Title: America, She's Beautiful
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.
Summary: AU. She walked in with long curly blonde hair, hands clasped behind her back, and a red smile, and all Rachel wanted to know was why large, burly men were following her everywhere. | She walked in to find an ordinary brunette to strike up an argument with, and all Quinn cared about was that Rachel hadn't the slightest clue who she was.
A/N: Surprise would be an understatement for how I felt when I got back to my computer and saw all of these reviews. Thank you guys so much. A few of you guessed correctly about just who Quinn was. I figured the title of the story would be a pretty good clue. Political Animals greatly inspired this, because it was such a compelling miniseries. Having said that, I'm not sticking to Political Animals, but rather borrowing their format somewhat.
On days she didn't have to work, Rachel was busy balancing musical theater classes, which she adored, along with general education classes that she felt she could do without. She had spent her entire school career learning sciences in varying degrees and didn't understand why the subject was still haunting her when she was practically halfway to fame. She longed for the day where she would be belting out heartfelt melodies to a crowd of her fans and not listening to Streisand while doing homework.
Just then her earbuds were unceremoniously ripped out of her ear, and Rachel swiveled around in her seat at her desk to find her grinning roommate staring back at her.
Millicent, her beautiful, never-without-a-date roommate was a statuesque brunette with a lean build. She was a dance major there at NYADA and it showed throughout every inch of her body that moved faultlessly with little effort.
Her hair was thrown up in a haphazard ponytail indicative of the fact that she had just arrived from a strenuous dance class that now made her skin glisten with a light sheen of sweat. Even when sweaty and gross in workout attire, Millicent looked like a model.
Rachel resisted the urge to roll her eyes at just how beautiful she was. "Can I help you, Millie?"
Millicent bounced up to her full height, a few inches taller than Rachel. She sauntered over to her bed and collapsed on it dramatically before she instructed, "Ask me about my date last night."
Closing her textbook, Rachel rose from her desk when it became obvious no more homework was going to get done. She went to the opposite side of her room where her bed lay, a small twin size, and sat on it with her legs folded underneath her. "How did your date g—"
"It was wonderful," Millicent gushed before Rachel could even finish. "He opened the door to the restaurant for me and everything." She began flipping through her phone with a curious furrow of her brow as she muttered, "This one is a keeper, Rach. Him, or, you know, the guy whose number I got at my recital last night."
Rachel hissed out a breath through her teeth and trained her eyes on the ceiling. Here she was, could barely get a date, and Millicent had guys ringing her phone and hair ties on their dorm room door that clearly meant 'do not disturb' all the time. Rachel had never met anyone so sexually liberated in her life. She had grown up in a small town that appreciated, among other things, chastity. It never particularly agreed with Rachel, but it wasn't like anyone had been knocking on her door back then to rebel against the archaic notion.
She appreciated her roommate and her sexual prowess as a modern woman. It was just hard to listen to sometimes when she herself was going through a dry spell.
"So what's going on in your life?" Millicent asked after a moment.
Rachel shook her head clear of her thoughts and lowered it to find her roommate staring intently at her. She hadn't even known she had zoned out. She ran a hand through her hair and shrugged a shoulder for nonchalance. "Oh, you know, just the usual."
Millicent's lips curled up playfully as she folded one long, toned leg under her. "And what is the usual for you, Rach?"
"Working," Rachel sighed forlornly, and Millicent offered a sympathetic pout that trembled in threat of an amused smile.
"Oh, honey, you gotta get out more."
"And I will," she supplied with a nod. "Once I've completed my post-secondary education, after I've won my first Tony three to five years out of college, I'll be able to get out more and party, let loose, those kinds of things."
"Rachel, you're twenty." Millicent's voice was flat. "The time to let loose is now."
Rachel licked her lips and opened her mouth to protest when Millicent cut her off.
"I mean, hell, go out on a date or something. Have you even looked around for someone to be interested in? The only person I've heard you talk about in weeks was that blonde from the café who made you angry a few days ago."
Her cheeks grew warm at the mention of Lucy Quinn, and Rachel ducked her head, hair falling over her face, to hide. She hadn't handled the situation too well. Lucy bested her, got under her skin for that one moment that she had told Robin, Kurt, and Millicent, and her fathers about. Granted, she often came to her dorm ranting about work, but her fixation on the dichotomy of how beautiful the woman was and how infuriating she had been had provided her with lengthy material to talk about.
She glanced away and out of the window above her bed, pensive. "Perhaps I'll try to make myself more available in the foreseeable future," she mumbled.
"Yes, make yourself more available," Millicent agreed. "And go out sometime. You'll drive yourself crazy being cooped up in here doing homework all day long."
Rachel firmed her lips with a nod of her head. "You're right. I'm-I'm a young, energetic woman. I should be going out."
"And dating."
"And dating," Rachel added.
"And having sex."
She went googly eyed at the mention of sex, and Millicent laughed.
"Come on, Rachel, let someone clean the bats out of your cave."
Her face scrunched up. "When you put it that way it doesn't sound at all appealing."
Pink lips twitched upward into a smirk. "Okay, then let someone stick their tongue—"
"Okay, you're done!" Rachel cut in, pointing a finger across the room at Millicent just as someone knocked on her door.
Millicent dipped her feet onto the floor and rose from the bed in one fluid motion. "I'll get it," she declared, amusement tickling the back of her throat as Rachel grabbed a pillow to hug away how traumatized her roommate always seemed to make her.
"Ladies, we have got to talk!"
Rachel knew that voice anywhere, and turned to the door to find Kurt breezing into the room with a giddy expression on his face and a newspaper in his hands. He had a crazed look in his eye that he usually reserved for when competing for a solo in class, and Rachel scooted further away from him on her bed when he plopped down without so much as an 'excuse me'.
"Kurt," she hedged with hesitance. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Everything is right with New York, hell, the world right now."
"Impoverished people would beg to differ," Rachel felt the need to point out, quietly, as Kurt held up the newspaper.
From a few feet away on the other side of the room in her bed, Millicent squinted to see the headline and the photo underneath before Kurt panned over to Rachel to allow her to see it. In black, bold letters, the headline read: President Russell Fabray, First Lady Judy Fabray, and daughters, Francine and Quinn Fabray, have graced New York City for their tentative two week vacation about the Big Apple.
The name Quinn struck Rachel first and foremost, Lucy's surname, something she had thought to be an uncommon name. She was familiar with President Fabray, a conservative from Georgia. She was less familiar with the First Lady who would sometimes appear alongside President Fabray during speeches and in photos. She was not at all familiar with their two daughters, however.
Bemused, she placed her hand on top of the newspaper Kurt had shoved in her face, and gently lowered it. "I didn't know you were into politics, especially Republicans."
Kurt waved her statement off with a flick of his wrist. "He's a big-time conservative who verbally opposes gay marriage. Don't you know what that means?"
Rachel shook her head. "That…you're voting against him in the upcoming election?"
"That he's gay!" Kurt declared.
Millicent scoffed. "No way."
"I'm afraid I agree with Millie on this one, Kurt. We can't just go around assuming that every political homophobe or non-supporter is gay."
Kurt flipped through the newspaper to the rest of the story behind the president's visit. "Trust me, he's gay. Either that or he has a family member who's gay. No one has such a staunch view on a subject unless they've personally dealt with it."
Rachel glanced down to the photo of the proud man standing on a podium. It seemed that nearly four years in office had aged him. Wisps of what were once blonde hair were beginning to whiten on his head. His face put Rachel in the mind of a pitbull, vicious and bold, as he was politically. How he managed to win in the polls baffled Rachel who wanted to go back to her ballot box stuffing days, but refrained. Barely.
"Oh, look, there's a picture of him and his wife in here," Kurt pointed out. "Their marriage couldn't look more frigid if you locked them both outside during a New York winter."
"Let me see!" Millicent hopped off her bed and Rachel's own bed jiggled soon after under the weight of an added person. Gray eyes roved over the photo in interest before Millicent whistled out a breath. "I will agree that there's no love lost in that picture."
Rachel, too, glanced down at the newspaper to find a dramatically beautiful looking photo of the pair. His wife was gorgeous, though Rachel could tell she had had some work done on her face. Her eyebrows that were once playful, Rachel remembered from a photo she had seen when Russell Fabray first began his presidency, were now severe and scary, permanently raised along her forehead.
With amusement, Rachel imagined this was how Lucy Quinn would look if she permanently kept her eyebrows raised. Something else the First Lady had in common with Lucy, aside from the blonde hair, was the cool exterior, the nearly nonexistent facial expression, the chilling detachment. Below the obvious photoshopped, professionally done photo was a more candid one, President and First Lady Fabray walking hand in hand down a stage from where he must have just given a speech. There was a broad shoulder in the frame of a man who must have just been walking by followed by the pair, and two bodyguards behind them.
At the sight of them, Rachel froze. Her eyebrows dipped in suspicion as she curiously asked, "Are there pictures of their daughters in here by any chance?"
Kurt flipped to the final page of the article on the president in the newspaper, then shook his head. "Not a one."
Rachel licked her lips in thought and grabbed the edge of the newspaper to flip back to the previous page. The photo was grainy and she held it up to her face to better see it.
Millicent leaned back on the bed to regard Rachel from her spot beside Kurt. "What's wrong, Rachel?"
"Nothing is wrong, per se," she mumbled. "Just a mild curiosity that I'm trying to assuage." It had been days ago; she couldn't remember what Lucy's bodyguards looked like, but this was starting to become an uncanny coincidence. Was it possible that she had been arguing with the president's daughter? And if so, was she going to go to jail for it?
"And you've never seen a picture of his daughters before?" Rachel asked, only mildly feeling like a stalker.
"His daughters rarely take pictures, especially his youngest," Kurt answered. "I've only seen maybe two pictures of the oldest. Pretty, blonde, the usual—whatever."
"Can you find a picture of them for me?" At Kurt's doubtful expression, Rachel caved. "Kurt, please? Just try for me."
"Why are you so gung-ho about this all of a sudden? You hadn't a care in the world just a few minutes ago when I told you that we may have a fellow gay on our team thanks to our very own president."
Rachel made a noise of negation in the back of her throat. "Kurt, honey, I'm not gay."
He shot her a dubious look and even Millicent cracked a smile. "Says the girl who's exclusively dated women since your freshman year here. That would make the last two years, girls: three, boys: zero."
Rachel's jaw dropped.
"And even counting high school, that would still bring the total up to girls: three, boys: one."
"T-that was me simply broadening my horizon," she explained. "I have since calmed."
"Only because you haven't gone on a date in months," Millicent scoffed under her breath.
"That's not fair!"
Kurt abruptly stood from between the two of them and dusted off his shirt. "This must be some guy's wet dream," he muttered to himself as he pulled out the chair at Rachel's desk. "Why did I have to get stuck with it?"
Before he knew it, Rachel was by his side, pressing her cheek against his as she booted up her laptop. "Can you just check for me?" she pleaded.
"What is this about?" he asked as if put-out even though he was already clicking on a web browser.
"That girl that I told you guys about, Lucy Quinn—I think she may have been the president's daughter."
Millicent stood from her seat to hover just behind the pair as Kurt diligently searched Google for a photo of the elusive Quinn Fabray. "So let me get this straight, you think the hoity-toity blonde who caused you to show your ass in embarrassment a few days ago…is actually President Fabray's daughter?"
"She's had stranger theories. Remember she has a sixth sense," Kurt teased.
Rachel stood to her full height with her arms folded across her chest to glare at the two of them. "I'm serious! Lucy Quinn could very well be Quinn Fabray. Stranger things have happened."
Kurt hummed in amusement, dredging up old articles written about President Fabray in search of a family photo.
"What if she is the president's daughter?" Millicent asked to humor her. "Then what?"
"Then I join the witness protection program," Rachel informed her, quite seriously. She chewed on her thumb while Kurt continued to search the internet.
Millicent snorted. "The witness protection program? Please tell me you're joking."
"I argued with the president's daughter. That's grounds for, I don't know, treason or something!"
"Rachel—"
"The customer is always right—that's what my boss always tried to tell me. Why didn't I listen?" she wondered to herself as this all became much more real. She had argued with the president's daughter about the quality of the coffee she had prepared for her because her pride had refused to take the hit. "Why did I have to open my big mouth?"
The next thing she felt were slender, but strong, hands gripping her shoulders, literally jerking out of her thoughts. "Rachel. Calm down. Okay? Chances are this girl wasn't even the president's daughter. And even if she was, she gave you a hundred dollar tip. I doubt she'd do that if she was pissed at you and planning to run home and tell daddy, okay?"
Rachel took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. You're right. You're right; she gave me a hundred dollars, and she engaged me in conversation, and asked me—or ordered, rather—to sit down and have a conversation with her. She's not going to tell on me. I'm just—I get a little high strung sometimes—"
"Don't I know it," Millicent grumbled.
"Guys? I found a picture." Kurt's voice was proud as he summoned Rachel and Millicent closer. Rachel squeezed in beside him as Millicent leaned over his head from the back of the chair to see the illuminated box of Rachel's computer screen.
It was a family photo of the Fabray clan that was dated a year ago. It looked personal; how it leaked, Rachel didn't know. But she couldn't be bothered to watch the plastic smiles on Russell's, Judy's, and who she assumed to be Francine's face. The only plastic smile she cared for was…Lucy's.
It was undoubtedly her. Curly locks of blonde hair fell artfully down her shoulders, professionally done make-up adorning her blank face save for a faux-cheerful red smile. It was her.
Lucy Quinn was Quinn Fabray.
"I knew it!" Rachel declared loudly. "In your faces!"
Quinn flipped listlessly through a newspaper, as if everyone in the rented house her family was inhabiting for vacation wasn't running around like chickens with their heads cut off, waiting for her to get up and get a move on.
Her body lay draped along her chaise, a sigh expanding her chest. Tapered fingers with freshly done French tips flipped to the next page of the New York Times before she gave up and threw it to the ground.
She was bored.
New York was boring, Quinn had decided.
She had yet to understand the appeal, why so many people flocked here year round for vacation or just for what they assumed was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see it.
The only remotely interesting thing Quinn had run into since arriving was Rachel Berry.
Her lips twitched the barest hint as she leaned back over the arm of the chaise to stretch. Rachel was amusing, everything about her. Her nose, her shrill voice, her very presence—Quinn hadn't been able to leave her alone the entire time she had spent in the coffee shop. She got under Rachel's skin, which appealed to her. And Rachel looked kind of cute when she was flustered and angry.
"What has you all smiley, hmm?"
Quinn scowled at the sight of her sister in her doorway. "You took out the best seller list," she responded coolly, referencing the newspaper as she ignored the prior question.
Frannie sauntered into Quinn's room with a teasing quirk of her lips at her little sister's ire. "I wanted a book."
"So did I, Francine."
"Well, Quinnie, perhaps you should be quicker about it next time."
Her throat rumbled with a frustrated growl at the childish nickname, but she didn't entertain her sister with a reply.
Frannie swatted at Quinn's bare feet with her hand. "Get up. Everyone's ready for the photoshoot and you have yet to try on the rest of your dresses—and you need your make-up done."
"I don't want to take a photo," Quinn mumbled to herself, mind elsewhere. "Also, New York is boring."
"Yes, yes, so I've been told—by you." Frannie sighed when Quinn made no move to stand up and cooperate. She sat down beside her and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "You haven't had fun since the night you met Ra-chel."
"Don't say her name that way," Quinn commanded with a deep frown downturning her lips. She looked like a child not wanting to share her new favorite toy, and Frannie smiled indulgently at her, having become accustomed to that over the years.
She hummed knowingly and tucked that information in her back pocket, determined to revisit it later for closer inspection. "Come on. We have to go finish getting ready, especially you who hasn't even begun."
Quinn gestured down to the Victorian dress draped over her torso like a second skin. It was a strapless black dress with a pleated skirt that traveled all the way down to her feet. "I already have the first dress on." Her tone was reproachful without reason, and Frannie shot her a look before standing up and tugging Quinn along.
"Then get your cute butt in some pictures already."
Frannie was the antithesis of everything she was, Quinn had found out at a very young age. Only three years older, Frannie was a subded yet bubbly soul, occasionally sardonic like all Fabrays could be. But sometimes Quinn would look at her and literally see outstretched wings. If anyone in her family was an angel, it was Frannie.
Quinn was the complete opposite. Sardonic was her default. She wielded sarcasm like no one else in her family and she could cut her eyes nearly as hard as Russell. She got her looks from Judy, though Quinn wasn't looking forward to the botox route in her future that Judy had taken to continue looking youthful.
Russell was standing at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at his watch and tapping his foot. He looked up at the sound of scuffing shoes to find Quinn, now in a pair of strappy heels with her face done, Frannie at her side. His eyes narrowed. "Took you two long enough."
"Rome wasn't built in a day," Frannie replied pleasantly as she breezed past Russell as if he were a pest and not at all the President of the United States. Quinn skulked down the stairs with a frown, in search of her mother, the only one in the house who would entertain her foul mood.
She found Judy, predictably, in the kitchen. There was a tray of finger food on the counter that she was pinching a small sample of between her index and middle finger, attempting to guide it into her mouth without smearing make-up or dropping it on her dress.
Quinn sidled up beside her and placed her elbow on the countertop, chin in her hand. "You know how I feel about photos."
Judy swallowed a bite-sized portion. "This is the year of reelection, dear. Our opposing candidate is gaining attention as a 'family man', and your father's campaign manager thought it was high time he showed his own children."
Quinn sighed. She loathed taking pictures, especially ones she knew were going to be leaked to the public, because she didn't want to be known as the president's daughter. She liked to be discreet, didn't want attention unless it was of her own merit. She didn't want attention from big wig politicians or wannabes who expected her to sit around and talk donkeys and elephants with them.
Judy cupped her cheeks and forced Quinn to face her. "Look at it this way: you get to play dress up."
Quinn groaned. "I'm not a child, mom."
Judy frowned, offended. "Who said you have to be a child to play dress up? That's all this day is for me." She patted Quinn's cheek and walked out of the kitchen.
"All right, places everyone!"
It was a male's voice, the photographer's, and Quinn stood from where she had been leaning against the countertop and rolled her shoulders back. She walked into the living room, the set up for the photoshoot to find Frannie sitting far away from the hustle and bustle to tighten the strap of her shoe. Judy's hair was being fluffed by a stylist, and Russell's campaign manager, Victor, was tying Russell's tie. How Victor managed to simultaneously be a brown noser and a know-it-all, Quinn would never know. All she knew was that she didn't care for the man and it always showed.
As soon as she stepped foot into the living room, hands were on her. It was her personal hair stylist for the photoshoot. "I think it'd be cuter if your hair was up, like Francine's is—symmetry is everything."
She looked across the room to notice that, indeed Frannie's hair was currently up in a neat bun atop her head. Quinn's eyes narrowed in discomfort as the woman grabbed her and pulled her along to the couch. She quickly grabbed a set of pins from inside her apron pocket and gathered Quinn's hair into one hand. "You have amazing hair," she gushed, leaning up to better see over Quinn's head. "It's very silky to the touch—slips right between my fingers."
The woman's breasts were in Quinn's face and she sighed, and skirted her gaze elsewhere. Her hair was pinned back to expose her long throat, a lock of hair falling from each side of her head to compliment her face. Just as the hair stylist was finishing, the make-up artist came in behind her to ease the intensity of the hooker red lipstick on Quinn's lips. It was a tad too red for her taste; she preferred just a shade lighter, something less maroon. She was asked to pop her lips while a napkin was clasped between them to dilute the color.
Frannie stood and walked past Quinn, grabbing her hand and tugging. Quinn shot her a grateful smile, feeling overwhelmed already. "Look at it this way," Frannie whispered in her ear. "You're almost famous."
Quinn giggled quietly at the playful jab at her artsy passion of becoming an actress. It was subtly frowned upon in her family, especially by Russell who tried to push her into politics, persuading her with the possibility of being the first female president. While the feminist in Quinn would stir at the promise, it just wasn't something she wanted in the long run—scandals, slander, slurs. Politics were, more often than not, a dirty business, one she didn't want to be a part of.
She stood dutifully beside Frannie, behind Judy who was sitting beside Russell on twin chairs. As instructed, Quinn clasped her left hand behind her back and looped her right one around Frannie's waist as Frannie did the exact same thing.
"Okay, now smile!"
The lights flashed, her smile remained unchanged.
But…Quinn didn't feel anything.
When it was all over, Judy was the first to leave, walking upstairs with a stylist to unzip her dress. Russell was immediately swept in conversation with Victor. Frannie placed a hand on Quinn's arm to see if she was all right before grabbing her phone to call her boyfriend.
Quinn watched her father in silence for a moment, before she, too, left in search of something to do. Just as she grabbed the staircase railing, she casted a glance in the kitchen to find Greg, one of her bodyguards, demolishing the finger food. Plastering on a saccharine smile, Quinn clasped her hands behind her back and stalked him into the kitchen.
"Greg."
He looked up with a hum of acknowledgement, cheeks full of food. He was six foot five, well over two-hundred pounds and ate at every opportunity, except for when he was on the job.
Quinn sidled up beside him and placed her elbow on the countertop as she faced him.
"I want coffee. Now."
Rachel smiled politely at the old couple as she placed two hot cups of coffee on the table top. They were a wrinkled pair, clearly still in love after all these years. The man put an arm around the woman who blushed like a new bride, even after all this time, and Rachel's smile turned from polite to genuine as she murmured, "I hope you enjoy," and quietly excused herself.
Depressed, she walked back to the counter and sighed.
"Long shift?" Robin asked. She had just arrived two hours prior and was working until closing.
Rachel casted a glance to the couple again and sulked a little more. "Long life."
Robin leaned against the counter to better see the couple now sharing a chaste kiss. "Not as long as theirs," she ventured.
Rachel giggled despite herself. "It's not nice to point out one's age."
"Their wrinkles point out their age."
"Well, at any rate, they're adorable," Rachel decided with a wistful sigh.
"Oh, that reminds me." Robin reached into the pocket of her khakis to grab her phone. "Cover me for my fifteen. I need to call my boyfriend."
Rachel puffed out an annoyed breath, but nodded and Robin ducked out back to make the phone call. Rachel grabbed a nearby rag and wiped the countertop to give her something to do other than lament over her single life.
"Have a good evening, dearie!"
She glanced up to the older couple waving at her as they walked through the door and had to smile. "You have a nice night, as well!"
Working at the coffee shop had created a dislike within her of being called anything other than her birth name. She had been called girlie, girl, sugar, and occasionally by gross older men, baby. It had gotten old really fast. But she couldn't bring herself to be offended by the pair that had just walked out the door. The term of endearment had actually sounded endearing.
The bell above the door jingled and Rachel looked up from wiping the countertop.
It was Lucy Quinn—Quinn Fabray—whatever. The president's daughter, and her four bodyguards behind her.
She sauntered into the coffee shop as if she owned it, and Rachel couldn't believe she had overlooked the sense of entitlement that oozed from Quinn's pores coupled with the bodyguards days ago. Everything about her screamed important, or that was at least how she appeared to be.
Quinn looked over at her with a devious smile before she looked away and slid into the same booth she had occupied several days ago.
"Hey, I miss anything?"
Rachel latched onto Robin's arm with both hands and jerked her closer. "See that girl over there?" she whispered, rather loudly.
Robin regarded Rachel anxiously then looked over to Quinn sitting alone in a booth with four bodyguards surrounding her from nearby tables. "Yeah, she's the only girl in here besides us."
"Can you take her off my hands? I get off in ten anyway," Rachel pleaded. She casted one more look to Quinn who leaned back in her seat, face pinching in agitation, probably at not being served in a timely fashion.
Robin smirked. "Isn't that the girl who left you that fat ass tip? Why would you want to dodge her if she pays that well?"
"Yes, that's her, and…it's complicated. But I need you to cover for me. I'll owe you," she added.
Robin waved it off. "I've been late to plenty of shifts and you've covered for me. Think of it as me paying you back." She tossed Rachel a wink and fished her pen and pad from the pocket of her apron as she strolled across the floor to Quinn's table.
Rachel bit her thumb pensively as she watched Robin and Quinn interact. She thought the name Quinn suited her. It was much more regal, commanded much more respect than Lucy. She looked different today. Her hair was swept up in a bun and Rachel leaned casually against the counter as she eyed the expanse of her neck with mild interest. Her skin was unblemished, even complexion of milky pale that managed to not look sickly. Rachel briefly wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
Suddenly Robin's breasts swam in her vision and Rachel staggered back a step or two, confusion written on her face as she looked up into her eyes. "What?" she bit out uncharacteristically in alarm.
"Wouldn't give me her order," Robin said with a shrug. "First time that's happened to me. Weird."
When Rachel failed to respond in a timely fashion, Robin walked past her to lean against the counter in her usual spot.
Rachel looked to Quinn across the room. She was staring straight ahead. Then Rachel turned to face Robin. "What did she say exactly?"
Robin craned her neck to face Rachel. "She said she wanted you to, quote, 'serve her.'" Amusement swirled in Robin's eyes as Rachel's shoulders grew taut in indignation.
"She said what?"
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger." Robin threw her hands up in mock surrender.
Rachel's jaw clenched. "Fine," she declared in a high pitched voice that conveyed just the opposite. "If she wants me to serve her, I will."
She stalked off across the floor, leaving an amused Robin behind to face Quinn. Rachel grabbed her notepad from her pocket and put on a fake cheerful smile. "Good evening, Quinn Fabray. How may I serve you?"
The bodyguards were the first to react to the name drop Rachel used. They all jerked forward in their seats as if they were about to dive tackle Rachel to the poorly mopped tiled floors of the coffee shop. Rachel winced internally and willed herself not to turn around to the two large men behind her, though dread shot up and down her spine.
If that wasn't enough of a confirmation, the glower of contempt Quinn shot her that made her feel three times too small, though she was the one standing up, was enough for Rachel. Quinn's piercing gaze never wavered in its intensity, and Rachel lowered her head to her notepad and mumbled, "Can I take your order?"
The same sharp edge in Quinn's hardened gaze had crept into her voice as she informed Rachel, "Same as last time."
Rachel licked her lips, feeling like she was pushing her luck. "I don't remember what you ordered last time," she admitted.
Quinn leaned forward in her seat, dipping her head to catch Rachel's lowered gaze. "Why do you suck at making eye contact?"
"I don't," Rachel insisted, meeting Quinn's eyes. "However, I recognize that I made you uncomfortable, and for that I feel a little bad. Please don't tell your father."
Quinn leaned back in her seat, taking Rachel's captivated gaze with her. "My father in no way factors into what's going on between us. Never has."
"Us?" Rachel couldn't help but ask with an incredulous chuckle.
Quinn rolled her eyes. "An extra-large hot coffee—half coffee, half hot chocolate, with a shot of espresso, three pumps of mocha, three pumps of caramel swirl, six creams and four liquid sugars."
"Can I get a please with that?" Rachel ventured daringly, emboldened by Quinn's obvious slip-up earlier.
Hazel eyes swirled with mirth as Quinn inclined her head. "Please."
Heart pounding beneath her breast, Rachel scurried away from the lion's den, thankful to be intact. Robin met her at the edge of the counter. "Well? Spill, girl."
"There's nothing to spill," Rachel muttered. She felt mildly guilty for springing the subject of Quinn's true identity on her. It was obvious Quinn had been trying to hide it for whatever reason. Rachel couldn't think why. If one of her fathers had been this nation's president, Rachel would have dropped out of school and used her fame as the president's daughter as a platform to wiggle her way into musical theater with the shining talent she already had.
But for whatever reason, Quinn was hush-hush about who she was, and Rachel wasn't going to be the one to spill beans that weren't hers. "She's as…unnerving as always, hardly has manners. But I did get her to say please."
"Taming the wild beast within, I see."
Rachel made an amused sound as she finished Quinn's order. "Something like that."
She held onto the cup with two hands and walked it over to the table, sitting it down. She then untied her apron and pulled it from over her head.
Quinn watched her closely, silent for a moment until she prompted, "Are you off work?"
"As of three minutes ago, yes," Rachel informed her.
Quinn made no move to apologize for keeping her overtime, and Rachel frowned.
"Have a cup of coffee with me," Quinn instructed after taking a sip of her own.
Rachel shook her head with an apologetic smile. "That's all right. I really have to get going. It gets dangerous here at night."
"I'll have one of my bodyguards take you home. Where do you live?"
She grew sheepish under the weight of Quinn's undivided attention, and felt her cheeks burn as she admitted, "I'm a college student. I attend the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts."
Quinn's eyes widened. "NYADA." Her voice was a touch awestruck, to which Rachel stood a little taller, lifted her chin just a little more.
"Yes, NYADA. Perhaps you've heard of it," she teased.
Quinn smirked and placed her elbow on the table. "Yes, I've heard of it. One of the schools my father attempted to cut funding from."
A deep frown elongated Rachel's face at the revelation. "I beg your pardon?"
"You aren't into politics," Quinn noted with a tilt of her head. "Good."
Rachel groaned. "Don't remind me. Every twenty-something is so excited about adulthood that they dive right into politics and form opinions without really—"
"Knowing the history behind them," Quinn finished with a quiet smile.
Rachel's smile was slow, tentative as it crept along her face. "Did-did you just finish my sentence?"
Quinn scratched at her eyebrow. "Something like that. Because I agree, actually. Politics is a dirty business that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole."
Cautiously, Rachel slid into the booth as she asked, "Not even with your father as president?"
A dry look was Quinn's response. "Especially with my father as president."
The fact that Quinn didn't seem impressed by her own father's presidency warmed Rachel's heart. She didn't particularly agree with his ideals either. "So, what about this school budget cut thing? Did he do it?"
Quinn shook her head. "I attend a liberal arts school, as well. Cutting funding to art schools across America would be cutting funding to mine as well, so I got him to find something else besides young financially struggling students to take money from."
"You're such a hero," Rachel said, almost shyly as she folded her hands into her lap. She cleared her throat when Quinn failed to respond. "Do I continue to call you Lucy—"
"Don't—no," Quinn told her with a shake of her head. "I go by Lucy Quinn in public so no one will know I'm 'the president's daughter' and want to talk politics with me." Her voice was quiet as she added, "And so people won't treat me differently."
Rachel bit her lip guiltily at the way she had acted upon discovering that Quinn was President Fabray's daughter. "So you prefer Quinn?" she clarified.
Quinn nodded.
Stretching her arm across the table, Rachel smiled kindly. "Well, Quinn, it's a pleasure to meet you, though you did lie about who you were."
Quinn eyed her hand in suspicion for a moment before she took it in her own and gave a firm shake. "I didn't lie, technically my name is Lucy," she stipulated. "I just prefer Quinn. And I may have left out that I'm also a Fabray."
Rachel's eyes narrowed playfully. "Omission is a form of lying, Quinn."
Red lips lifted into an enigmatic smile. "Not in my world."
"I'm sure," Rachel drawled in a sarcastic tone.
Quinn stared at her for a long moment, then finally released Rachel's hand. Rachel stole back her warm fingers and placed them on the edge of the table. She leaned forward. "Just know that—I won't treat you any differently," she felt the need to clarify. "And I'm sorry about earlier. I just thought that you were some-some haughty, snooty blonde with a superiority complex who—"
Quinn threw her head back with a laugh. Her long throat lay bare from the action and Rachel rubbed her lips together, feeling self-conscious at being left out of the loop as to what Quinn found so funny. "I am all of those things," Quinn finally said without hint of apology.
Rachel sucked her teeth and glanced away from the grin on Quinn's face, refusing to find Quinn admitting to such appalling traits as charming.
"What do you study at NYADA?" Quinn asked after a moment.
Rachel perked up. "Musical theater," rushed out of her mouth.
"Figured you weren't a dancer," was all Quinn responded with. "You're so short."
"Actually, I've been dancing and winning competitions since I was three months old," Rachel informed her, smugly.
"And I'm the arrogant one?"
"Confident—I'm confident."
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
It was lightning round questioning time once again, and Rachel struggled to keep up. "Uh—no. No, I do not."
Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Girlfriend?"
"I'm single."
"Hmm."
Rachel leaned forward. "What about you?"
Quinn leaned back. "Same."
Rachel licked her lips and shyly lowered her gaze. "Well, that—that's good."
"Rachel, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you," Quinn prefaced.
Rachel looked up, a tease about Quinn's recent lack of honesty on the tip of her tongue. But it died in the back of her throat at the sight of Quinn's eyes flashing with determination as they met hers squarely. "I want your number," Quinn told her deliberately. "And I would appreciate if you gave it to me."
Rachel swallowed down a lump that dissolved into butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She nodded hurriedly and reached for the pen and pad in the pocket of her apron nervously even though Quinn had already pulled out her phone.
"Okay."