Title: The Contract

Author: what the face

Pairing(s): Quick and Karofsky/Female OC with eventual Puckleberry, Fabang (Quinn and Mike) and Karofsky/Male OC. Samtana and Klaine throughout the whole of the fic because I'm feeling a growing love for trouty mouth and his latina - even though I prefer her with her true love, Brittany - and I will never let go of my wonderful Klaine! I may include Finn but I haven't thought it through yet, if so he'll be with Brittany, Tina or on his own. I haven't tried most of these ships out yet and I'm excited to give them a go. This is a Puckleberry centred fanfic.

Rating: M for sexual references and Puck, Karofsky, and Santana Language.

Summary: Rachel doesn't have enough money to pay the rent. She'd lied and told her best friend, Santana, that she had an audition for a new musical on Saturday. Excited, Santana whipped out the Tequila and claimed: My savings account is gonna go up a fuckload! But Rachel doesn't have an audtion. In fact, she's given up on Broadway altogether. She's got a job interview at the notoriously infamous Playboy magazine, where she's offered the job on one condition: She has to promise that she won't fall in love with her sexist pig of a boss.

A/N: Just a little something I've been thinking about continuing. I'd like to see the reception it gets. Ignore the possible rushed tone. I'm tired and it's well past midnight. I love you all and enjoy. Please review and let me know what's going on in those little minds of yours.

I'd spent far too long pining after a dream that would never happen. Kurt had suggested that I go after West End, but I knew that I'd never be able to leave America. My whole life was here.

I could come to accept the idea that Broadway wasn't for me. I had continually lost out on the big roles to prettier, funnier and more talented actresses. I couldn't go on like this; barely scraping by with my minor roles on productions such as Guys and Dolls and Legally Blonde: The Musical. I could barely afford my half of the rent. I had to get a reality check. I was getting old and I'd never planned to be twenty-five and unemployed eighty percent of the time.

I stared at the skyscraper above me, clutching the handle of my briefcase in my shaking hands. I hadn't worn something so professional since my college days. I could handle the heels – with a best friend like Santana, I'd gotten used to them rather quickly. But the pencil skirt and the tight pink blouse? I'd much rather be in one of my usual sweaters.

Kurt had - rather obviously, might I add – left me a small newspaper cutting sitting by the brown paper bag he left on the counter for me every Monday morning. I'd been reaching inside the bag, hungry for my traditional Monday morning bagel, when I'd spied it. Curious, I'd picked it up and read it.

BROADWAY MAGAZINE

Ph: (07) 6788 9886

Features Editor needed. Past writing experience not necessary. Looking for employee with a keen eye for Broadway musicals and plays. Good if has previous theatre experience and reasonable talent.

Naturally - even though the job seemed perfect for me - I'd done what any self-respecting actress would do and ignored it. I'd come across a break soon enough. I didn't need to give up my dreams.

I'd headed out to do what I usually did on a Monday. This was, of course, to go and pick Santana up from work and whisk her away to a shopping complex. She'd spend a load of money - which she could afford, being a high-class Law school graduate and all – and I'd watch her do it while I enjoyed the free lunch she shouted me with.

I'd been listening to San bad-mouth the Subway employee who had apparently put too much cheese in her sandwich when she abruptly stopped talking and stared at me. "You got a new job yet?" She'd asked; her mouth full of bread.

I swallowed. Of course I didn't. I hadn't had a job in over a year.

"You've so got a new job!" Santana exclaimed, dropping her sandwich onto the wrapper. "I'm so happy, Rach, now I can stop buying you shit!"

I laughed uneasily. I couldn't tell her that I was still unemployed. It had been far too long and frankly, it was getting embarrassing. "Yes," I'd lied, "I've got an audition on Saturday."

"That's fucking great," my best friend sighed contentedly, "My savings are gonna go up a fuckload."

"I-I'm not sure that's an appropriate unit of measure."

"Trust me. It goes a crapload, then a shitload and a fuckload is like the final degree-"

Anyway, that was how I'd ended up calling the number on the newspaper advertisement. A nasal sounding woman had picked up, "Good afternoon, Broadway Magazine. This is Linda speaking. How may I connect your call?"

I'd blanched. "Uh, I'm Rachel Berry… I'm calling about the job advertised in the Times-"

"Sorry, sweetheart, but the position was just filled."

I sighed. Now what was I going to do? I couldn't keep relying on my friends to pay for my food, rent, everything. I was going to have to do something demeaning – like get a job at McDonalds cleaning squished fries off the greasy tiled floor. I didn't think I could do that, though. I was a vegan.

"Oh," I said dejectedly, "Well, thanks anyway."

I was about to hang up when the woman spoke up in her rather annoying voice. She sounded like she was chewing gum. For a second I wondered if the magazine was actually legitimate.

"But honey, if you're still interested, word is there's an employment opportunity elsewhere."

I shifted uncomfortably, swinging my legs up and onto the kitchen counter. Kurt would have crucified me if he'd seen me, but he was out on a date with his boyfriend Blaine. I was free to behave like the slob I really was. "I'm interested, I guess," I mumbled.

"There's an opening for an assistant at a highly prestigious magazine owned by our sister company."

I shrugged. "Which magazine would this be?"

"Playboy, sweetheart. It sounds terrible and degrading, I know, but it's far better money that what we're getting here in Brooklyn."

I wrinkled my nose. "I don't know-"

"Honey, I know. Trust me, I know. You don't wanna seem cheap or hooker-like working for a bunch of jerk-wads. But this is the magazine business. That's basically all you're gonna get."

I cringed. The woman really had turned out to be the definition of white-trash. "I don't actually have any experience in this field."

The woman only laughed, coughing and spluttering as she did so. "Sorry, Hon. Smoker's cough," she muttered, "But, sweetheart, seriously. Listen to Linda."

"Okay," I said slowly, wearily, "I'm listening."

She coughed and I swear I heard lung cancer developing. "You're not hideously ugly, right?"

I shrugged and peered over at my reflection in the kitchen window. I pouted a little and fixed my hair. "No. I don't think I'm hideously ugly."

"Well, then. You're already on the way to success."

I looked away from the window. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Another coughing fit echoed through the phone. I held it away from my ear, feeling sorry for the next person who had to use the device at the other end of the line. They'd surely get some sort of illness.

"The boss, sweetheart. He's a man-slut, to put it lightly. He'll shove his dick in anything with a taco."

I was confused. "A taco? He has sex with Mexican food?"

"A vagina, honey."

Appalled, I spluttered out, "You mean any woman?"

"Man's no fan of necrophilia, but essentially, yes. He even looked me up and down once. I used to work there as a cleaner, you see. He must like a golden oldie every once in a while."

I resisted the urge to gag. "Anyway, Linda, was it-?"

"Yeah, sweetheart."

I battled internally with myself. I was due to pay the rent within a few days and I had less than fifty dollars in my savings account. Things weren't going anywhere for me on the acting front and I suspected that Kurt would be asking Blaine to move in soon. If I couldn't pull my weight I might well lose my apartment.

Sure, Santana would always let me stay at hers but she and her fiance Sam had a very loud and passionate relationship. I didn't want to be reminded that I was alone every night I lay, curled up on the couch with my collection of fluffy cushions, trying desperately to go to sleep as worries about debt crossed my mind.

"Could I have the details for the position, please?"

So, that's how I'd ended up standing out the front of the Playboy building. I shook my head at myself for even considering such a stupid thing. Me, Rachel Berry, working at a magazine like this? A week ago, if anyone had so much as joked that I'd be applying for this job - well, I would have laughed right in their face.

My hand wrapped around the handle of my sensible black briefcase. It was one of Santana's, of course. I had one briefcase and it was hot pink, a prop that I'd used when I'd played an extra in Legally Blonde. I'd gotten excited when Santana had told me that it was the one she'd used in her latest murder trial.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the next twenty minutes. I walked forward, my classic black suede pumps clicking across the pavement. Pushing my way through the large glass double doors, I took in my surroundings.

I was in the lobby of the Playboy Enterprises building. Scantily dressed women sat in the receptionist booth, answering the phones with their high-pitched flirty voices. I noticed the way a seedy middle-aged businessman looked me up and down from across the room. Outraged, I sent him a look of disgust.

I click-clacked my way to the desk, leaning against it as I waited for the woman in front of me to finish on the phone. She was twirling the cord in her perfectly manicured hands. "No, you hang up first… No, you do it."

Only slightly annoyed, – because a) I'd been expecting it, and b) Being an actress, I dealt with women like this all the time – I pushed my bangs from my face and sighed, tapping my foot impatiently against the polished white tiled floor.

"Are you the model for the Hot Librarians of 2011 shoot?"

I turned, my face showing nothing but pure revulsion, and stared at the man standing next to me. I'd been expecting a cheesy pickup line, but by the look on his face I could tell that he was deadly serious. "Really?" I spat, "Is that all men care about? Hot librarians?"

I could tell that he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Typical model," he muttered under his breath, checking his watch.

"Excuse me?" I snapped.

"Listen, lady. Frankly, I understand that Playboy is degrading to women…"

I felt like a weight had been lifted off of me. Finally, someone who understood-

"… Yadda, yadda, yadda. But if you're not ready to do what you're being paid for, then you need to quit your job. That okay, princess?"

He was watching his watch, uninterested in keeping eye contact with his supposed 'employee'. I put my briefcase on the desk and crossed my arms, eyeing the identification badge pinned to his navy blue suit jacket.

"If you'd actually listen to me, David Karofsky, then you'd realise that you've got the wrong girl."

"Sure," the man sighed, exasperated, "I get it, babe. I really do. You're different and you've got some family back in Russia to support by getting your junk out-"

"I'm not getting my junk out," I hissed, taking a step forward and trying to intimidate him, "I'm actually an applicant for the position as the new Executive Assistant to the Editor in Chief."

David looked up and paled. I smirked, smug. I'd showed him.

"I'm sorry. This has all been a misunderstanding," he mumbled, hastily straightening his tie.

I uncrossed my arms and grabbed my briefcase again, flashing him a small fake smile. "It's alright, I guess," I said in reply. I wasn't sure what else to say. I couldn't exactly risk the outcome of this interview. I needed a job by Saturday and this was the only thing I had lined up.

David shook his head, citing that it had been a long day. He turned his attention to the receptionist in front of me who was still yapping away on the phone. He looked royally pissed off as he reached over the white desk and took the phone from her ear, slamming it back down on the hook. "Fucking hell, Krystal," he spat, giving her a death glare, "You've got five lines calling in and a potential employee right in front of your eyes. Do your fucking job."

The redheaded beauty flashed him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Beardy," she cooed, tapping her shiny nails against the desk.

The back of his neck turned red. He positioned himself so that I had as little view of him as possible. I resisted the urge to chuckle at the ridiculousness of the whole scene. "I told you not to call me that at work."

She pouted, ignoring the phone that was ringing – obnoxiously, if a phone could do such a thing – right by her right hand. "We still on for Friday night, babe?" She whispered loudly. Honestly, it was as if she was trying to be discreet. She was failing miserably though.

David couldn't look me in the eye after he whispered back a quick, "Yeah. I'll pick you up in the town car at eight." He walked away, warning Krystal that I'd better be on my way up to the Editor's office.

Krystal made a call to the boss' office to indicate that I had arrived. I was actually ten minutes early, which I viewed as good punctuality. When I'd told Kurt and Blaine about my job interview at Playboy, they'd been highly excited. Hugh Hefner, apparently, was a huge supporter of gay rights. I'd never thought of him as that kind of guy. My roommate and his boyfriend were so supportive that they had in fact compiled a short list of the top three things I needed to do to get the job. One, I was to be punctual to my interview. Two, I was to show apt support for Hefner and his vision of world sexuality. And three, I was to show cleavage.

I was going to do all but the last one.

The Editor in Chief's office was on the forty-first floor. I entered the elevator, trying to preserve the open-minded attitude I'd thought I'd perfected in that taxi that morning. It was a lost cause. I was surrounded by sex-maniacs.

At least the elevator music was calming. Soothed for the first time in about a week, I took a deep breath and pressed the correct level button. "Level Forty-One: Offices of the Editor in Chief and Creative Director," asserted the automated female voice.

I was only at level four when the elevator came to a halt. I was disappointed. I'd been looking forward to enjoying my last minute of alone time before the make-it-or-break it moment that was looming in the near future. If I didn't get this job I was officially screwed.

A tall, well-built man in a good-fitting black suit entered the elevator, a briefcase much larger and more expensive-looking than my own in his large hands. He had short brown hair and a square jaw with eyes a crisp spring hazel. He looked me up and down, a smirk on his tanned face. I shifted my balance so that I leant against the wall of the elevator as he then turned and evaluated the controls. He seemed to be headed where I was as he leant back against his own wall without pressing anything. The elevator took off again.

He was staring at me, unabashed. God, what was with men at this place? I thought. I moved my briefcase from my left hand to my right. The thing was heavy, even if it was filled with pointless things like scripts I'd had sent to me when I'd auditioned for a new role and various takeout menus. I'd wanted to look professional if I'd had to open it. The only relevant material inside was two printed Wikipedia pages on Playboy Enterprises and Hugh Hefner. They were conveniently placed right at the top.

Feeling self-conscious and even a little slimy under his gaze, I placed my briefcase on the floor and hastily buttoned the top button of my blouse. I knew it had been too vibrant for a place like this. I should have worn a nun's habit or something.

He didn't notice my attempt at letting him know his perverted gaze was not wanted. Finally, I just couldn't handle it anymore.

"Look," I sighed, picking up my briefcase again, "I'm not really that sure how things work around here, but I just want to let you know that I am in no way interested in pursuing any sexual relationship with you or any of the other men working at this company."

The man scoffed and then smirked. "Whatever, babe."

Babe? The nerve.

"Please don't refer to me in that manner. Babe is a degrading term and I'm a very successful woman. I'd appreciate it if you called me by my real name."

I was very careful not to remind myself that I was not actually, in anyone else's definition, a success. I was unemployed and living in a one bedroom apartment, sharing a room with a flamboyant homosexual actor whose own best works included playing the older Billy Elliot for six months in a Broadway Revival. Still, his were better than my own accomplishments. I was practically failure personified.

He raised his thick eyebrows. "Alright, babe," he said pointedly.

I bristled, thankful that the elevator had just passed level forty. "I am not your possession," I stated.

He laughed as the automated voice assured us over the intercom that we had arrived at; "Level Forty-One: Offices of the Editor in Chief and Creative Director."

The elevator doors opened and I hastily pushed my way past him, making my way over to another smaller desk. Atop it was a small, slimline silver laptop and a vase of sunflowers. A blonde woman sat behind the wooden structure, picking at her chicken salad. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of the meat and glanced over my shoulder, relieved to see that the perverted man hadn't followed me. I couldn't see him at all, actually.

"Hi," I said politely, holding my briefcase close to my legs. I could feel the nerves creeping in again. I needed this job. I needed it to pay the rent, to pay for my insurance – to pay for everything. "I'm Rachel Berry. I'm applying for the-"

"The vacant assistant's position?" The woman interrupted, flashing me an insincere smile. I weakened slightly at the sight of it. Clearly, I was going to have a hard time making friends if I so happened to get employed. I eyed her badge. It read Quinn Fabray: Executive Assistant to Mike Chang, Creative Director at Playboy Magazine.

"Yes," I replied.

She stood; looking only slightly annoyed at having her lunch interrupted, and led me past the few desks occupying the large room. There were only a few employees scattered across the expanse. It seemed that this level was mostly reserved for the big-shots. She stopped at a closed door, knocking twice before peering inside and whispering, "Your twelve o'clock is here, Mr. Puckerman."

"Already?" I heard a man mutter, "Someone's fucking keen."

Quinn ducked out again and beckoned for me to enter the office. I did so, my hands shaking with nerves. Please, please, please, please let this go well.

She shut the door behind me, leaving me alone with my potential employer.

"Well, if it isn't little Miss I'm-Not-Your-Possession."

I jumped, looking at the man behind the desk for the first time since I'd walked into the room. I'd been expected someone so different. A middle-aged man with a piano-patterned tie and a head of balding hair. Then I remembered that it was Playboy magazine, not Save Money: Get Rich Faster Than Your Wife Hit Menopause.

"Oh gosh," I said under my breath. I was frozen like a deer in headlights. I had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. The perverted guy in the elevator was the man who made the decision as to whether or not I'd be in debt this time next month. "I am so, so sorry."

The reality of my predicament hit me for the first time. Cleaning squished potato from the floors of my local McDonalds was inevitable. I felt like I was going to cry. Yet… he was still to say something.

"Calm your fuckin' farm," he smirked, leaning back in his large black chair. "I'm here to interview you on your credentials, not on your personality," he paused and winked, "That part'll come later."

We stared at each other for a long moment and I found myself thinking that he knew I had no credentials. He just wanted to mess with me. When he narrowed his eyes at me, albeit only for a split second, I knew I was right. "So, sit down."

I tip-toed over to the chair in front of his desk and did as he had instructed, placing my briefcase on my lap so that he could in no way look up my skirt. I'd always had a problem with sitting in an unlady-like fashion. It was caught on camera and published on a Broadway fan-run website that one of the Hot Box girls of Guys and Dolls 2009 had flashed the audience her rather inelegant Bonds low-riders. Santana had abused me for my childish choice of undergarments for years, but I just couldn't feel comfortable in anything that had lace. It was scratchy and quite frankly anything that could even attempt to give me a wedgie was something – or someone, as I'd learned in high school - I stayed away from.

"Rachel Berry, right?" He asked, placing his hands behind his head. I nodded slowly. "I'm Noah Puckerman, Editor in Chief of Playboy, as you would probably know considering-" he paused, shuffling through the papers on his desk and finding my cover letter, my resume attached to the back, "And I quote; You've wanted this job your whole life."

I squirmed uncomfortably.

"Tell me, Rachel, what kind of six year old girl dreams of working at a pornography based magazine?"

He was messing with me. There was no doubt about it.

"An emotionally irresponsible one?" I whispered, unsure of what to say. It had sounded right at the time. I'd been a little tipsy when writing the introduction to my cover letter. Of course, Santana had soon enough slipped me Tequila and shoved Funny Girl in the DVD player in celebration of the audition I'd supposedly had that day. I was a lost cause after that. My writing, naturally, had improved the next morning when I'd had the chance to sober up with some Hash Browns and a homemade Soy Milkshake. But I hadn't bothered to re-read the introduction before I'd sent it off to the correct email address. I'd just had to watch the sequel to my favourite movie of all time.

"Or Carmen Electra?" I guessed.

He didn't laugh that time. "Why do you want this job, Rachel?"

For the money, my conscience supplied. I would never volunteer to spend my time at a place like Playboy Enterprises. The employees were a bunch of sexist pigs with nothing better to do than ogle at the anatomy of a woman.

"I believe in Hugh Hefner's vision," I lied, "World sexuality."

He raised his eyebrows and placed my resume back on the desk. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

I gulped. "Hugh Hefner started Playboy with the intention to empower women. I believe in that-"

"I know. You told me in the elevator."

I looked down. "Yeah, about that… I really am sorry-"

"Save it," he sighed, "Keep going."

"Well," I started. I was unsure what to say next. I realised that I really should have spent more time preparing for the interview. Kurt and Blaine and their three steps hadn't been nearly enough. I should have researched more thoroughly.

I trailed off, my eyes drifting from the face of the man before me. Oh well, I thought, I'm not going to get this job anyway. I was struggling for my next words when I noticed the display behind Noah Puckerman's head. The wall was huge, covered from the ceiling to the floor with every centrefold shoot that had ever been published. Although almost all of them were provocative, in comparison the earlier ones were very innocent. I made a quick observation.

"Anyway, as I was saying. I believe in the empowerment of women, as Hugh Hefner does. But this magazine," I stopped, searching for the right words, "It has changed."

He was intrigued, if only slightly. "How has it changed?"

"Women aren't empowered by Playboy, anymore. They're demoralised and depicted as sex objects," I finished. I was a little bit proud of myself, even though I knew that he'd be crazy to hire me. For a moment, I'd sounded like a real writer.

The man before me ran a hand through his short brown hair. I heard a strange sound, reminiscent of laughter. Within seconds, I realised that it actually was.

"Why are you laughing at me?" I asked, my cheeks growing hot.

"No offence, babe," he chuckled, "But I'm not sure you understand what sells. Sex sells. Just like I'm not gonna fuck a girl with a nice personality. Sure, it's a bonus but I'm not exactly after what's on the inside, ya know?"

"I don't understand how that relates to this magazine," I retorted.

He stood up and made his way over to the back wall, pointing at a shoot from the early days of the magazine. "See this? Sure, it's a girl in a bathing suit. It sold back then," he said, moving across to the more recent photographs, "This here's a completely naked babe. It sells even better."

I shook my head. "You don't understand what I'm trying to say-"

"Oh, but I do. You see, I've been dealing with women like you since I started running this magazine - which was a solid two years ago. Everyday I've got some crack-pot feminist lesbian coming into my office, telling me how to run my magazine. You're all too hopped up on your morals and ethics to realise that Playboy Enterprises is a business. We merely provide the buyers with what sells."

I couldn't think of anything to say other than, "I'm not a lesbian."

Noah Puckerman laughed and sat back down at his desk. "Oh, I know, babe. You've been checking me out for the last five minutes."

I felt my cheeks colour with both annoyance and embarrassment. "I have not. I'm a professional, after all."

"An actress, actually."

Oh. I looked down. If I had had any hope left of acquiring the job, I'd lost it now. "How did you know about that?"

"I've got connections, Rachel Berry. I have somebody thoroughly check out every resume I'm sent. I know you've never worked in the publishing industry before."

I grasped the handle of my briefcase tighter. "Okay," I mumbled, slowly getting to my feet, "I guess I'll just go then…"

"Sit down," he muttered, throwing me a casual smirk. I was about to reject that idea when he sent me a glare. I sat down promptly.

"I don't understand. If you know that I'm not qualified then why won't you let me leave and save me the embarrassment-?"

"I like you, Rachel," he said simply, "You've got spunk."

I tried not to send him a glare of my own.

"But mostly, I know you're not going to allow me to sleep with you. I need that in an assistant. They keep falling in love with me and I have no idea how to stop them, so I do all I can do."

I scoffed. "What? Have them killed?"

"Close," he smirked, "I have them fired."

When I didn't say or do anything in reply, he stood up from his chair and made his way around to sit on the desk directly in front of me. I made sure that he couldn't see down my blouse. For all I knew the man had x-ray vision.

"So, I'm making you an offer. I'll have Quinn teach you how to be an assistant and you can have a job here, regardless of the fact that there are far more deserving and better applicants out there-"

"You're not exactly making it sound as if I'm wanted," I muttered.

He ignored me. "But you have to promise me that you won't fall in love with me or any of that crazy shit, alright?"

I rolled my eyes and eyed him with disgust. Sure, he was a delectable piece of man-candy if I ever did see one – okay, Santana taught me that expression – but he was a slime-ball. I'd have no trouble with his offer.

"Deal," I agreed.

We shooks hands. I could already see my four-story Beverly Hills mansion and new black, shiny and freshly polished Range Rover. Maybe even a pool with about ten hot pool boys. Oh, and perhaps tickets to-

But I stopped myself from day-dreaming. I'd gotten myself into a big mess for this job. First, I would focus on paying off my rent.