If there is royalty in Westbrook, Santana Lopez is it.
Archbishop McKinley Prep is her kingdom; and, the grand house on the hill of Xavier Road, her castle.
Daddy writes big checks and she is beyond beautiful, and untouchable, and brilliant. She's equipped with a wicked tongue, expressive eyebrows and the perfect pair of accents to any top.
She's not kind but nobody cares.
She's not a virgin but they believe she is.
She's not happy but nobody can see that.
There's sweat on her temples and between the valley of her breasts and an ache in her thighs that she loves— that reminds her she's alive. An ache that she seeks every morning when she slips into tiny Nike shorts and matching sports bras and shoes made for running (this morning they're red). An ache that comes when her commanding stride turns into a sprint for something she can't find. It's calming and callous, soothing and chaotic but it settles her, something in her, every morning before the sun is at its highest.
Every eye in her home is still closed when she reaches the top of the hill, slips past the gates and Marcus, who protects what her father's built with a straight face, a broad chest and dark sunglasses that cover his calculating glare. He smiles at her, barely visible but there and very real. She tips her own head with a smirk and waving fingers.
She's reaching for her toes as soon as she's inside, exhaling softly and stretching muscles. Then guzzling ice-cold water and eating a wedge of the mango May slices for her every week. She slides the tupperware back into the fridge and jogs up the winding stairs to the first floor, slips down the hall then up the back staircase to her own room on the second floor.
Her clothes are in a pile on the floor and hot water is cleaning her body in no time.
She lives for routine. For waking early and running, for small smiles at the deserving, for that second bottle of ice-cold water and that one slice of mango but, most of all, she lives for this, this cleansing that prepares her to be Santana Lopez each day. Because in the time it takes to become Santana Lopez, she's just Santana.
Puck's sitting on her bed when she comes out of her bathroom, still in the boxers and V-neck tee he usually sleeps in. He smirks and she rolls her eyes, picks up the remote to her dock and turns on some music.
"Good morning to you, too," he says when she doesn't acknowledge him. She just hits him with a pointed glare, reaches into her drawer for her underclothes and heads back into the massive en suite bathroom. She's not ready to deal with him today and she doesn't have to. So, she won't.
She hears the door click a few minutes later when she's tugging on plum shaded panties with a matching lace bra and dusk blue accents. She stands for a few moments staring at her reflection in the large mirror that backgrounds the marble sink. It's almost too easy to ease the smirk onto her lips. She doesn't mind.
...
May, their "maid" (though he doesn't really like calling her that), is standing over the stove humming and stirring and spicing when he jogs down the stairs, chino shorts hanging off his hips, a white, black and gold rugby spread over his chest and wheat toned Clarks on his feet. She smiles briefly, and turns back to her cooking when he tips his head in greeting.
He's gulping grape juice when Santana comes into the kitchen, lips pressed together, eyebrows set in a way that says they're teasing to arch. Puck gives her a quick once over, eyes scanning over her chest pressing against the sharp V of her shirt. She gives him a bored look in return when his eyes meet hers and then her hair is whipping over her shoulder as she yanks open the fridge.
"Morning," she says, leaning her head back out of the door, to look at May. She turns her head, flashes a smile and asks Santana how she's doing. "I'm fine," she says sounding anything but. There's a stick of string cheese gripped in her palm with the bottle of Pom she's fetched when she closes the refrigerator.
He's not extending any more invitations for her to acknowledge him this morning, so. He slips onto a steel stool at the large island in the center of the kitchen and polishes off his grape juice. She gets like this, moody and mute, which, for some reason, is more annoying to deal with than the default of bitchy, snarky and conniving.
"Hi," she says finally, easing onto the stool next to him. She twists off the cap of the pomegranate juice, takes a swig, and then works on unwrapping the cheese. She peels off a thick string, passes it to him then focuses on the buzzing of her phone. "Party tonight. Cocktail attire. Dad says it's 'important'," she lifts a hand to make air-quotes then rolls her eyes, "But that's every party."
Puck just nods and sticks the cheese in his mouth while she talks. May's still humming some tune he should know after two and half years in this home when she slides a plate in front of him. Three slices of bacon, an omelet filled with three different cheeses, ham, green peppers, onions and mushrooms like every Saturday morning before this one. Santana snatches a strip of bacon while she types out a text.
"You have your own food, bitch."
"Whatever, Puck," she says, not looking up from her phone. May puts Santana's plate down in front of her – a scramble with skillet potatoes, spinach, turkey, peppers and onions – then crosses the kitchen to get the salsa. As soon as Santana's shaken pepper and poured salsa his fork is scooping from her plate. She elbows him half-heartedly but doesn't say anything else. He doesn't really expect her to.
...
Mike looks good. He doesn't dress like a douchebag who stepped out of a Black Label ad like everyone else in Westbrook and she appreciates it most days. His jeans aren't three sizes too small or four too big. They sit nice on his hips and she's thinking about the well-defined cut into his sides she knows is beneath them. He's got on a nice pair of Jordans that he'd tell a fucking story about if she complimented. So, she doesn't. She just rolls the window down and tells him to put a fucking move on it.
"Checking me out?" He teases when he slips into her black Range Rover, smiling widely and pushing his Ray-Ban's up onto the top of his head. Santana has tints that are darker than legal so the sun isn't much of a problem inside her vehicle.
"Watch the interior," she says, smoothing a hand over the ivory leather, instead of supplying an answer he knew he was never going to get. He's well versed in her attitude and just grins at her in response, reaches over the console to stroke her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. She fights a smile that's kissed away a moment later. "I didn't pick you up to make out, asshole," she says, leaning back against her seat. He chuckles.
"Never said you did." She doesn't respond and he doesn't say anything more. He's never really been bothered by her attempts to fuck with him. He just reaches for the radio, moves his hand out of the way when she goes to swat it then plugs the AUX cable into his iPhone. She can't really argue with the Aaliyah coming out of her speakers, so she just drives and sings the lyrics under her breath as they ride.
"You really break up with Jesse?" Mike asks her when they're closer to Asland Boulevard, home to all the stores and boutiques that see her father's credit card most often.
"Yeah, why?"
"Just wondering. Everyone was talking about it yesterday." Of course they were. She doesn't really care about Jesse at all – or the break up for that matter – but she really doesn't have time to deal with the damage control the truth would require either.
"He broke up with me. It was amicable," she says, which isn't at all true, but it's easier. Mike nods and doesn't question her any further, though she can tell he wants to. "Can you play 'Age Ain't Nothing But A Number'?" He complies easily.
...
"I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed in here," he says when Santana threads her fingers through his and pulls him toward the dressing rooms in the boutique.
"I don't care," she tells him seriously then pushes him onto the stool in the corner of the room, his arms full of dresses. She turns herself toward the mirror on the other side of the room. It's massive, covering the expanse of the wall with an elaborate pewter bevel.
"Are you playing the new Temple Run?" She asks because Mike's eyes aren't on her and they should be. Her hands are on her hips and she's wearing nothing more than the matching bra and panties she put on this morning. His head lifts and he smirks, letting out a rumbling chuckle though his thumb never ceases to slide over the screen on his phone.
"I vote for this one."
She rolls her eyes and slips into the first of five dresses. It's not like her closet isn't full of things to wear for this very occasion, but Daddy is paying and she doesn't believe in repeating dresses. Mike slips his phone back into his pocket, watches her dip in and out of dresses with attentive eyes and oft-moistened lips, and drops an appreciative adjective into conversation when her eyes tell him he should.
She slips on the last dress, tight and black, and turns from the mirror to him with expectant eyes.
"This one," he says quietly. She's probably (definitely) going to buy the other four, but the look in his eyes is confirmation enough that this will serve its purpose tonight.
"Help me out of it?" She says, voice dropping a couple octaves. He's off the stool and smoothing the straps down her shoulders in no time. She blows him in the backseat of her truck for his effort.
...
Puck's mom would rather pose for the fucking paparazzi than family photos. So, she's not home and he has no clue where she is. He wants to hate her because she's never around but she's his fucking mom, so when his phone rings while he's out banging this freshman, who looks like a senior, he stops what he's doing to talk to her. (He's done anyway, though he was hoping for another round.)
He pulls his boxers and shorts back on and grabs his shirt then kind of squeezes the chick's (Melody, maybe?) thigh. He slips out of her living room and back to the Bentley GT he has parked in her driveway before he picks up.
"Hey Sweetie," his mom says in that little singsong voice that makes him feel six again. It's hard not to roll his eyes and flare his nostrils though and he hits the gas harder than intended when he peels out of the neighborhood.
"Hey."
"How are you?"
"Swell," he says sarcastically. He can feel her jerk wherever she is, like he's slapped her in the face but he can't find it in him to feel bad. He wants to hang up. He shouldn't be small talking with his mom but there's not much more to say. "Where are you?" His curiosity is genuine.
"The Hamptons," she says.
"Coming home soon?"
"Well, no …"
"Cool. I'll talk to you later," he sort of snaps. He can't help it. She sighs as if she understands. He doesn't want her to. He'd prefer she pretended she didn't. At least then, he could pretend she didn't know she was fucking with (hurting) him.
"There's some money in your account, hun."
"There's always money in my account."
"Noah –" He doesn't wait for her to finish the sentence.
...
Santana's skin is still shower-warm but the knock on her door and the slow turn of the knob still manage to raise goose bumps over her skin. It's almost funny how it straightens her spine but doesn't draw her attention away from her reflection. It's kind of sick, too.
She ignores him when he enters, wets her lips with her tongue and pushes her hair back over her shoulder. Her body doesn't fair as well and a shudder shifts somewhere within her when his shoes rap against the floor. Still, her eyes remain steady on their match in the glass as she reaches for the tube of expensive mascara. She uncaps it just as his eyes find hers and the chill she feels isn't from the exposed skin of her chest or bare legs. Only black lace panties and lotion cover her and he's smirking as soon as he notices.
"Satan," he says, voice smug and gruff. She laughs and then drags the bristles over her lashes waiting for more. There's always more.
"What do you want?" She hates that she knows the answer; loves that she knows it, too.
His tongue slides over his bottom lip as his hand slips over her collarbone and down until a thumb is hovering just there. His lips drop onto her neck with such gentle pressure that they may not have dropped at all. Still, the wand twitches in her hand. She feigns disinterest, though, and extends the lashes on her other eye. His eyes are still on hers when she's done. She fixes him with a bored look before she stops looking at the mirror and trains her eyes on the hand covering her breast. Her eyebrows lift with amusement as she screws the wand into the tube and flattens it onto the counter with her palm. It makes a sharp noise that breaks through the silence he's drawn before his voice does.
"You."
She knows that much, but hearing it is always both pleasant and disturbing.
Her mouth drops open just slightly when his thumb and forefinger meet around pebbled flesh, but it spreads into a sneer when she covers his hand, pushes it away and tells him to get in line.
"I really don't think that's necessary," he supplies, moving his other hand down over the dips in her taut stomach. She pushes the chintz back just as the pads of his fingers tease at her skin just beneath the lace clutching her hips.
"Not happening, Puckerman," she hisses, standing. Her body is as lissome as ever, stretching and curving, teasing, too. "Here," she adds, passing him a string of pearls. She lifts her hair, thick, dark, and full of loose curls, and tilts her neck for him.
"Don't," she says when he moves to say something. She can nearly hear the gears grinding. "Only in your dreams."
"Only when I'm bored." He snaps the clasp and presses a kiss to her shoulder. A kiss that's very much there, even when he's gone.
...
There's a long row of cocktail dresses in her closet, a jewelry box full of diamonds and pearls on her vanity, and a rack of shoes dedicated to this very aspect of her life: pretending. There's nothing new about this routine, nothing glaringly different about the atmosphere, the music or the people, but something feels off. Something's shifted tonight.
She's moving through the crowd, with grace that's never needed practice and fleeting bright smiles that have, when her father calls her name, stealing her attention. Her smile is bright before she finds his face. His is a mirror of hers, painted with the wide grin he uses to charm strangers. His fingers curl over the arc of her shoulder and he kisses her cheek softly before tugging her in.
"Gavin. Royce. This is my daughter Santana," he's beaming, like always but there's a tug somewhere behind her belly button that connects with the thought that this is just pretend. Still, she sinks into his embrace and shakes the hands of the men standing in front of her. "They've just moved to Westbrook. Gavin here is an oncologist at St. Rose."
"Nice to meet you," she says, making sure to make eye contact with the both of them.
"They have a daughter, Rachel, who's transferring to Archbishop McKinley. Maybe you can show her around, love?" She nods easily though everything in her wants to roll her eyes.
"Sure thing, Daddy." She flashes a smile at the Berrys before tipping her head up at Dr. Lopez. "Puck's all alone over there. I'm going to go keep him company."
"Okay, sweetie." She presses a kiss to his cheek and lifts her hand to wave goodbye lightly as he adds, "Rachel's in the restroom, we'll send her your way when she comes back, okay?"
"Perfect."
...
"Baby," she teases in his ear, fingers dancing over the jacket of the Tom Ford suit covering his back before spinning herself to take residence at his other side. "You look lonely."
It's a game. It's always a game.
"It still fucking blows me that no one knows how evil you are," he says, tipping the champagne flute to his lips. Santana rolls her eyes but starts smiling and talking animatedly as soon as one of her dad's colleagues gets her attention.
He checks her out while she talks. She's in this super tight black dress that could very well be painted on. There's a mesh insert between that makes a V over her chest. There's not really a back on the dress as the V the fabric splits into peaks right before the curve of her ass. She's his height in her pumps and, fuck, if he can't help his train of thought.
She flicks her hair over her shoulder, catches his eye when she looks back then smirks before turning back to the guy. (Dr. Holder, maybe? He doesn't really give a fuck. It's her job to be charming and smiling and a little handsy, fingers on shoulders and grins with feigned interest, not his. He just has to show.)
"I heard St. James dumped you," Puck says when the doctor is gone and she's in front of him, nibbling shrimp from a tray that's just passed. He's not looking at her face when he licks his lips. She laughs and eases into the chair in front of him, makes a show of crossing her legs, slowly sliding one thigh over the other as the fabric of her dress stretches to accomodate before leaning back against her chair.
"I'm not exactly sad," she deadpans reaching for his glass. Then she's smirking like she knows something he doesn't.
"Of course not, you still have Brittany … and Matt. You still fucking Chang?"
She laughs openly at that, eyes amused and bright and his gall. He knows no one's heard him, but it's still a wonder anyone misses the games they play. It's better that way.
"Occasionally," she supplies without a hint of hesitation before finishing his drink. "What's it matter to you?"
"Doesn't. Just heard you weren't satisfying St. Lame."
She laughs again. "I wasn't," she shrugs, "Kurt was."
His jaw jerks just a hint and she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. Her shoulders lift as she rolls her eyes and she's about to say something he can't really predict then a voice he doesn't recognize hits his ears and halts whatever it is.
...
"Santana?"
It's awkward, really, that her dads sent her over here to meet Dr. Lopez's daughter but they want her to adjust and think it's important that she do things on her own, which she understands (and suits her just fine) but it's still weird.
God, she hopes she's said the right name.
She feels like an intruder and the girl's eyes – bright, lidded with long thick lashes – scan her whole body quickly before she stands. (She's… God, she's gorgeous and that alone makes her feel a little nervous, makes her feel like she's been sent into the lion's den with another Quinn Fabray.) The girl's smiling again before Rachel can really even register it, but she still feels judged and she's wondering if she's passed whatever test that was.
"Rachel, right?" Santana says, extending her hand and smiling. Rachel takes it, the girl's palms are warm and soft and she's got a strong grip but the smile never leaves her face. She's incredibly hard to read.
Rachel laughs a little nervously. She knows her hand is clammy but Santana doesn't jerk away from the touch, just rubs her thumb across the top of it and slips her hand away after a moment. Her hand disappears completely and Rachel assumes it's resting on this boy's back. He's smiling at her as Santana speaks.
"Rachel, this is my stepbrother, Noah," she says, "Noah, this is Rachel – Berry, right?" She nods in confirmation. "Her family just landed in Westbrook. She'll be with us at Archbishop."
"Nice to meet you, Noah," she hears herself say. She feels anxious and she hates it, hates this whole set up. God knows what they're thinking of her. Her hand drifts to the hem of her dress and she tugs as her eyes take in what Santana's wearing. She looks … well, stunning and she can't help but feel a little plain in this old, navy blue dress when this girl looks like a page from a magazine or a snapshot on a blog post.
The boy chuckles and takes her hand, kisses the top of it and lets this grin (it's kind of dirty if she's being honest) spread over his face. It doesn't exactly heighten her level of comfort, but his voice is smooth and welcoming when he says, "Pleasure's mine but people call me Puck."
"Noah's a lovely name." She feels her cheeks warm and it takes everything in her not to close her eyes and wish herself away. Santana's busying herself looking at something in the distance. Rachel has to keep from looking over her shoulder to see what.
"Thank you," he says.
"So," Santana says, sitting back in her seat. She pats the arm of the chair beside her and Rachel moves to sit in it after glancing at Noah. "What's your classification?"
"I'm a junior," she says, straightening in the seat. Santana nods and, God, she really wishes she could read that facial expression. It's calculating and a little unnerving but the smile is there again and she feels herself relax unwillingly. She doesn't like the idea of being set up with friends, but maybe?
"Champagne?" Her head shakes rapidly and she feels like an idiot when she says, "I'm only 16."
"S'fine," Puck says. She doesn't miss Santana rolling her eyes, but then the girl's looking down at her dress, which barely covers her thighs, and smoothing it out. She mashes her lips together to prevent another silly protest and watches as he grabs flutes from a tray coming past. He presses one into her hand, hands the other to Santana and keeps the last for himself. "Dr. Lopez is cool with it as long as you don't overdo it," he says in a way that makes it pretty clear he has experinc with "overdoing" it.
"Okay," she mutters. She knows she's more confident than this, but these two … they're … she can't describe it. They're looking at her expectantly when she focuses her eyes, so she takes a sip and can't help but giggle at the way the bubbles tickle her nose.
She's certain she wasn't supposed to see him blow that kiss at Santana when she looks up, so she pretends she hasn't and tells Santana about Ohio when she asks where they moved from.
...
When Rachel leaves, it's with a warm buzz on her skin and the promise of being shown the ropes by Santana. Noah says there are things he can show her, too, but Santana elbows him then walks her toward the exit where her father's are waiting with Dr. Lopez.