Well, this is it, my new fic. This is almost completely opposite from OIABM because the innocence that Blaine and especially Kurt had is completely gone. But I have so many plans for this, it's insane. This is completely AU by the way, meaning the characters did not all go to high school together! ENJOY!

Chapter 1

There were many people in Las Vegas that Kurt Hummel hated, but he wasn't sure he hated anyone more than the owner of the motel in which he lived.

"Hummel, if you think I can't fucking smell that in there, you are out of your mind," a loud, rough voice came through the door, "I told you once, kid."

Kurt flinched, but threw his cigarette into the toilet, "I do live here, you know," he called back out, flushing the toilet.

"Yeah, yeah kid. You live in my hotel, paying less than half of what a paying customer would, and you think you can make your own rules? You can get the fuck out." The man's fist slammed against the outside of the door again, Kurt could imagine his sweaty face and thick fingers covered in gaudy gold rings. "My way or you're out, Hummel!"

"Fuck you!" Kurt yelled again, double-checking to make sure the chain was across the door. He sighed and grabbed a black tank off the floor, sniffing it quickly. "Shit," he groaned, it smelled like beer. All of his clothes smelled like beer or cigarettes.

Which he hated, but they curbed the hunger pains.

Walking over to the broken dresser, he pulled his last new black tank top out of the pack. He sighed quietly, this one would have to last him a whole week until he could get money to buy a new pack or at least scrape up enough change at work to do his laundry.

Rushing through his small room, or "apartment" as he called it to his coworkers and friends, he grabbed his still-damp tight black jeans and briefs from the stained armchair.

He quickly put them on with only minor discomfort. He was used to shower washed clothes by now. It was nearing six and he did not have time to search the room for a dryer pair of pants. If he was late to work, Shelby would cut off parts he held very dear to himself.

In the bathroom, he leaned toward the broken mirror, quickly lining his eyes with a thick coat of black eyeliner. He smudged it as he went out the door, wiping his fingers on the inside of his pockets. He flinched at the stench of the air – he swore even New York had fresher air to breath.

Kurt's boots crunched against the stones as he made his way behind the motel. The sign on the fence read "Park at your own discretion – management is not responsible for stolen cars." Kurt grinned a bit as he quickly twirled his combination into his bike lock. Pulling the bike free, he jumped on it, thanking god that it was not raining, because riding to work on a bike with a bright yellow parka on was about the biggest hit his dignity could take.

He pedaled quickly to work, cutting through the grass on the sides of the bigger roads, the lights from the city being the only direction he needed. One day, someone would catch him riding a bike on roads he was not supposed to go, and he would pay, but he hoped he would get enough money gathered up under his mattress to get a crappy little car before that day.

When he finally pushed his way toward the glowing neon strip, sweat ran down his face, he just prayed that the new sweat resistant make up he wore definitely would not run, or he'd look like a KISS reject.

Shelby would love that.

Kurt's fingers slipped with sweat as he tried to link the bike to the dumpster behind the club, he had to hurry because he was not about to get puke clean-up duty for the third week in a row. It wasn't his fault he lived so far away from the club and was always late: it was in his nature.

Kurt slipped into the back of the club – Strip, as Shelby had affectionately titled it, taking away any of the respect most of the workers had for themselves. No matter what they told anyone, it was not a strip club.

Not that it gained them any respect anyway.

"Well, Mr. Hummel, thank you for joining us," Shelby said from her stool on the stage, "You're lucky you are just on time, Santana almost lost her privilege."

Santana shot Kurt a withering look, disappointed that he showed up on time. She went back to filing her nails, this week they were painted a fiery red. Santana was the only person working the club that was born and raised in Las Vegas, and she definitely gave off the aura of it. Everything just rolled off her back, but she has a determination that Kurt hoped she would never lose.

Santana wrapped her arms around Brittany, the blonde girl sitting next to her, she leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Kurt was trying to pay attention and listen in, but Shelby clapped and got his attention.

"Now that we have everyone, I have a bit of an announcement to make," Shelby took a deep breath, her black high heels glinting under the spot light, "I found out that Strip is in the running to be named the best mid-sized club in Vegas. If we get the honor, we will get some money for renovations, and maybe some for raises" her eyebrows raised, "needless to say, that means we are going to have to be at the top of our game when the prospectors come."

Kurt sighed and crossed his legs, knowing this announcement would lead to an onslaught of Shelby's verbal abuse and more training for Santana and Brittany.

Shelby pulled a list out of her bag, "Puck and Sam, we're only letting the best of the best in the club this week. I do not want any more, sad, sloppy, ugly people frequenting the bar. I want the most beautiful women and the most handsome men."

The two boys nodded gruffly. Both were dressed identically in black button down shirts and black pants – Shelby loved black. Every single person, from the bartenders to the bouncers were expected to wear black.

Shelby turned to Kurt, "Kurt, I know we don't usually have you do this, but you're on top of the bar with Brittany and Santana for a number. We need to expand our horizons to other people."

Kurt raised an eyebrow in response, "You expect me to dance on the bar with them?"

"Yes, when you applied here you said you could dance," Shelby said dryly, already halfway down her list of things to say, "are you telling me you can't now?"

Kurt swallowed thickly but nodded, "I can. Of course I can. I just haven't yet."

"Well, Rachel's coming in to teach you a new routine before your shift tonight," Shelby glared at the group, daring anyone to groan at the thought of Rachel coming in to help with the choreography.

If anyone was worse than Shelby was, it was her daughter Rachel.

"You'll be great, Kurt," Brittany said, linking fingers with the boy over Santana, "You'll probably get more girls here!"

"That's exactly what we want, more girls," Shelby smiled at Brittany, she had always taken a liking to the blonde, somewhat daft girl over the rest of the workers. "The more girls we get, the more men will come in and buy them drinks."

"Because that's my core target group," Kurt grumbled.

"Ah, first come the gays, then the girls," Shelby said wisely.

Two hours later, Kurt found himself sweating profusely as he tried another spin.

"Remember, you'll be on top of a bar when dancing to this, so you need to learn to make your movements small, Kurt!" Rachel Berry piped up from beside him.

"That isn't difficult for you to do, princess, but I have a lot more body," Kurt grumbled, wiping his hand and meeting the smudged black eyeliner, "Shit!"

Rachel glared, "Try it again."

Kurt's stomach gurgled unhappily at the thought of using up even more energy, "I need to go smoke," he said eventually, pushing by the three girls and walking out the side door.

"Blaine Anderson, if you don't hurry up we're going to be late!" Blaine heard Mike yell from the bathroom.

Blaine brushed his hair quickly to the side, swooping it in the perfect curl that he knew Ray Motta would approve of, at least until the humidity of Las Vegas got to his hair, rendering it a curly mess.

Blaine checked his reflection in the full-length mirror and frowned – he had expected to do so much more with himself by the point. His cummerbund rolled a little, and he made a mental note to get it pressed as soon as he could.

Blaine was dressed in black slacks pressed and folded perfectly, a black silk cummerbund, a crisp white shirt with black buttons, and a black jacket. The clothes cost more than the rest of his wardrobe combined, which was good, considering he worked seven days a week and rarely had the chance to go anywhere else.

Blaine ran out the door to meet Mike, his roommate and coworker. "Man, if you make us late I'm going to shove a trombone so far up your ass you will use your arm to play."

"That doesn't make any sense," Blaine said to the bartender.

The man glared but locked the door, "Ray apparently has some sort of huge announcement to make today."

"Does that happen often?" Blaine asked, worried. He'd just secured the job as bandleader at Champagne, the newest jazz club in Las Vegas. He knew times were getting a little tough, and he would hate to think he would already have to start looking for another job so soon.

"No," Mike upped his pace as they made it to the street, pushing forward.

Blaine still looked up at all of the lights, amazed by the beauty and brightness. "Do you think anyone is in trouble?"

"Calm down, kid," Mike threw an arm around the younger boy's shoulder. Blaine was only 19, and Mike quickly became like an older brother to him after Blaine contacted him about a roommate posting on Craigslist. "It's probably just something stupid like it always is; a few weeks before you came in he had a meeting with everyone because the girls' pearls were getting too big."

Blaine laughed, but still felt a stirring of doubt in his stomach. He had to keep this job, he had no idea what he would do if he lost it.

He had no one to pay for him, and he was living on the small amount of money he'd managed to gather while he played his way across the country.

The two men slipped into the club to see many of their coworkers already there. "Hey there, Blaine," Mercedes patted the chair next to her while Mike pranced across the room to his girlfriend, Tina.

Blaine sat gently, "Do you know what this is about?" he asked out of the side of his mouth.

"No idea," Mercedes smoothed her hair down, "But I do know that I cannot lose this job." Mercedes was the lead female vocalist, a job she shared with Quinn, a blonde girl who wasn't there yet.

"I'll be the one to go if they are cutting," Blaine reasoned, all of his doubt coming back.

Mercedes laughed dryly, "Not if she has anything to say about it," she jutted her jaw toward the side of the room.

Blaine looked and saw his boss's daughter Sugar waving at him shyly, "Hi," she mouthed.

"Shit," he muttered and waved back. "Does she like me?"

Mercedes gave him a withering look, "Does it look like she does?"

Sugar had a slightly dreamy look on her face when Blaine glanced back over, her eyebrows drawing together when he smiled.

"Shit," he said again, "Mercedes, I'm gay!"

"Tell me something I don't know," Mercedes asked, clutching his hand when Ray Motta came into the room.

Blaine bit his lip and started preparing a list of places he could apply if this really was the end of his first (and therefore shortest) job ever.

"Everyone gather around," the man said, smiling easily at the rather eclectic group of people surrounding him, "I just heard back from the Las Vegas Board of Tourism, and Champagne is on the short list for best mid-sized club. We are going up against Blue Moon, the other jazz club, which we will beat easily. We're also going against Strip, which is that terrible club where the girls dance on the bars."

Blaine looked to Mercedes who explained quickly, "The club that wins gets more money to spruce up their environment, as well as publicity which usually means more money for us."

"We always come in second," Ray boomed over the whispers, "and this year I want to come in first. So I thought I'd take a leaf out of the pages of people from the Jazz Era…" he trailed off, looking for someone to finish for him.

"He means he wants someone to spy," Sebastian Motta said from the back, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar.

"Thank you, Sebastian," Ray said to his son, "Are you taking on the role?"

"Father, we both know that I don't work," the boy said with a smirk, "besides I have a date tonight. The cute boy from the Palm Casino." He walked closer to the group, "But I wouldn't say no to a date with you," he said to Blaine, blowing the last bit of smoke into the younger boy's face.

Blaine fought back his disgust, "No, thank you."

Sebastian smirked and waved to his sister and father, "I'll be back later."

Ray watched his son leave with a look of annoyance, but turned to the group, "Any volunteers?"

No one spoke up, all suddenly looking very busy with their fingernails or checking their messages on their phones.

"Well then," Ray clapped, "New boy gets the job. Blaine, instead of leading the band tonight, you will go to Strip and see what they are doing. Capisci?"

Blaine nodded solemnly, glaring at the people giving him looks, "Should I just head over there now or…?"

"Get to work," Ray snapped at everyone else, "Blaine, come here."

Blaine walked slowly to the man, still feeling a bit shy around him.

Ray through his arm over Blaine's shoulder, walking him toward the back of the club, "Now here's the thing, Blaine, you cannot get caught. I know for a fact that Shelby Corcoran does not stick around her club long, she instead likes to drink in the back and fool around with one of the bouncers. But I need you to go and take notes in your head. Take everything and anything in."

Blaine nodded and straightened out his jacket, "Shall I head over now then?"

"Would you wear that to see pretty girls dance on a bar?" Ray asked with a smile, obviously sensing the boy's discomfort.

Blaine shrugged, "I wouldn't know much about seeing pretty girls dance."

Ray shook his head, "I forget sometimes how young you are."

That is when it hit Blaine – he could work in a Las Vegas club, but he couldn't get into one. "Um, sir, I can't get into Strip." This was it, he would get fired.

"I assume you have a fake ID," Ray said gruffly.

Blaine nodded, "I do…"

"I'm not your father, kid; I'm not going to yell at you."

"Thank god for that," Blaine muttered.

"Here's money for a cab, go back to your apartment, get changed, and grab your fake ID. Report back tomorrow." Ray handed him more money than he would need, "Get yourself a drink or something."

Blaine did not want a drink, but he'd keep the money for rent. With another nod, Blaine took off for his apartment.

Kurt topped the beer in his hand off with some water before sending it down the bar between the high heels of Santana and Brittany.

"Hey cutie," a girl slurred, her red tube top dipping to precariously low levels, "Can I get a sex on the beach?"

Kurt rolled his eyes but nodded, "Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, winking a kohl-rimmed eye at her.

He made the sickeningly sweet drink and turned, the girl shoving a ten dollar bill in his tank top, "Keep the change," she said again, hoisting her top up.

Kurt smiled, "Thanks!" He pulled the bill out of his top and watched the white paper with the girl's number on it flutter to the ground. That was for someone else to clean up.

"Hummel, you ready to shake your ass soon?" Santana asked as she flew over the bar, landing somewhat gracefully in her heels.

Kurt shook his head, "I really don't think it's a good idea."

It was not that Kurt couldn't dance – he knew he could.

Kurt just was not a fan of using his body to get ahead in the world.

Not anymore.

Kurt was filling yet another mug of beer when he glanced up and locked eyes with the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen.

"Hey, what can I get you?" he asked, dropping his voice an octave as he tried to do with all male clients – beer muscles ran rampant against gay men in Las Vegas.

The man stood there, his curly hair falling in his eyes. "Uhm, nothing right now, just thought I'd take a seat," he pointed to the empty barstool.

Kurt smiled widely at him, glad to have something to look at. The man was dressed nicely, in tight jeans with a simple black v-neck and gray cardigan.

He did not look like he was out to pick anyone up though, and Kurt wondered what his story was.

If Kurt was being honest, that was his favorite part of the job. He loved hearing the stories of drunken people who have nothing but repressed memories to spill. It was a Friday, and that meant the bar was full, but on weeknights when it was sometimes slow, he heard stories of those who were broken, dreaming, heartbroken, in love, and some that were just plain angry. He lived vicariously through their stories, often wondering what happened to them when they leave the city.

The rush slowed down, so Kurt walked over to the mystery guest and bent over the bar, leaning his forearms on the sticky surface. "So what's your story?"

The man gulped, and Kurt saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed. Kurt tried to push his attraction away, but it kept rearing back up with every movement of the olive skinned boy.

"I'm Blaine," the man offered, somewhat lamely.

"Kurt," he pulled his arm off the bar and shook Blaine's hand. "Is this your first time in Vegas?"

Blaine just stared at him, his eyes a haunting hazel – they reminded Kurt of an owl. "No, I live here…"

"Oh?" Kurt could not help his curiosity. Anyone who chose to live in Vegas had a story, and it usually was not a good one. There was a reason Blaine lived in Las Vegas, and Kurt suddenly wanted to know why. "Looking for a job?"

Blaine's face showed relief, "Yes!"

Kurt could not help himself, "Are you gay, Blaine?"

Blaine blanched, "Yes!" he said quickly, "But if you think I was checking you out or anything I wasn't…."

"You were," Kurt said with a smile, "But I'm gay too."

Blaine relaxed visibly.

"Now, we do have a problem," Kurt wanted so badly to reach over and touch Blaine, but knew that was strictly forbidden, even if he was flirting.

"Hm?" Blaine asked.

"You aren't twenty-one," Kurt stated, "In fact, I'd be surprised if you are eighteen."

"I'm nineteen I'll have you know!" Blaine spat out.

"Ahhh…temper, temper." Kurt smiled, "You shouldn't be in here Blaine, we could get in a ton of trouble," and lose the award, Kurt added mentally. But he didn't care, he wasn't about to ruin some kids life, especially a cute, openly gay kid.

Blaine panicked, "Look, I'll leave! Just let me go," he stood to leave, throwing a pleading look at Kurt.

"No!" He looked at Blaine gently, feeling a pull of emotion for the young boy that he hadn't felt in a long time. "I won't tell anyone. Just, stay."

Blaine blinked a few times, "You promise you won't tell?"

Kurt nodded, "Well, as long as you fill out a job application."

"Well, there is going to be a free space for a bartender if Porcelain here doesn't stop flirting and do his job," Shelby cut in, pointing to Kurt. "Are you ready?"

Kurt blushed and looked for Blaine's reaction, which was just a small smile. "I'm ready," he said to Shelby.

"Good, then you're on."

Kurt quickly ran over to Santana, allowing her to use his shoulder to get back up on the bar.

"Gentlemen," she purred into the microphone, "and ladies," she added lightly, "We have a special surprise for you. Joining Brit and I on the bar tonight, Kurt Hummel," she pointed to Kurt, who put his hat firmly on his head and threw a wink back to Blaine, who shifted on his stool.

Kurt jumped up on the bar, smiling down at everyone as the beat started. Kurt positioned himself between Brittany and Santana, grinding up against both of them.

Kurt strutted down the bar, pointing to women who were staring up at him, mouths agape. Kurt had to admit, even though he did not find them sexually attractive, the attention still pleased him.

When Kurt got to the end of the bar, the choreography called for Kurt to sit on the bar while Santana and Brittany danced with each other. He dropped in front of Blaine, placing his legs on either side of his body.

Blaine turned bright red again, but started up into Kurt's eyes, his fingers twitching his lap.

Kurt leaned down to put Blaine's hands on his legs, moving them up before snapping up and skipping down the bar for the last few verses.

When the song ended, Kurt was once again covered in sweat, but he was pelted with four or five balled up pieces of paper with numbers, most of them accompanied by a lipstick stain.

Kurt jumped down and headed for Blaine, "Here's an application," he said with a wink, pulling the paper from beneath the bar.

Blaine stood and reached into his back pocket for a pen, sitting back down. He started filling out the application, tapping the pen on the bar.

Kurt got a few more drinks then made his way back to Blaine. He glanced down at the application, but something grabbed his attention first.

Blaine's pen.

"How'd you get a pen from Champagne?" Kurt asked is disgust, "It's a stupid uppity, gimmick bar."

"And this isn't?" Blaine said in a huff. "Champagne is a great bar."

Kurt took a step back and stared at Blaine, and it all clicked. "Can I see your fake?" he asked quickly.

Blaine squinted, "Why?"

"Just let me see it," Kurt said, not stepping any closer.

Blaine pulled his wallet out and flipped it open, and Kurt saw all he needed to see. Sitting in the front was Blaine's pass to get into Champagne, his employee pass. Kurt recognized it because a few weeks back he had been on a date with the owner's son.

Blaine worked at Champagne.

So why was he at Strip?

Kurt grabbed the fake ID and flipped it over a few times; he knew if anyone tried to scan it, it would show up as such.

Shelby pushed through the crowd again, and Kurt thought he was going to get Blaine busted. "What's up?"

Shelby motioned him closer, "Be careful, Kurt, I just received word from someone that Champagne is sending a spy over. If you see anything suspicious, get him out of here."

Kurt could not help but let his jaw fall slack, "Will do," he said.

Kurt felt disgust and hatred well up in the back of his throat. He turned to Blaine, who was haphazardly filling out the application.

He had lied.

What else had he lied about? Was he even gay? Kurt suddenly hated Blaine. He hated his hair that probably a lint trap. He hated the nerdy way he dressed. He hated his huge eyes that made him look about twelve.

"Here," Blaine said sweetly, smiling at Kurt, "Hopefully I get the job."

"Yeah," Kurt said shortly, "Hey, are you sure I can't get you a drink?"

"I'm sure," Blaine said.

"Come on, nothing?" Kurt goaded.

"Water?" Blaine asked finally.

"Water?" Kurt asked, a smirk playing on his lips. "DO WE SERVE WATER HERE?" he roared to the bar.

"HELL NO!" everyone answered, Brittany skipping over to see the victim.

"Huh?" Blaine asked.

For a minute, Kurt almost felt bad attacking someone who obviously had no idea. But then he remembered that Blaine was single handedly trying to undermine the competition, something that could take any hope Kurt had of a future away. He grabbed the nozzle and pointed it at the boy, "We don't serve water to spies," he said calmly.

Blaine's eyes went wide.

Kurt doused him in the frigid water, spraying him from head to toe, leaning over the bar.

Shelby clicked over, drink in her hand, "You asked for water?" she said to the now dripping and stuttering Blaine.

"He's the spy," Kurt said hatefully, "and a horrible one at that."

Shelby turned, a new glint in her eyes, "Well then, what are we going to do with you?" she asked, "Should we just turn your name over to the board so you never work in Vegas again?"

Blaine paled, "Please…." he begged, "Ma'am I need this job. I need to work here."

Shelby gave a hollow laugh, "It's a shame, I was going to hire you here. You look young, the girls would like that."

An idea sprang to Kurt's head, "He is young," he whispered to her.

Blaine turned, "You said you wouldn't get me in trouble!"

"Under aged?" Shelby asked, a smile on her lips.

Blaine nodded, "Yes." He figured there was no use lying.

"Puck," Shelby yelled over the music.

The boy turned, moving toward the bar, "Yes?"

"This here is Blaine Anderson, he's a spy," Shelby was looking at the ID she had demanded from the boy.

Puck understood what she was talking about and cracked his knuckles, "You want me to get rid of him?"

"Don't hurt his pretty face too much," Shelby patted his cheek, "But make sure they know not to send another spy over."

Blaine looked frantically at Kurt, "Kurt…help…you know I…"

"I know nothing about you," Kurt said coldly, watching as Puck dragged the short boy through the crowd.

"Good job, Hummel," Shelby said, sipping her drink again.

"It was nothing," Kurt said, turning back to the bar, "What can I get you?" he asked a man sitting on the stool Blaine had just occupied.

Yes, there were many people in Las Vegas Kurt Hummel hated, and right now Blaine Anderson was at the top of the list.

Reviews please!

Also, this won't update every other day like OIABM did, but I will be 2-3 times a week. :)