Act III in the works. Feel free to pressure me into finishing it.
01 | SHOOTING
Her disposable cell phone rings.
"Come back." A deep breath. "It's not safe."
"On my way," she answers.
Brittany looks at her with a frown. "You alright?"
She's so gorgeous, and so far away from everything.
"Of course," Santana answers, kissing Brittany's temple.
Brittany scoots closer, pulling Santana in for a kiss. Their lips move together for a long while; Brittany's nails scratch the back of Santana's neck.
It's Santana who breaks it, head spinning with anxiety. "We've got to go."
They grab their things and she drives extra carefully, extra dangerously. The bike roars and trembles beneath them, and Brittany grabs her waist extra tightly.
—-
His mother was right.
He shouldn't have enlisted with the Lopez clan.
He's sweaty, exhausted, and his brand new shirt is irrevocably stained with blood. The stereo plays some old rock station to muffle the noise. Puck cleans the jigsaw with an old cloth, his hand sliding back and forth, back and forth, blood dripping onto the floor.
He puts the pieces in several garbage bags with the help of another soldier. Puck hands them new shirts and they wash their hands in the bathroom sink. The blood dilutes, mixes with the water against the white basin, and goes away.
There's a short brunette, with long pretty hair. She's hugging herself and watching them without a sound, in trance, standing by the bedroom door. She sneaks glances at Puck, every once in a while; he doesn't seem too happy.
Maybe she's done something. Who knows. Even small women could do some serious damage with a gun.
He takes the trash out and buries it far, far away. He makes the sign of the cross when he's done, all dirt and dried blood — that poor man deserved some sign of respect, regardless of the circumstances of his death.
His mother was right.
—-
He is adamant about going.
He wants to see things burn.
He informs the underboss and gets his blessing. Three soldiers go with him to the gun cabinet, grab two assault rifles each, and head straight to the car — a black, blacked-out van with a stolen license.
No one betrays the family.
He starts the car, adjusts his Ray Bans, and leaves the house. The soldier next to him smokes a cigarette, his thumb caressing the bullets.
When he arrives at the building he slows down until he's almost at a stop. The windows roll down. The men aim. For a moment he wishes he were the one doing the shooting, heavy with expectation.
"No casualties," he says one more time. "Just a good scare."
They fire in unison for several long seconds of loud, deafening sound. The windows crash and break on the sidewalk, reflecting the light as the glass shards fall; the wooden door blasts wood chips everywhere, whining at the bullets' impact; the walls bare the marks.
The Lopez clan would understand the message.
Sebastian drives away.
—-
Her hands are shaking.
She touches the gun on her waist by instinct as she stands up, trying not to think of how three steps forward and she would've been bleeding on the floor. "I have an apartment you can use," she says, always one step ahead of Rachel. "You're not coming back here."
Rachel nods, holding her bag a little tighter.
She feels her heart drumming in her ears. She runs her hands over Rachel's arms, her neck, her waist, until she's sure no harm has been done.
Puck shakes a few pieces of glass off his arm and goes to the back exit. "They're here."
A black sedan surrounded by eight men on motorcycles appears and the door opens. Santana's dark eyes look straight at her.
She holds Rachel's hand and enters the car.
02 | COVER
Two other officers pass by, laughing, with their packed lunches.
They don't invite him over, as usual.
He eats his sandwich by himself at his desk. He'll show them when he becomes a detective one day. He'll show all of them that he can do something other than give out parking tickets.
At least when he had Terry his sandwiches tasted better, but then she faked a pregnancy and left him for a man who wasn't infertile.
He sighs.
"Will, this just arrived for you," the front desk clerk says, placing an envelope in front of him before leaving.
It's a regular, brown envelope. He frowns, turning it over; there's no sender.
A dozen pictures fall on his desk when he opens it, still chewing his food. They're all pictures of Santana Lopez, mysterious millionaire: talking to a man under a streetlight and handing him something; entering a local bakery; at a restaurant, dining with a well-known Senator; walking with a black woman at her casino…
He begins to wonder. Looking inside, he sees there's still a piece of paper in the envelope.
Dig a little deeper, the printed words say, with no other explanation.
He sets his sandwich aside, fingers drumming on his desk as he stares at Santana Lopez' face.
—
Her security has grown threefold.
It's a royal pain in the ass, truth be told.
Puck arrives in her office, equal parts handsome and ill-tempered. He opens the fridge and grabs himself a beer.
"…So?" She asks.
He sits in front of her.
"The apartment is clean, the body is gone, we have moved her to a safe location and amped up her security as well. I figured she should have a status 2 now," he says, opening the bottle with his hand and taking a sip. "The senior members have permanent guards in their homes, every headquarter is ready, new recruits are being trained, and we intercepted a shipment that'll give us enough ammunition and guns to blow half the city to pieces."
She should give him a good slap in the face for behaving like a child, but she decides against it. She stares at him with examining eyes. "And?"
He puts the beer down next to him and looks her in the eyes. "Are you sure of what you're doing?"
She looks at him in silence.
"I don't trust her. Just because she's Fabray's latest doesn't mean I have to set up a whole new security strategy. She's trouble."
She gets up and walks around the table. "Not that I have any explaining to do, of course." She sits on the edge table right in front of him, leaning her upper body forward.
She sees his posture tense up. She smiles like a predator. "Not that you're doubting my fucking leadership, right?"
Puck nods.
"You're smart, Puck." She runs the back of her fingers down the side of his face. "You know me. Would I trust the first bitch who comes through my door?"
He shakes his head, his jaw tense.
"Who do you think got us the Smythe's Colombian dealer? Who do you think gave us a precise map of every hot spot we managed to buy in the last eight months? Who do you think gave us inside information on their disputes and the boss' cancer and the number of people on their payroll and their names, you little motherfucker?"
She pushes him back until his chair falls back on the ground. He gets up in position. "I'm sorry, Santana."
"You're doing a fucking great job. Don't ruin things for yourself." She points at him.
He nods and leaves.
03 | LOYALTY
Santana sends the car for her.
It's a black sedan; the driver opens the door.
She's not sure how she feels about it, but she enters nonetheless. The door is closed for her, and the driver walks around the car and takes his seat.
She's got a lot of questions.
It's more than a momentary distraction, however, the fact that Santana is by the pool, sunbathing like a goddess, when she arrives. She's wearing big sunglasses and a colorful bikini; the smell of sun lotion is sweet.
She smiles when she sees Brittany, stretching her hand out.
Brittany takes it and is promptly pulled to Santana's lap and into a kiss. Brittany sighs; Santana's skin under her palm feels warm and slick. She takes a small bite, and then another and another, until Santana's nails begin to sink into her lower back.
She breaks the kiss. "Hello."
Santana's nails trace a path upward. "Hey."
She missed Santana, after all. She grabs a handful of black hair and joins their lips once more, tongues rubbing together slowly. She hears Santana's heavy breathing, her hands grabbing Brittany's sides.
She lowers her mouth to Santana's ear. "You've been braver than that."
Santana bites her own red lips, scratching Brittany's stomach and sizing her up and down. "Have I?"
She catches her breath, waiting for Santana's hand to go higher.
—
He waits for the Pierces to leave before parking the car.
His equipment is heavy, and he has to be discreet. He grabs a ladder and sets up two cameras at the entrance, one facing the door and the other facing the street. He goes to the back of the house and installs two other cameras.
He answers the phone. "Puck, sir, the cameras are ready."
There's the sound of someone typing. "I can see that."
He nods to no one. "Ok."
"Now get the fuck out."
The call ends. He puts the phone in his pocket, grabs the ladder and goes back to his car.
—
She taps her fingers on the table.
Quinn puts on her stockings; she takes a second to admire that flawless skin.
Quinn looks into her eyes. "You're going to be just fine, you know. You have done it before."
She sighs and kneels in front of Quinn, running her hands over Quinn's thighs. "That's exactly the problem, love. I've made another oath before."
Quinn's robe hangs half open, enticing. She covers Rachel's hands with her own. "You have risked everything. Santana has your back."
"I hope so." She spreads Quinn's legs apart.
Quinn runs a hand through Rachel's hair softly, kissing the top of her head. "Thank you," she says quietly, "for this."
"No. Thank you for having me." She answers, undoing the knot on Quinn's robe and letting it fall from her shoulders.
—
She's so comfortable she's almost asleep.
"Santana?"
She raises her head from Brittany's breasts and blinks a few times. "Yes?"
"Is everything okay?" Brittany frets a bit with the strings of her bikini. "I mean, the other day when you had to leave all of a sudden. You seemed tense."
It's sad, somehow. She always had to hide things from Brittany. She sits up straighter and pulls Brittany close. "Just business. There are always people who lose and they don't take it so well."
Brittany looks at her, trying to examine her features. But one thing she knows is how to pull a poker face.
"Really. There's nothing wrong, I promise," she says, touching Brittany's hair. "I just wish I had more time to be with you."
They kiss again under the sun.
—
Oh, the things she does for love.
Every senior member is watching closely.
Puck places a .38 and a dagger in front of her.
"You've risked your life and your honor to be here today," Santana says. "And you've proved your worth. We're going to welcome you into a new life. Una nueva vida y una nueva familia, nuevos hermanos por quien luchar. Más honor."
She nods, even if she doesn't speak a word of Spanish.
Puck takes her hand and pricks her finger with a pin until there's blood; it aches faintly. The droplets fall on a picture of the Nuestra Señora De La Divina Providencia.
"You owe us your life now," Santana speaks again. "You will live by the gun and knife, and you will die by the gun and knife as a Lopez."
Puck takes a lighter and burns the picture.
"That my flesh may burn like this if I ever betray the family," she recites. "I swear to be loyal and a woman of honor. I'll never look at another man or woman's partner and I'll respect the elderly. I will never speak of the family to any outsider; I vow to keep my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut. My heart and my alliance belong to the Lopez clan. I am the Lopez clan."
The senior members seem vaguely satisfied. Puck stands in a corner.
Santana grins, her eyes shining under the light.
04 | DISCOVERY
She pours her father's liquor down the drain.
It's the moment during a dance competition when you realize you've made a mistake — the realization you must go on but it's over — the tripping, the bad landing, the wrong spin.
She's so angry.
"It's too late. It's done," he says, finishing his glass of wine.
Everything she came for, everything she dropped in an instant's notice to be there for her family; everything amounting to nothing.
"I'm the sole owner of both properties — I don't need your authorization."
The empty whiskey bottles clink together when she throws another one into the garbage. Of course he doesn't; he knows everything, doesn't he? He's the king of knowing.
He stands by the kitchen door. "You know I can buy those bottles all over again if I want to."
She doesn't answer. She's not dumb; she won't stand by and allow it to happen, anyway. She takes the trash out and he follows.
"You need to respect me as your father," he tries to say.
She raises a hand. "No. You need to respect me as your daughter and start including me in your decisions." She takes a few steps forward and he takes a few steps back. "I'm not a teenager anymore, you're not as young, and there's no mom around anymore to talk things out."
She throws the black garbage bag in the can.
—
It's going to be a good day.
He just knows it.
The door opens; he stands up immediately, putting on his brightest smile. He's casual and non-threatening in his white long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
A tall brunette enters, long hair moving around.
"Elaine, such a pleasure to finally meet you."
She smiles polite and offers her hand. "Hello, Mr. Smythe."
"Oh, please call me Sebastian. I'm not a man of formalities." He hugs her stretched hand with both of his in a slow handshake, looking into her eyes. "As a matter of fact, I apologize for the security hassle — it's a standard procedure I haven't managed to get rid of."
He gestures to two armchairs; they sit.
She crosses her legs. "Oh, don't worry. It's quite okay."
"Can I offer you anything? Tea, coffee, cookies?"
She shakes her head. She's beautiful, for a woman. "No, I'm fine. Thank you."
"So, Elaine," he begins, "I'm in dire need of a personal trainer and I've heard great things about your work from my old friend Santana Lopez." He pauses, serving them both a glass of water. "Are you still training with her?"
She nods with a vague smile.
"Unfortunately, no. Not anymore."
He fakes surprise. "Really? Did anything happen?"
He sees her hesitance, the subtle changes in her face. He smiles again.
—
He's discreet.
He eats his bologna sandwich and goes over a few old files.
Santana's fortune, it was much too unexplained; her father's passing was much too violent — he needed to get his hands on her businesses' tax declarations, the financial reports — the community center, the donations to local schools, the number of bodyguards, her connection to Quinn Fabray; there's something to it.
There were government contracts involved, much to his surprise.
These Puerto Ricans are sneaky.
The photos sent to him stare back. He drinks his coffee and looks at them one more time. Every single person already has a name and a background investigation: Mercedes Jones, Noah Puckerman, Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez, David Pierce…
Birth place; employer records; relationship status — that's the easy part. He needs to untangle all of that information to find out how they are all connected.
He just needs to find the right bird to talk.
A clerk comes by with two heavy boxes, placing them on his desk. "Hey, Will, the files you asked for."
He opens the first box.
He is patient, and he has the time.
He'll turn his career around.
05 | CHANGE
He looks around at his brand-new gigantic office.
Santana winks at him when she passes by the glass walls, talking to her financial advisor.
"Here's your coffee, Mr. Evans, and a copy of your appointments for the day."
He takes the drink, trying not to notice the slight tension in his assistant's posture. He feels like saying he's just another cool guy next door; he knows it would amount to nothing.
He's not that young or that good, for that matter.
At times he felt like Santana could read him too easily, and she was trying to buy his heart and loyalty with a promotion.
The name plate on his desk stares him down.
Sam Evans, Corporate Lawyer.
In charge of the entire Lopez business.
—
She stares at her bag in the corner of her room.
She left Los Angeles, her sous chef position; she left her things to be there, to be with her mother and help her father get back on his feet.
He didn't need her, and there wasn't a business to take care of anymore.
She had nothing in that town.
Maybe it was time to start over again.
—
He's tingly and relaxed at the same time.
He adjusts his tie and combs his hair in the mirror.
"Aren't you handsome," Mercedes says from behind him, running her hands over his waist. She kisses the side of his neck; he gets goosebumps all over.
The left corner of his mouth lifts in a half-grin and he zips up the back of her dress, his fingertips touching her soft skin.
She puts on some lipstick, joining her lips with a pop. His stare remains on those red, full lips for a second. "You're gorgeous."
She smiles and smooths out her green dress. "Don't get distracted, white candy. Time to work."
They leave his private bathroom and she blows him a kiss before leaving.
He loves his lunch breaks sometimes.
—
She's a scandal waiting to happen.
She's juggling one too many things — she can't let anything drop, not now.
She wipes her forehead in the bathroom, taking a final breath before facing the cameras. This war was spilling over a bit too out in the open, and she was the one who was going to answer for it.
There were always reporters after a statement, trying to sniff something.
She liked the status quo, but Santana was so full of ambition, always, and they had always fitted like pieces of a puzzle.
It would work, in the end. Santana had vision, and she had patience. They had been orchestrating this for over a year.
When she leaves the building, she thinks of Rachel — maybe love was mutually useful and mutually helpful, in the end.
A tall reporter shows up. "Ms. Fabray, what do you have to say—"
—-
A SOARING HOMICIDE RATE
The city's 671st homicide of 2013 happened in the middle of the day, in the middle of a crowd, on the steps of the church where the victim of homicide 663 was being eulogized. Rory Flanagan, who was 35, collapsed amid gunfire not far from the idling hearse that was there to carry away Joe Hart, 33, shot to death a week earlier.
The shooting was one more jarring reminder of how common killings seem to have grown on the streets of Chicago, the nation's third-largest city. 706 homicides were reported in 2013, an 18 percent increase over the year before, even as the number of killings remained relatively steady or dropped in some cities, including New York City.
While homicides predominate in poor areas, the concern is acute this year because they have occasionally spilled into tourist areas and wealthy districts. They have also broken out into the open, with shootouts occurring on city streets and major thoroughfares.
Dave Karofsky, Inspector of the Police Department in charge of the investigation, stated there is no evidence of a broader crime wave. "In fact, measures of crime apart from homicides, including rapes, robberies, burglaries and auto thefts, have actually decreased by about 10 percent since a year ago", he said.
"We've got an immigration issue, specific to parts of the city, and we have a responsibility to bring a quality of life to those residents, and we are going to do it." Quinn Fabray, the youngest Republican senator, elected with a platform of fighting crime and corruption, added a note of caution, saying that seeking to pin a reason for a single year's increase in serious crime was inadvisable. "We probably need another year to tell if we've got a pattern here," Mrs. Fabray, visibly concerned, said in an interview on Friday.
"My bigger issue is not only the homicides and shootings," she added. "It's what they do to all the legitimate citizens in that community and the kids and how the police department is responding to the community."
More than 1,100 police officers were re-assigned from administrative duties and special forces to patrol the streets, and 300 new recruits are undergoing training. —-
06 | MEETING
It's hard to leave.
Santana looks at her like that and she feels like crying.
"I'm sorry," she tries.
They are in Santana's office, it's night already and she's exhausted.
"You don't need to apologize," Santana stares at her glass, nesting her drink. "It is your life."
She sits on the couch — their silence falls heavy.
"Don't close up on me again," she asks.
Santana looks at her, but says nothing.
She sighs. "I don't have anything here. My family, the bakery…"
"If you think that, maybe you really should leave."
Was Santana hurt? Had she hurt Santana?
"I don't mean—"
Maybe it would be easier if Santana wasn't so cryptic.
She places the glass on her desk. "I know what you mean. It's okay."
Maybe a part of her wished Santana wouldn't give up.
Santana walks to her and sits by her side. "You should do your thing. You should be happy."
She joins their lips, tasting the alcohol on Santana's tongue.
—
Everyone has their eyes on him.
"Puck will take it from here," Santana says.
The maps on the wooden desk are filled with colors and annotations; he tries not to smile as he explains the strategy.
He was invited to a meeting with the seniors, and no one blinked an eye. He can smell the promotion coming his way.
He wonders what was holding Santana back, how much more did he have to prove — he's got what it takes to rise.
He would make sure the Lopez family became the biggest in the state.
They weren't too far.
—
She wakes up earlier.
Santana is the one who likes to stay in bed.
She tries not to move too much, but soon Santana is stirring and grumbling.
"Go back to sleep," she says.
"You wake up at indecent hours," Santana answers, or tries to.
She smiles. "It's what's chefs do, darling. Wake up early."
Santana shakes her head and pulls the covers a little tighter around them.
She runs her hand over Santana's cold back, up and down, until Santana's yawning and closing her eyes again.
"Just a little while, okay?" Santana says, snuggling closer. "Let's stay just a little while."
She kisses Santana's forehead and allows herself to go back to sleep.
—
He can be fucking scary.
It's a delight.
"Each and every one of you are here to be my eyes and ears on the streets."
He walks in front of the new recruits, looking each one of them in the eye.
"I want you armed and thirsty for blood. You are soldiers in a war."
They have been trained and prepared for it — they will be ready for the Lopez.
"You are here to defend the Smythe clan and to earn your place within our family."
His father had underestimated Santana, but no more of that 'she's a woman' bullshit. Now that he had taken charge, things would change.
"You know the ones to be taken alive to us. You know who to kill. You know who to follow. If you're caught, your disposable phone and your gun are to be discarded. I don't want any proof linking back to us."
He pauses, hands behind his back. "Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" They answer.
He'd pay blood with blood.
And he'd kill that Berry bitch with his own hands.
07 | WAR
He enters the room.
It's a spacious, organized office — the walls in glass, the city spreading out below — with shelves of files, a small beige couch, a big Mac monitor on the desk.
An overweight, black woman looks up and points to the chair in front of him. She's got long black hair, red lipstick, and she doesn't seem too intimidating. "Please have a seat, Mr. Schuester. What can I do for you?"
He sits down, grasping his bag.
"I just have a few questions, Ms. Jones, and I was hoping you could shed some light into them." He takes some files out.
She crosses her legs and smiles. "Of course."
—
It was too good to last.
Santana always goes back to secrecy.
"Will you ever stop hiding, Santana?" She's screaming in Santana's bedroom and she doesn't even care. "If I stayed, if there was an alternate universe, would you still keep me at a distance?"
"You don't understand!" Santana zips up her skirt. "How am I supposed to share my life with someone who's always leaving?"
"You didn't know that."
"I always knew that! You were the one playing house and telling yourself things wouldn't change." She puts on her shirt. "Guess what? Things always fucking change."
"You're the one who doesn't allow herself anything!" She grabs her coat with more force than necessary. "You think you're fooling me with this game of smoke and mirrors?"
Santana raises her hands. "Sorry if I haven't surrendered to your wishes and expectations! That must be a hard blow."
She pushes Santana's shoulders.
Santana gives her a sarcastic smile. "Kitty is upset?"
—
The building is all covered.
He checks if his gun is loaded and ready.
Two guys by the emergency stairs, two guys by the elevator downstairs, four guys by the front door, three drivers with the engines running.
He's inside the elevator with three of his men, watching the numbers go up.
He has to be quick and precise.
The doors open with a smooth sound.
In the span of a moment, he takes a step; turns his body; stretches his arm; aims; and takes two silent shots.
The guards fall, unfortunately deceased.
He smiles.
He's not the best shooter in the family for no reason.
—
"You see, Mr. Schuester, the late Mr. Lopez was very interested in the development of the community, and, thankfully, he saw my potential and decided to invest in my education." She looks touched. "I am who I am today because of him."
He fidgets in his chair. This isn't going anywhere.
"And how long have you been in charge of the hotel and the casino?"
She lights up a cigarette. "Do you mind?"
He shakes his head.
"I'm trying to quit, but you know." She takes a long drag. "I haven't been in this position for long. Two years next month."
"And before that?"
"I worked with the Casino's strategic partnerships, such as the Chicago Office of Tourism and the Chicago Community Affiliate and Summer Jobs programs, and several private companies interested in associating with our brands."
He sighs. Maybe this one doesn't really know.
—
She knows she's probably red as a tomato by now.
"Don't you fucking patronize me! I'm tired of being treated like a child!"
Santana steps closer, still smirking. "Say everything you need to say, Britt. You're leaving anyway."
She doesn't let herself be emotionally blackmailed. "Now it's all my fault, isn't it? You can go to bed at night thinking of how wrong I am."
Santana takes another step forward, so their bodies are touching. "You surely won't be there to know it."
"Because you don't fucking want me to," she says, and she kisses Santana hard.
—
His men take the bodies by the emergency staircase.
He looks at them when they come back — they weren't many, but they were experienced soldiers — and gestures with the directions they are supposed to go.
Somewhere within that apartment are some very important papers.
"We have to starve them, Puck," Santana had told him. "We are going to win this by leaving them nothing: no suppliers, no fees, no government positions, nothing."
He tells his soldiers it's not about blood; it's about getting what they got there for and getting out alive.
One of them opens the door and they enter.
—
She massages her temples.
Fucking piece of shit.
She takes the phone and calls her secretary. "Andre, can you please find me information on a police officer named Will Schuester? Right away. Yes. Thank you."
She has to take care of this.
She makes another call. "Sam, darling, we have an issue. Yes. The family."
Boy was so clueless sometimes.
She considers calling Santana, but decides against it.
No need to put a strain on the family when she could take matters into her own hands.
The trail could never, ever, get to her.
She had worked too hard for it.
No one gets in her way.
—
She pushes Santana and sandwiches her to the wall.
She bites and sucks on Santana's neck, running the tip of her tongue over the spot right after.
Santana's nails scratch her back as she takes off her shirt, and she bites Santana's earlobe because she knows the effect it has.
"Bitch," Santana whimpers, grabbing her waist.
She takes no time in pushing Santana's skirt to the ground and touching her, running a finger through her, then two, circling her clit, spreading the wetness until Santana is panting and willing.
Only then does she thrust.
—
Thank God they all had silencers on their guns and kevlars under their coats.
For a break in, it had been relatively silent.
No drawing attention, Santana had said earlier.
Two men lie dead on the ground; the three others are held hostage, their guns in a bag by the floor.
No surprises.
He trashes the entire house until he gets to the main room.
When he opens the door it's pushed back at him, hitting his forehead and making him stumble back.
The underboss shows up and shoots at his shoulder — he stumbles again, grimacing in pain — before a shot is fired by one of his men.
He shoots the door six times and pushes it open again.
Now he's pissed at that fat fucker.
He enters shooting like a mad person, until he realizes the underboss is behind a shelf; he kicks it with all his strength and makes it fall onto the other man.
He fires three shots between the underboss' eyebrows.
It doesn't take too long for him to realize the files he needs are just behind the body.
Fuckers. He's the right man for this war.
08 | SECRECY
The car makes more wrong turns than the goddamn Bush administration.
All a matter of security, she tells herself.
She's enough of a public figure to be followed.
She's enough of a hypocrite to become a scandal.
The car finally enters the garage. She grabs her purse and leaves, entering the elevator trying not to seem too rushed.
Rachel is waiting for her by the door in shorts and a long sleeved shirt. "Hey."
She closes the door behind her before joining their lips, tips of her fingers on Rachel's neck, breathing on her mouth, tongue darting against hers.
It's been a long, dull day. She thought about this through the entire fucking audience, listening to other senators defend their private interest, deliver uninteresting speeches, engage with her in negotiation… She had endured everything thinking about Rachel.
Rachel whines, pushing her clothes to the floor, undoing her buttons.
She breathes in Rachel's mouth, pushing her across the living room into the bedroom — her own navy suit falling open, the zipper of her skirt coming undone — kissing wet and needy.
Rachel is always welcoming, licking her neck, biting, sucking.
She just hopes they both don't end up killed.
—
Man-candy enters the room with a worried face.
She gets him a glass of wine and goes to the living room.
He takes off his blazer and hangs it by the door; she takes a moment to notice how gorgeous that piece of white chocolate is, with his slim fit shirt, dark jeans and black shoes.
"This, love, will be just between you and me for now."
He nods, sipping his glass. She stretches her legs so her feet can rest on his thighs.
He doesn't say a word as she explains there's a lowly police officer sniffing their trail, who he is and what she thinks he's after.
"He looks like a man on a mission." She finishes her glass off. "He was asking about Santana's connections, about her fortune, trying to find holes in my story."
He starts massaging her feet. "Do you think we're being set up?"
She sighs in contentment and pours herself another glass. "I think, white chocolate, that Sebastian is a little too desperate for leverage. But you never know."
"Has Santana heard of this?"
She shakes her head. "I thought it would be time for you to prove yourself."
He frowns. "You mean—"
"You know exactly what I mean," she says. "Now I want me some foot massage."
He sighs in acceptance, working circles with his thumbs.
—
He's at a dead end.
The Schuester cop doesn't seem to be getting anywhere, his underboss was killed, and the Lopez have more security than fucking Obama.
He lights up a cigarette and taps his fingers on his desk.
His investigator knocks on the door and he waves for him to enter.
"I think I've got something good, boss," he says, sitting on the leather chair and taking some photos out of his suitcase. "Real good."
"Let's see." He takes a drag and grabs the photos. "Who's this?"
"Brittany Pierce," the investigator says, barely containing his smile. "She used to be a chef in LA, but she came back to Chicago when her mother fell ill."
That's boring. "…And?"
"She was Santana's high school sweetheart." The investigator pauses. "And they're seeing each other again. She's been going to the Lopez residence, and their maid says she's been sleeping over for weeks."
He's definitely interested in that kind of dirty detail.
"Santana's bought the Pierce bakery, but not the house, and they seem to have a low-priority security system set up."
He smiles like a predator, smoke coming out of the corner of his mouth. Santana's weakness wouldn't be her strategy, after all. He'd get to her by another way.
—-
Her phone rings, piercing through the silence.
She sets her whiskey glass aside and picks it up. "Hey."
A female voice. "I heard you were in trouble."
"Nothing I can't handle," she answers, stiff. Had the rumors already reached abroad?
"I heard you need a little blood and a little crazy. Someone to speed things up." The voice said, and she could hear the tight smile on the other side of the line. "I'm getting on the jet as soon as I take care of the next shipment."
She downs the rest of her drink in silence.
"You and I know, sis', that we're two sides of the same coin," and the voice turns softer, "there's no fighting it."
She runs a hand through her hair. "I know. I could use some help."
"See you soon."
The line goes dead.
09 | PIERCE
She doesn't have that many things.
She's moved around enough to learn to let go.
She's learned. She folds her shirts one by one, and she rolls up her jeans.
She's learned how to pack a suitcase — jeans and heavy shoes first, t-shirts and pajamas afterwards, and her delicate shirts on top of everything – a long time ago.
She arranges her makeup and her few beauty lotions in her smaller bag.
Her mother had never taken down her teenage posters or her collection of bright-colored nail polish from her desk. Her Secret Drawer remains the same, as well, even as she knew her mother knew of its existence.
She closes her second bag slowly.
She thinks about calling Santana, but decides against it.
She needs a good night's sleep, not more drama.
She needs to start over.
—
He raises his glasses and shouts with the boys.
He was underboss, at least.
They sing to him and he pays for the beer — it's a fair deal — and he tries to enjoy the celebration as much as he can.
Tomorrow would be another day.
For now, he was king.
—
The street lamp cracks, threatening to burn out.
He smokes his fifth Lucky Strike inside his car as he waits for the Pierce man to leave the house.
No invading anyone's property, no drawing attention, no killing — just quick and shortly throw him in the trunk of the car and get to the safehouse.
—
She sips her wine.
The Italian restaurant's VIP area is thankfully closed for them.
"You don't seem too happy," Quinn tells her as she eats her spaghetti.
"That's obvious," she answers. "Sebastian killed Joe and Rory and I have no one to take over the European Union projects; I'm overworked, underfed, and Brittany is leaving town."
Quinn sips her drink. "So that's what this is all about."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Ask her to stay," Quinn answers in simple clarity.
"I can't," Santana answers with a sigh. "I just can't."
—
Time was coming.
Before he leaves the office he takes his .38 out of its case and puts it in his briefcase.
Aside from his shooting lessons, he had never used a gun in his life.
"Mr. Evans," his assistant arrives, respectful, "I have just finished going over the case and I've called Ms. Jones' assistant to set up your dinner. Can I go home now?"
"Of course, kid. See you tomorrow."
Time was coming for him to make his first kill.
—
He needs a drink.
He can't stay in that house not talking to his daughter anymore.
He needs a drink so he can sleep through the night and take her to the airport the next day.
He takes his car keys and his wallet before leaving. When he gets to the street there's a man with a flat tire.
"Hey, can you help me?" He asks. He's short, and a little overweight. "My phone's run out of battery and I don't know how to change a tire."
"Sure. Name's Dave." He says, stretching his hand.
The man shakes hands with him. "Tanaka."
He goes to the back of the car to check the tire when something hits his head and everything goes blank.