Hi guys! Sorry it took so long for me to upload the next chapter. I started this fic at the most inopportune time and you don't know how many times I sat at my computer trying to finish this chapter when some other obligation was thrown at me. But finally I buckled down and finished it so here you go! Don't mind any grammatical errors; I wanted to go back and proofread it but if I spent one more minute looking at this it would never get uploaded. Thanks so much for the reviews, follows and favorites, they're so appreciated! Oh and to the reviewer who was wondering when Mercedes was going to show up, it's probably going to be next chapter ;)

Chapter 2

Sam knew he should not have stepped foot in the House of Bichette by the way the owner was staring down at him. He had stood outside the agency's building on 7th Avenue for ten minutes debating whether or not he should go in. Finally he decided to swallow his fears and head inside. Now that he was sitting in a chair in the office of Bichette herself, he wished he had just gone home. He was afraid to look back up at her so he just fiddled with his hands and waited for her to speak.

"Samuel, do you know why you're here?" she asked after a period of excruciating silence.

"Uh, because I was late to a photo shoot?" he said.

"No," said Bichette harshly. "It's because you have been misrepresenting the House of Bichette, and therefore misrepresenting me. This last incident is just one of many. You have been late to five photo shoots since January. You've looked tired, out of shape and unfocused. I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. This Macy's catalog shoot was supposed to be big. If it went well you would've been on billboards all over Manhattan's Fashion District."

"I can explain," said Sam, finally looking up at the striking woman. "You see, the train I was on had problems so it had to stop and they wouldn't let us off. I didn't even have cell phone service to call you." Bichette looked uninterested.

"I don't care why you were late. I care about how bad you made me look," she said. "Like I said, this isn't the first problem I've had with you. You've been so unprofessional and I can't take it anymore. At the last shoot for Treasure Trailz Debra told me you brought two kids with you!"

"That's because I couldn't find a sitter. I'm really sorry, Bichette, but ever since I started taking care of my brother and sister things have been hectic. I'm trying really hard though," said Sam, his eyes imploring the woman to see reason. Bichette rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I understand your mom died and you have custody of your siblings, yada, yada, yada, but I run one of the most prestigious modeling agencies in New York and I cannot have any blemishes on my reputation. So with that being said, you're fired, Sam Evans."

Sam felt his heart drop into his stomach as his entire body went numb. This couldn't be happening to him. He stared at Bichette, who leaned smugly on her desk with her arms crossed.

"Bichette," he said in a small voice. A lump was forming in his throat. "I really need this job. I've got two kids to care for and a pile of bills. You can't just fire me, I have a contract."

The woman raised an eyebrow as she lifted a small stack of stapled papers from her desk.

"Ah yes, your contract," she said in a smooth voice that made chills run up Sam's spine. She held the papers sideways and with one swift motion she ripped the pages in half. Sam flinched and a wave of nausea overcame him. "Well there's that." Bichette shrugged, pushing herself off of her desk and walking around it casually.

Sam stood up on wobbly legs, forcing himself to walk toward the door. He was completely distraught, and his distress was turning into fury. How dare she just cast him away like that, and with no remorse whatsoever? He couldn't go just yet, not without a fight. Turning around, his ears getting hot with rage, he shot daggers into his former agent with his eyes.

"You know, you think you're the best damn thing around here, but you're wrong," he said. He didn't know where this newfound ability to do what he had wanted to do for years had come from. Something inside him told him to stop but the word vomit just kept coming. "Do you know what they say about you behind your back? They say you're a washed up supermodel who burned out too young. You're mean and you're a bitch and I regret ever letting you put your name on any picture I've taken."

If Sam wasn't mistaken, he thought he saw a flash of surprise flicker across the usually stoic agent's face. He didn't think anyone had ever talked to her like that before. But he was mistaken. Very mistaken. Bichette stood straighter and walked toward him until she was about an inch from his face.

"Let me tell you something, pretty boy, I couldn't care less about what people say about me because the only name that matters in this company is mine. Now, a good-looking boy like you could go far in this industry…but you won't. And do you know why? It's because you're mediocre. Yes, you've been slacking more the past few months, but you were in no way, shape or form my best model. It was only a matter of time that you ended up right where you are now. I just saved you the trouble of wasting another six months here. Now get out of my office before I call security."

Sam set his jaw, her words taking a toll on him. Slowly, he backed away from her, his eyes still trained on her angular face. Finally, he turned around and stormed out of the door. He ran out of the building and out into the brisk October air, cursing all that was Bichette and her agency. His face was hot and he was pretty sure it was beat red right about now. His little outburst at the end had backfired, and not only was he out of a job, but he had been humiliated in the process. As he walked down the street, he looked at his reflection in the store windows he passed and it mirrored exactly how he felt inside: defeated, a failure, nothing. He checked his watch and saw that it was only eleven thirty. He couldn't go home after he had gotten a new asshole ripped by Bichette. No, looking at that dreary apartment would only make him feel worse. Instead, he decided to visit the only person who might make him feel better after the morning's events: Noah Puckerman.

Puck, as his friends called him, was an A&R assistant at Golden Park Records on Canal Street. Golden Park was a fairly small business that dealt mostly with previously independent groups and solo acts from different music genres around the city. Slowly, they were increasing their repertoire and gaining more recognition. About a month ago, they had signed Rusty Bang, a hip-hop artist with an electro-funk style. Puck had spotted him giving an impromptu performance at a club in the Bronx and immediately knew that he was a good fit for GP. After a few weeks of coaxing, persuading and negotiating, Rusty finally agreed to sit down for a meeting. However, when it came time to sign the artist, Brody Weston, the A&R whom Puck worked under, claimed the credit for getting Rusty, leaving Puck out to dry. Brody was now affectionately referred to as That SOB. Sam could relate to his friend now, but at least Puck still had a job.

After getting off at the tenth floor of the building Golden Park Records was located in, he made his way to the front desk where a portly woman named Lauren was typing away furiously on a computer.

"Hey Lauren, is Puck here?" he asked. Lauren peered over her thick-rimmed glasses and furrowed her brow.

"Sam, this is a place of business. You can't just roll in here and ask for someone if you are not a client or don't have an appointment. Now, are you a client or do you have an appointment, Blondie?" she asked in her usual clipped tone. Sam rolled his eyes. The girl was intimidating, but he was in no mood to deal with her today.

"Look, I've had a really bad day and I'd like to speak with my best friend. Can you please tell me where he is?" he said. Lauren poked out her bottom lip.

"Aw you wanna speak to your best friend, do you? Are you gonna get a bowl of Ben and Jerry's and watch The Notebook, too?" she said patronizingly. Sam sighed and leaned on the top of her desk, placing his fingers at his temples.

"Lauren please, I'm so tired," he said. He was doing a lot of begging today and he was getting sick of it. Lauren huffed, finally conceding.

"Noah is in a meeting right now. I can tell him to call you when he is finished," she said. Sam's shoulders dropped. He was really counting on Puck to be available. He was also upset that Lauren made him go through all of that just to tell him that he couldn't see his friend.

"Fine whatever," he grumbled, turning away from the desk.

"Sam I Am!" yelled a voice from behind him. Sam turned around and saw Puck strolling into the vestibule from a back room.

"Hey Puck," said Sam. Puck smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder.

"What brings you here?" he asked. Sam ran a hand through his short blond hair.

"I need to talk to you man," he said. Puck furrowed his brow and gave him a once over.

"You okay?" he asked. Sam just looked down at his shoes.

"I'm not sure," he answered.

"You came at the right time, I'm just about to go on lunch. Let's go before That SOB catches up to me." Puck wrapped an arm around his shoulders and began to guide him away from the front desk. "Lauren, hold my calls for me, will you?"

"You never get any calls!" Lauren called. Puck ignored her and continued to walk with Sam to the elevator.

Sam proceeded to tell Puck of his entire morning ordeal on the way to a hotdog stand down the block. Puck listened intently and offered to pay for Sam's food. Sam was too distracted to protest.

"And then she proceeded to rip up my contract, can you believe that? And when I told her how I really felt about her, she basically suggested that she might have fired me in six months anyway!" he said. Puck shook his head in disgust.

"That's tough, bro. I told you she was a bitch, didn't I? I said, 'don't trust that bitch, she'll hang you out to dry,'" he said. Sam pursed his lips.

"Dude, you're not helping. And you never said that," he said. Puck shrugged.

"Well I always thought it," he mumbled.

"My life completely sucks," said Sam, plopping down on a bench. Puck sat down next to him.

"No it doesn't. Look, you're really resilient. You'll bounce back from this soon and look back on this time and laugh. Trust me." Sam couldn't even smile at his friend's encouraging words.

"Yeah, we'll see." At that moment Sam's phone started ringing. Pulling it out of his pocket and checking the caller ID, he saw that it was his friend, Artie. "Hello?"

"Yo dawg, we need a guys' night tomorrow. You down for drinks?" Artie said.

"I'm not really in the mood," said Sam.

"Aw c'mon man, Mike said he would take time away from his busy ass schedule and I was about to hit Puck up," Artie continued.

"Who is it?" said Puck.

"Artie," answered Sam.

"What does he want?" asked Puck.

"Is that Puckerman in the background?" asked Artie.

"Yes," Sam said to Artie. He then turned to Puck. "And I'm not telling you because then you'll want to go."

"Give me the phone," said Puck, swiping the object before Sam could protest. "Yeah, Artie? You trying to make plans?" Sam watched as Puck listened to what Artie had to say.

"Give me back my phone," he said. Puck ignored him.

"Yeah, we'll be there. We'll all be there," said Puck staring pointedly at Sam.

"No I won't," said Sam.

"Why's he mopey you ask? Oh, he lost his job today…" Sam frowned at Puck's nonchalant declaration. "Yeah that Bitch lady fired him for being late…That's what I'm thinking, he needs a night out with the boys…okay, see you then." Puck hung up Sam's phone and smiled.

"I hate you," said Sam. "And I'm not going." Puck rolled his eyes and stood up from the bench, shoving the last of his hotdog in his mouth.

"Oh yes you are. Look, I gotta get back to work but I'll talk to you later about what's going on for tomorrow. Hang in there buddy, alright?" Puck gave him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder before turning around and walking back to his building.

"Nothing's going on tomorrow!" Sam shouted back. Puck ignored him.

Sam sighed deeply before picking himself up off the bench. He figured he should probably head home but after a morning from hell he didn't want to step foot in another subway. It was chilly outside but the cold air somehow felt refreshing to Sam and he decided that since the Brooklyn Bridge wasn't far from where he was, walking back home would help him to clear his thoughts.

More than anything, today made him miss his mother. He wished that she were around so that he could lay his head in her lap and whine about his boss' unfair treatment like a child. He recalled the day that she had died. After blowing off Sunday dinner for the last few weeks, Sam had finally taken a day off to spend with his mother and siblings. Mary Evans was preparing Sam's favorite meal of barbecue pork ribs with macaroni and cheese and cornbread—something he used to have when he lived in Tennessee—and had run to the store with Stevie and Stacey to get ingredients. As they left the store and crossed the busy New York street, Mary realized that she had forgotten one of her bags at the register. She had told her youngest children to wait while she ran back and got it, but as she crossed back, a car came zooming down the street and plowed into her. She was dead before she reached the hospital.

Sam was heartbroken when he heard the news. Although he had been distant for a while due to his busy schedule, his mother was the closest person to him. They had been through hell and back together. About five months before Stacey was born his father, Dwight, had gotten laid off from his job. The family subsequently had to move from their home in Nashville, Tennessee to Louisville, Kentucky where his dad got a lower paying job. Money was tight and the birth of the youngest Evans didn't help matters. The pressure had gotten to Sam's father and two months after Stacey was born, Dwight packed his things in the middle of the night and stole away, leaving his family with next to nothing. Ever since then, Sam had taken over as man of the house, and the two had become a team. After his mom died, however, he didn't feel like a man anymore. What kind of man couldn't provide for his family?

Sam didn't want to rush home and cause suspicion, so he took his time walking. It took him four hours to get back to his apartment building in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. In recent history, Williamsburg had been undergoing gentrification, or in other words, a shift from an urban setting to a wealthier one. Buildings were being redone, property values were going up and a new population was infiltrating the neighborhood. However, in East Williamsburg, places were left forgotten, including Sam's meager apartment building. There were a lot of things that could've been fixed but Sam had realized that complaining would lead to more headaches than improvement. He walked up the stairs, thankful that he only lived on the second floor because the elevator was out of order, and put his key into the lock.

It was fairly quiet in the apartment. The Stevie and Stacey were doing homework at the kitchen table and Emma Pillsbury—a 30-something-year-old woman who lived on the third floor and watched the kids after school—was sitting in a chair reading a book. All three of them looked up when Sam entered.

"Oh hello Sam, you're home early," said Emma. "I thought you wouldn't be here until 6 because of your shoot." Sam busied himself by taking his coat off so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"Oh yeah, well the shoot ended earlier than I thought. I should've called you, I hope that's okay," he said. Emma closed her book and stood up from her chair.

"Don't worry about it. The kids were excellent, as usual," she said. Sam smiled in the direction of his brother and sister.

"That's great," he said. Emma's expression became serious at that moment, and she leaned in closer to him.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked. Sam furrowed his brow, wondering what she could possibly want to talk about.

"Sure. Stevie, Stacey, why don't you take a break from your homework and watch TV or something, okay?" he said. Without hesitation, the kids dropped their pencils and raced to the television. As they debated on what they were going to watch, Sam led Emma to the hallway where their rooms were. Sam turned and faced the ginger woman, her wide eyes kind but concerned.

"Sam, don't take this the wrong way but I noticed how unorganized the place was when I first walked in. There were dishes piled a mile high in the sink, there was stuff strewn all over the living room and the bathroom looked like it hadn't been washed in I don't know how long," she said. Sam pursed his lips in embarrassment. "I know sometimes it's hard to keep up with cleanliness but the kids, they can't live like this."

"I know," said Sam, not sure if he was angry with her or himself. "Things have just been getting out of hand lately." Emma nodded in understanding.

"I know it's hard, which is why I took the liberty of tidying up for you. Maybe you can delegate some responsibilities to Stevie and Stacey. I think they're old enough now and I think you all will be much happier," she said. Sam smiled slightly.

"Thanks Emma," he said. Emma wrinkled her nose as she gazed up at him.

"You okay? You seem more tired than usual," she said. Sam strained to broaden his smile.

"I'm fine, just tired like you said." Emma smiled back.

"Okay," she said.

"That reminds me, I've got an early day tomorrow so I can pick the kids up from school," said Sam, feeling a pang in his gut as he thought about the lie he just told. Emma's smiled widened.

"That's great, I bet that's just what you need, right?" she said. Sam wanted to laugh at the irony: he needed a break and Bichette just gave him a permanent one.

"You have no idea," he said dryly.

Sam got little sleep that night. Whenever he did fall asleep his dreams were riddled with cryptic voices in the dark and demon supermodels, so he wasn't in the best mood when it was time to get up in the morning. It felt weird waking up and not having a purpose. All he wanted to do was throw on a pair of sweats but he knew that his brother and sister would be suspicious as to why he wasn't dressed for work. Instead he opted for jeans and a sweatshirt, which he threw on before he went to go wake his siblings up.

After the usual morning routine of struggling to get Stevie out of bed, he made them breakfast and walked them to the bus stop. The reality of him not having anything to do hitting him again, followed by a deep depression caused him to crawl back into the bed and fall into a deep sleep. His cell phone ringing interrupted his nap. Groaning he peered at the caller ID with one eye and saw that it was Mike. He could already guess what his friend wanted to talk about as he hit the green Accept button.

"You're going out tonight, not taking no for an answer," said Mike before Sam had a chance to say hello.

"For the last time, I'm not going," said Sam, burrowing himself further underneath his covers. There was a pause on the other end.

"Artie told me what happened," Mike said sympathetically.

"But I see he failed to tell you not to badger me about going out!" Sam retorted. He knew he was being a little short but sometimes his friends didn't understand that no meant no.

"Is it the money? I'll pay, Sam, I just haven't seen you in a long time. Just come out and we'll talk about what happened and try to figure something out for you, okay?" said Mike.

"No," said Sam in a pouty voice that made him feel like he was five.

"Then you leave us no choice," Mike said ominously. Sam furrowed his brow.

"Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?"

"You'll see," said Mike. Before Sam could ask him what his cryptic message meant, Mike hung up. Sam would've spent more time wondering what his friend could've possibly been talking about, but looking at the clock he saw that it was almost time to pick the kids up from the bus stop. Once he got up he threw his sweatshirt back on and left the apartment.

The kids looked less than ecstatic that it was Sam picking them up. He tried to put on a smile, but the looks on their faces hurt him. Why didn't they like him?

"Where's Ms. Pillsbury?" asked Stevie.

"I had an early day so I thought I'd spend the afternoon with you guys instead," Sam lied. Stevie grumbled while Stacey gave him a small smile. He was thankful for that.

"So how was school?" he asked.

"Fine," answered Stacey. "I entered a spelling bee today."

"You did?" said Sam, equally surprised and happy for his little sister.

"Yeah, it's in November. I'm gonna start studying now and maybe I can win," said the young girl.

Sam couldn't keep the smile off of his face. "Oh I know you'll win. You're the best seller in all of New York City," he said. Stacey smiled sheepishly. "And how about you, Stevie? How was school?"

"Fine," the moody boy mumbled. Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes in frustration.

"You know, one day you're gonna have to say more than two words to me, Stevie," he said.

"Maybe one day. Hey that was three words, wasn't it?" said Stevie. Sam glared down at the boy. When did he get so snarky?

"And for that you get to do the dishes when we get home," he said. Stevie grumbled but said nothing.

Later on that evening Sam sat in the living room watching television. Stevie and Stacey were in their room playing a board game and he relished the time alone. He knew he should probably be scouring Craigslist and Monster for new jobs but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Not yet anyway. He needed this mourning period to get himself together. As he sunk into the couch to get more comfortable a knock on the door sounded through the apartment. He quickly lifted himself up from the couch to go answer it, wondering who it could be. When he opened the door he was greeted by a smiling Jake Puckerman, Puck's twenty-year-old half brother.

"Hey Jake, what're you doing here?" said Sam. He stepped to the side to let the boy in.

"I'm here to watch Stevie and Stacey," he answred. Sam raised an eyebrow. Jake would never come on his own accord. Sam had to coerce him into watch the kids the last time Ms. Pillsbury got sick and couldn't do it.

"Uh thanks but I don't need anyone to watch them tonight."

Jake smirked.

"Oh yes you do. The guys are waiting for you downstairs," the mulatto boy said. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I swear your brother and his friends are idiots. I don't know how many times I have to say no before they get it. Go back downstairs and tell them for the last time I'm not going."

Instead of listening Jake stepped further into the apartment and flopped down on the couch.

"No can do Sammy boy. I was basically shoved into Mike's car and offered fifty bucks to come here today and there's another fifty in it for me if I complete the task. I'm a suffering college student, I need the money," he said.

"Well then I'm sorry to disappoint," said Sam. He walked back to the door and held it open. "Goodbye, Jake."

Jake just leaned back into the couch and placed his hands behind his head.

"Did I mention that if you weren't downstairs in five minute Noah and Mike were gonna come up and drag you downstairs?" he said smugly. Sam groaned and wiped a hand down his face. God, why were his friends so relentless?

"Jake!" cried a voice and Stacey could be seen running out of her room and plopping onto Jake's lap. Jake let out a fake groan.

"Ugh Stace, you're getting big. What is Sam feeding you?" Stacey giggled. "How's my pretty girl?"

"Good," said Stacey.

"Hey Jake," said Stevie as he too walked into the room. The two slapped five.

"Hey man," said Jake. Sam felt a pang of jealousy at the bond Jake seemed to have with his siblings. He only had a few moments before Mike and Puck went all drug raid on him and busted down his door so he threw his head back and sighed.

"Fine I'll go," he relented. Jake smirked as Sam ran into his room to throw on a clean shirt. There weren't many things that were considered clean enough to be worn in public so he settled for a gray v-neck sweater over a white tee, a pair of ripped dark washed jeans and black boots. He ran a hand over his chin. He could've used a shave but there was no time. Besides, since he wasn't working for Bichette anymore he might be able to grow out a beard like he always wanted.

When he came out Jake and the kids were watching television.

"Okay guys, I won't be gone long. Be good for Jake, okay?" he said.

"We're not seven, Sam," said Stevie. "Look, I'm up to four words!"

"Watch it, Stevie," said Sam. Stevie just shrugged and went back to watching TV. Stacey at least gave a little wave. He smiled and grabbed his coat off the hook. "I'll see you guys later."

"Have fun!" called Jake taungtingly. Sam ignored him as he opened the door and ran down the flight of stairs and into the small lobby where Puck and Mike looked like they were ready to climb the stairs.

"See, I told you he'd come!" said Mike.

"How were we supposed to know that?" said Puck. Sam frowned.

"You guys were really about to bust into my apartment? Do you know the meaning of too far?"

"It was Puck's idea," said Mike. Sam shook his head.

"Whatever, let's just go before I change my mind. And I'm only staying two hours tops," he said.

Puck slung an arm around his shoulders as they walked out to Mike's car where Artie was waiting.

"That's the spirit!" said Puck enthusiastically. Sam groaned inwardly.

Sam was angry with himself for succumbing to his friends' incessant requests to hang out. Sam cradled his beer in his hands, looking into it solemnly. He didn't even know why he agreed to go out with his friends tonight; he supposed it was easier to concede than resist.

"Aw cheer up, Sam, there are other jobs out there," said Artie. Sam tore his gaze from his bottle and glared at his friend.

"Cheer up? My only source of income is gone and I'm supposed to be happy? I don't know what I'm going to do. If I don't have a way to get money, Child Protective Services will take the kids away," he said. His friends looked at him sympathetically. He hated that they felt sorry for him but in all honesty he felt sorry for himself. Feeling a need to do something with his hands, which were now shaking with stress, he ran his fingers through his rusty blond locks, tugging rather harshly on a particularly stubborn knot. All he really wanted to do was cry. He had done everything for Bichette—allowed strangers to poke and prod at his body, worked insane amount of hours, even losing ten unnecessary pounds because he was considered "fat" when he was initially signed and successfully keeping the weight off of his already lean body. What was he to do now?

"Maybe you should go back to school. Get a college education and then get a better job," suggested Mike. Sam looked at his friend and raised his eyebrow. That was easy for Mike Chang to say. The man had graduated from NYU with a Bachelor's in Psychology and was now in a Ph.D. program at Columbia.

"With what money? And besides, I didn't do well in school the first eighteen years of my life so I'm pretty sure going back won't make any improvement. What I need is a job that I can get paid in for doing the things I'm good at," he said. The problem was, the only thing he was good at was looking good, and look how far that got him.

"I could talk to my buddy, Blaine, for you. He might have some sort of job you could do," suggested Puck. Mike scoffed.

"Puck, your friends aren't exactly known for having decent jobs," said Mike.

"Is this the same Blaine who's a male escort?" said Artie. Sam's eyes widened.

"You want to set me up with a male escort? Jesus Puck, is that how little you think of me?" Puck put his hands up in defense and leaned back dramatically.

"Chill out, it's not that kind of escorting. He doesn't have sex for money if that's what you think. And I'm sorry, am I mistaken or am I talking to the guy that entertained the idea of being a stripper when you first moved here? Is that how little you think of yourself?" he said.

"Preach," said Artie, waving one hand righteously in the air. Sam fought the urge to knock the bespectacled man out of his wheelchair.

"That was so long ago. Can we change the subject? I don't want to talk about my pathetic existence anymore," he said. Puck shrugged.

"Fine homie, but just ask yourself what you're willing to do to keep you and your family together," he said. Sam responded to his friend by downing the rest of his beer in one gulp. He wasn't ready to find out the answer to that question yet.