and just make the damn appointment, before I lose my temper?"

"Impatient too." She slid her pale hand into her sweatpants pocket and pushed her contact card across the bar towards me. "Email me in two weeks, not a day before or after. If you fail to do so, I won't respond, nor will I ever acknowledge you if I see you out in public. If you try to contact or approach me, I'll seek out a restraining order. Do I make myself clear?"

"Erm -"

"Let's see how good you are at doing as you're told," she cut me off, side-eying me.

I blinked down at the card on the bar, and then shrugged, just relieved to be one step closer to seeing this broad naked. "What do you propose I put in this email?"

"Anything you want."

I sighed loudly. "This doesn't seem like an appointment."

"Email me in two weeks, and we'll arrange a session after that..." She reached for her beer and took a swig from the bottle, still side-eying me, like I was a naughty child that needed to be watched. "If I see fit, of course."

"Whatever," I said, tossing my thick curtain of velvet black hair off of my shoulder. "What are your prices like?"

Miss Brittany took her gaze back to the dancers seductively sashaying around in smoke and dimmed lights. "If you do as you're told, it'll be no charge."

I instantly became suspicious. "Everybody has their price."

"Oh, you'll pay. Don't worry about that," she said, smirking to herself around another swig.

She was so fucking fine that I almost didn't know what to do with myself. The little dimple in her smirking cheek, the straightness of her perfect white teeth as her top lip rode up to accommodate her grin, those complex blue eyes - even her aloofness; which was both a curse and a tease to me. If I'd not been in fear of more rejection, I would've taken her hand and lured her to the back seat of the limo that I had waiting for me just outside the back of this place.

But fuck if I was going to tell her any of that. She probably knew it all anyway, the bitch. "Look, you're not intimidating in the least. In fact, you look like you babysit kids, the typical girl next door, 'cept a little hotter. So drop the bullshit."

"Santana Lopez loses her cool," Miss Brittany mocked, as though reading a headline from a magazine. "How predictable."

"How the fuck do you know my name?" It was out of my mouth before I could confirm just how redundant the question was with myself. Everybody knew my name. Usually, I revelled in that fact, in the fame, especially when folks would throw free stuff my way because of my notoriety, but not now.

Miss Brittany boredly dragged her eyes through the air to settle on me. "I know who you are, Santana."

"...right." I nodded, and hugged my mid-section, suddenly feeling more than a little exposed.

Easing off of the bar stool, she hiked her bag further up on her shoulder, and I was able to get a reading on how deliciously tall she was. "Night Miss Lopez."

She left me stood there feeling weightless and more insecure than I'd felt in years. "Two can play this game," I muttered under my breath.

So there we have it. First chapter posted! I hope you liked it, and if you did let me know please : )