Finn spent the afternoon at the gym.
He told Bieste that Karofsky wanted him to fight Benny Reid, and she looked at him with disbelief. "Are you pulling my leg, Hudson?" she asked. She tried to refuse to help him, but he begged and begged until she sighed and gave in. She was the best trainer in Detroit, and he needed her help every day for the next week if he wanted half a chance against Reid.
He couldn't focus on anything, though, and each passing hour Beiste grew more and more frustrated. It wasn't his fault. He hadn't been able to sleep either. He hadn't been able to do anything but think of Rachel. She would be at the club tonight, and he would see her, and — and what?
He had only known her a day, but somehow she had him all turned around.
"That's enough," Bieste finally declared. "Get out of here. And if you decide to come back tomorrow, you better want to be here." She glared at him. He nodded pathetically, wiped himself off, and headed towards McKinley's.
He stopped in the street, though, as his stomach sank.
He couldn't go to McKinley's all sweaty like some sort of rag-a-muffin. What would Rachel think?
Should he go back to his apartment and wash up? Put on something nice, maybe? He could already see the smirk on Sam's face, though, and the gleam in Kurt's eye. And Mercedes would say something. They would all know.
Who cared if they knew?
Oh, right — he cared. They would razz him, mercilessly, and then they would warn him. They would tell him what he already knew — it wasn't any kind of good idea to start something with a broad he'd only met the day before, not for him, and not for her, either. He frowned.
He would go to McKinley's, like always.
Nodding, he continued down the street. McKinley's was only six blocks from the gym, and he was there within minutes. Sam greeted him with a nod, and Finn slipped into a seat beside Kurt. "You smell very fragrant today," Kurt observed.
"You have ink on you nose," Finn replied.
Kurt's hand leapt immediately to his face, and he looked around wildly. "Excuse me," he said, and he hurried off, hand still half-covering his face. Sam shook his head at Finn, who only grinned and took his drink.
"Karofsky around?" Finn asked, and he turned in his seat to face the rest of the club. It was crowded already, even though it was barely past six, but that wasn't surprising — Madame Sylvester always let her girls go on and give a show on Saturday nights, and Finn was sure half of Detroit — the lesser half — came out to see them.
"Not yet," Sam answered.
"He'll be here in an hour or two," Puck said, walking up from a table, "if you want to hide in the john." He sat down beside Finn. "Highball, Evans," he told Sam.
Finn glared at Puck. "Did you know he wanted me to fight Reid?" he asked. He tended to let most thing Puck did slide, but he couldn't help this one. "You could have said something — told him it wasn't a good idea."
"Wouldn't have made a difference, Hud, you know that." Sam slid him a drink as Puck offered Finn a sympathetic shrug.
"You still could have said something," Finn muttered. "Reid's gonna kill me."
"He'll get a few good punches in and that'll be it, you damn broad. Cool it. Everything's Jake."
Finn glared again and downed the rest of his drink. Sometimes he really hated Puck.
"That's a rather silly expression, don't you think?"
Rachel.
Finn turned in his seat, even as Puck did the same, and his heart went into overdrive. Rachel had curled her hair and pinned it up in some sort of fancy twist, and she had on some loose, long red gown that, as she sat delicately in the seat beside Finn and asked Sam for an Orange Blossom, Finn saw had practically no back. There was only a soft, enticing stretch of skin.
Sweet Jesus.
"If it isn't my favourite little Canary," Puck greeted, grinning. He leaned toward Finn and murmured under his breath, wriggling his eyebrows, "Now there's a dish." Finn kind of wanted to punch Puck. Rachel, however, didn't hear Puck's comment or notice his lecherous expression.
"It's Mr. Puckerman, isn't it?" Rachel said. "How are you?"
"Swell," Puck said. "And call me Puck, doll."
But her gaze was already on Finn. "And you, Finn? How are you?" She caught his eye, and she seemed so happy and excited and eager.
"I'm fine, Rachel," he replied, trying not to make a fool of himself. He was bound to, though, especially when she was so close, and she smelled so good, and her arm brushed his. "What about you?" he asked. "You — you look real nice." He smiled.
"Thank you! I went right out this morning and bought a new dress for my new job." She paused. "You like it, then?" She tilted her head and bit her lip and he couldn't really come with a response at all, let alone a good one.
Finally he nodded and offered another smile, and she beamed and accepted her drink from Sam.
"So, Ms. Berry, where're you from?" Puck asked.
"Ohio," she said. "A small town, actually, called Lima, and, truth be told, it's an absolutely terrible place. My father was an attorney, and he always said the worst mistake he ever made was to return to his hometown after he earned his degree. His mother was sick, though, and he felt he really didn't have a choice. He needed to be there for her last years. He was as excellent a son as he was a father. Anyway, I knew from my first conscious moments in this world that I wanted nothing more than to escape Lima and go somewhere much more exciting."
Finn smiled.
"Just 'I'm from Ohio' would have worked, too, babe," Puck said, chuckling.
"I like to be expansive," Rachel replied, unperturbed. "Where you are from, Mr. Puckerman?"
"Apple," he said.
Rachel gasped. "New York?" she squealed, and she looked so thrilled Finn thought she might fall out of her seat. "Why did you ever leave? It's the only place I've ever wanted to be!"
"Trust me," Puck said, "it ain't all that great. Travel around for long enough, and you'll realise all 'em cities are the same. Not a difference in the world between New York and Detroit. Ain't that right, Sammy?"
Sam glanced over. "I suppose," he said. He shrugged.
Frowning, Rachel start to protest. "I don't know if I —" And then her eyes went wide. "— I love this song!" she declared. She jumped down to her feet. "Dance with me, Finn, please?" She clapped her hand together as if she meant to beg.
"I — I don't know," he said, slightly alarmed. He couldn't dance to save his life.
"Oh, please? I bet you dance just lovely! Boxers have to possess grace, don't they?"
"I mean, I actually, I can't much dance at all," he said sadly.
"I'll dance with you, babe," Puck volunteered. "That one dances like a gimp, anyhow."
Finn hated Puck. There wasn't any sometimes about it.
"Oh — can you — can you do the Lindy Hop, Mr. Puckerman?" Rache asked hesitantly.
"The Lindy Hop?" Puck replied. "Who do I look like? Shorty Snowden? You want to dance, sweetheart, I'll show you a dance." He stood, reaching for Rachel, and Finn couldn't help it.
"Can you teach me the Lindy Hop?" Finn asked, stepping in front of Puck.
Rachel beamed. "Of course!" She took his hand, hers so small in his, and Finn didn't have time even to glance at Sam or Puck. "It's really very easy," Rachel insisted as she led him out onto the dance floor. She squeezed his hand and smiled encouragingly, but he only shook his head at her.
"There isn't a dance in this world easy enough for me," he replied.
Maybe he should have let Puck dance with her.
"I don't believe that," Rachel dismissed. "And the Lindy Hop's a bang, I promise. Now stand there, and take my hand," she said, and he glanced around nervously, wishing there were even fewer folks around. It was bad enough that he was about to make a fool of himself in front of her.
Rachel smiled at him, however, and he couldn't help but smile back. "As the lead, you step like this — step, step, triple step, step, step, triple step," she instructed, and he tried to follow suit. "Perfect!" she crooned, and he blushed.
"Now with numbers," she went on, "it's like this — one, two, and three and four, five, six, and seven and eight! See! Simple!" He tried to follow, but it wasn't nearly as simple as she claimed. Still, she nodded happily at him. "Very good," she said. "So, you take my hand, lightly, like this — yes! — and I'll swing around like this — it's called a swing out, actually, and —"
This was really hard.
"And step back, yes, and then step in, and to the left, to the left! Step in to the left! And —"
He could swear he heard Puck laughing, but he tried to focus on Rachel. When he started to spin, he stumbled slightly, and he inadvertently tugged her into him, She let out a little huff of air as she hit him. "Sorry!" he exclaimed, heat rushing to his face.
She only giggled, however. "There's simply so much of you!" she exclaimed. He wanted to disappear on the spot, but he glanced down at her to see her gazing up at him, and he couldn't believe her expression: she looked as if she thought he were absolutely amazing. Had she met him?
"We'll simply have to practice!" she went on. "Again, now from the start." And she clasped his hand lightly with hers. "Step back —"
He managed to turn properly this time, but then he stepped forward instead of backward, and she tripped slightly, once more falling into him. He began to apologise again, but she pressed her face slightly until his arm, laughing once more. "One more try!" she said happily.
He stepped back, and he stepped into the left, and then he turned, and his hand touched the bare skin of her back, and he nearly had it, and — and he tripped over his own feet and fell into some man, Rachel tumbling on top of Finn. Finn stepped back and apologised, mortified, to the man, who took his girl and stalked off.
Finn looked at Rachel and was taken aback again at the look on her face.
She looked as if she were ready to burst from laughter.
"That wasn't funny," he said.
And she giggled, clasping a hand to her mouth. "One more try?" she finally asked, holding out her hand. But the music changed, and they both paused. She bit her lip. "I guess not," she said. "But that wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.
"Yes," he said firmly, "it was."
She tried, and failed, to stifle more laughter.
But he didn't mind, actually. He thought maybe he was growing addicted to the sound.
"How about this, then? A simple old two-step?" And stepping close to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His hand slid around to her waist. The material of her dress was soft and his hand relaxed slightly on her hip.
"I think I can handle this," he replied softly.
She smiled shyly. "I think you can, too. You dance very well, actually." That was a lie if ever there were one, but she seemed to slide a little closer, and she smelled good, he realised, so insanely good, like some sort of flower or something, and it made his head feel fuzzy.
"Tell me, Finn, do you like movies?"
"Sure," he said.
"Have you seen It Happened One Night? With Clark Gable?"
"No," he said. He hadn't even heard of it. "Not yet."
"I've heard it's absolutely wonderful," Rachel said, "and real romantic, too. It's about this girl and guy who fall in love in one adventurous night." She paused, and she gazed at him intently. "Do you think you can fall in love with someone in one night?"
He swallowed thickly. He couldn't take his eyes away from hers. "Yes," he said.
She looked away shyly. "Me, too." It was quiet. "Anyway, I really want to see it. It Happened One Night, I mean." She gazed back up at him.
"I — I could take you, if you like," he offered.
"Oh, yes, I'd love that!" she assured, her eyes sparkling. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her again. His eyes flickered to her lips, to those big, beautiful lips.
The music stopped.
And all of the sudden the whole club began to shout and clap and stomp their feet. Finn finally pulled his gaze from Rachel and looked around to see that the club had grown crowded and hazy with smoke; all the tables were full, and all eyes were up on stage. They came out in a line, all dolled up and dancing, the best of Madame Sylvester's girls.
"Oh, goodness," Rachel said.
"That's the regular Saturday night show," Finn said.
"They're rather good, aren't they?"
He shrugged. "C'mon," he said, and this time he took her hand.
He led her back to the bar, and Sam slid them both what remained of their drinks. "You looked real smooth out there, Finn," Sam said, grinning. Finn glared at him. Puck was gone, he noted, surely to Karofsky's table. Maybe he, at least, hadn't seen anything.
"I was certainly astounded," Kurt added dryly.
"He does have real talent, doesn't he?" Rachel asked brightly, apparently under the impression that both men spoke genuinely. Finn smiled at her, but Kurt looked at her as if she were crazy. She returned her own gaze to the stage, however, and Finn watched, too as Kurt began to write something or other in his notebook.
"They're good," Rachel repeated slowly, "but they're very . . . provocative, aren't they?"
Finn wasn't entirely sure he knew what that meant.
"That's their whole act," Kurt said. "Sex sells. Isn't that right, 'Cedes?"
"That's right," Mercedes said, and she nodded hello at Finn as she leaned against the bar. "And nobody sells it better than Sylvester." She glanced distastefully up at the stage and the crowd of men hollering all across the club. After a moment, she turned her gaze on Rachel. "You don't look too bad yourself, princess," she said.
"Thank you, I think," Rachel replied. "Do they perform often? Every Saturday?" She looked at Finn.
"Just about," Mercedes answered. "Some clubs have got sophistication, some have sports, some have glamour. We've got money and power here, with a little glamour thrown in for kicks." She sighed.
"And that's glamorous?" Rachel asked, frowning.
"No," Mercedes replied, and she seemed amused now. "That's money and power. Or what money and power likes, anyway. And Mr. Karofsky'll do anything for the money. I think McKinley's makes less now since Prohibition ended, you know. That's how it goes, I guess. Mr. Karofsky doesn't like that. He wants people in them chairs again, even if it takes showgirls. Or a crazy little Jew like you."
"A crazy little Jew like me?"
"He didn't hire you 'cause he wanted to look at you himself," Mercedes replied matter-of-factly. "He hired you 'cause he thought you'd bring a crowd with that voice, and maybe with a nice two dollar dress, too."
Rachel blushed slightly, and Finn had to come to her defence. "You're the glamour, Rachel," he said. "Because you're — you're talented and all, and glamorous and all." He sounded like a fool, and he pretended not to feel Mercedes's appraising gaze, not as Rachel rewarded him with a soft smile.
"But how do you know I'm a Jew?" she asked Mercedes.
"Sweetheart," Kurt said, actually setting down his pen, "have you ever looked in a mirror?"
"If you mean my nose," Rachel said, straightening as if he had presented a challenge, "I'll have you know that such facial features add character, and an aspiring star can never have too much character."
Mercedes grinned. "You know, girl, I kind of like you."
Rachel smiled. "I'm glad to hear it," Rachel replied. Mercedes ruffled Kurt's hair — "Mercedes!" — and left, and Rachel sipped her Orange Blossom as she watched the showgirls on stage. Finn watched quietly, too, and he spied Karofsky, Quinn, and Puck at their usual table. Quinn looked even more bored than usual.
"Tell me about boxing," Rachel said suddenly, focusing on Finn. "I don't know a thing about it." She smiled eagerly. He wasn't sure what there was to say, but he tried to explain the basics to her. She asked lots of questions, constantly interrupting him, and she shocked him with her final declaration that he had to teach her as payment for his dance lessons.
Sam laughed. "You want something to eat, Ms. Berry?" he asked.
"Yes, please," Rachel said brightly.
Mercedes appeared a half hour or so later with food and told them it was on the house. "Thank you!" Rachel said, beaming. Finn said nothing. Food and drinks were always on the house for the handful of people in McKinley's that paid Karofsky in other ways, Finn included.
He didn't want Rachel to be one of those people.
He didn't want Karofsky to consider Rachel one of his assets.
But Rachel was happy, and she chattered away about the various dances she knew and liked and about music and her favouties and then about Bette Davis and "Oh, she's absolutely superb in Of Human Bondage. Did you see that? Do you think you could ever be bonded to another person like that? I sure hope if I were, it'd be to the right sort of person. . . ."
He nodded and smiled and added a word or two in edgewise, and now and again Sam or Kurt added something, too. When Madame Sylvester's girls finally danced off stage, Rachel clapped politely, which made Finn choke back a chuckle, and then she said brightly, "Do you think they want me to go on now?"
"It's kinda late, isn't it?" he asked.
"It's never too late for a show!" Rachel exclaimed. "I'll go find Mr. Karofsky — in fact, I see him right there!" Before anyone could say another word, she hurried off. He watched her go, smiling a little despite that Puck pulled out a chair for her at Karofsky's table. His eyes were still on her when someone else came to stand beside him.
"Lost in thought?" she asked.
Finn looked over, and found Santana there, smirking.
"Santana," he greeted quietly, turning to face the bar again.
"Hot Toddy, blondie," she barked at Sam, before she leaned against the bar, and faced Finn again, her expression melting into something dark and sly and seductive. "Enjoy the show, Mr. Hudson?" she asked, smirking devilishly and placing a hand on his knee.
He jerked away from her, because what if Rachel saw? Besides, Santana made him feel dirty. A night with her was never enough to make up for how he felt the next morning.
"You might want to consider a new routine," Kurt suggested idly from a few seats down, and Santana turned her eyes on him, for which Finn was grateful. "If you'd like my opinion, that is."
"Perhaps you'd like to join us on stage, Mr. Hummel," Santana said, her lip curling. "I'm sure we have a spare get-up for you. And you'd like to wear that and dance around for all the boys to see, wouldn't you?"
Finn stared at his glass. He knew what Santana meant to imply, and he knew that Kurt wasn't, well, he didn't go for girls — he was a complete fruit, honestly — but Finn tried to do the same as Sam and Puck and even Kurt and to pretend it wasn't worth a conversation. Santana, though, she always liked to make everyone uncomfortable.
"I mean," Santana went on, "a little three-letter man like you —"
Finn choked on his drink.
And Rachel returned. "That's my seat," she announced, cutting Santana off.
Santana turned to Rachel, and everyone was quiet. "Rachel, right?" Santana asked, tilting her head slightly. Finn suddenly wished Santana would simply walk away, because nothing good could come of Santana talking to Rachel.
"I'd prefer Ms. Berry, actually," Rachel said, her voice pleasant yet somehow cold. "You must be one of Madame Sylvester's showgirls. That was a very racy performance you gave. It certainly had a kind of style, though." She smiled tightly. "Do you mind?" She reclaimed her seat beside Finn.
"Another Orange Blossom, doll?" Sam asked Rachel kindly, even as he slid Santana her Toddy.
"Orange Blossom?" Santana snorted.
"I'll try something else," Rachel said gamely. "How about an Applejack?"
Sam nodded. Rachel glanced at Finn and he smiled. But Santana was still there.
"So, what's your story, anyway?" she asked, and she leaned in close to Rachel. Finn almost wanted to wrap an arm around Rachel and tug her away from Santana.
They were opposites, Rachel and Santana. That wasn't a great discovery, sure, but the comparison was painfully obvious now. Santana stood smirking cruelly in her tight, short outfit, with her breasts pouring out one end and too much leg coming out of the other, and Rachel sat in her cute, ginchy little dress, her eyes large and innocent, her brow furrowed slightly in puzzlement.
"My story?" Rachel repeated. Finn watched her carefully. Maybe her chipper chatter would chase Santana away. "Well, I'm from a small town in Ohio called Lima, and —"
"Not that," Santana dismissed. "I've heard all of . . . that. What's your real story?" She leaned even closer, as if she knew Rachel had a secret that she couldn't help but share. "The dirty details."
"I don't have any dirty details to share," Rachel said, even polite pleasantry gone from her voice. "I'm from Ohio, and I came to Detroit to save up enough money to go to New York and start my career on Broadway. That's it. That's my story."
"Why now, then?" Santana pushed. "Why leave Mommy and Daddy when money's short and try to make it now? Sure you don't have something you'd like to share? A little secret?"
"Absolutely not," Rachel snapped, "and if you don't mind, I find your uncouth manner rather irritating, and I would appreciate it if you would, at the very least, respect my personal space." She glared fiercely at Santana, and Finn was a little shocked. He had never seen Rachel like this, and it was strange, never mind that he had only known her a day.
Santana only smiled. "If that's true, baby doll, you might want to find another club to serenade. There ain't a soul in this old place that doesn't have more than few secrets, and they'll break your innocent little heart. Jones has as many secrets as she has sass, and little Ms. Fabray has her own dirty little secrets, and what about the boys? What about sweet Mr. Evans, and oh, you, too, isn't that right, Mr. Hudson?"
Her eyes dove to Finn. "Have you told Ms. Berry your story yet, Finny?"
He wanted to pop her, girl or no.
"That'll be a nickel, Lopez," Sam said abruptly. Everyone looked at him. "For your drink," he added coolly, his mouth a thin line.
Santana glanced at each of them, at Kurt's hard expression and Finn's pinched face and Rachel's cold gaze, and she chuckled. "You're all too cute," she said, and she tossed a nickel at Sam. "I'll be seeing you," she said.
She started to walk away, and her hand lifted to brush Finn's shoulder, but Rachel caught her wrist suddenly. Rachel stood, stepping so close to to Santana that Finn's body was pressed to hers. "We all have dirty secrets, baby doll," she whispered, "that's why we love to know that other people have them, too, as if somehow makes ours less terrible." Rachel's nose nearly brushed Santana's temple as she spoke in a low hiss. "But I wouldn't flounce around this club as if you own it, or maybe someone's secret past will come back to haunt you."
She released Santana suddenly, and her face was icy as Santana glared at her. But Santana said nothing; she only walked away.
And Rachel returned to her seat. She took a sip of her Applejack. "This is very sweet," she noted, "maybe too sweet. I think I like Orange Blossoms better." She smiled lightly at Sam.
"What did you say to her?" Kurt asked, incredulous. "I've never seen Santana walk away without the last word!" He looked positively thrilled, and his pen was poised over his book.
Rachel shrugged. "I told her to mind her own business, is all," she replied. Kurt stared for a slow moment and then nodded and started to write something furiously. "I found Mr. Karofsky," Rachel told Finn, turning to him. "He liked my dress!"
Finn wasn't sure that was such a good thing.
"Anyway, he said I could go home, as long as I was here by seven tomorrow night. Walk me home?" She smiled sweetly, and he wondered if maybe she hadn't actually threatened Santana in that icy voice only a few moments before.
"Sure," he said, and he stood. Her hand slipped into his, as if it were a routine. He helped her into her sweater at the door, and they stepped outside. It was bright out under all the city lights, and they walked quietly for a few minutes. But he felt like he had to say something about. . . . "You sure told Santana," he tried hesitantly.
"Santana? Is that the showgirl's name? If she can even be considered a true member of the show community." Rachel scrunched her nose up in disgust, and Finn found that kind of adorable. He was pretty sure he found most things she did adorable.
He nodded. "Santana Lopez," he said.
"I merely meant to make it clear that she didn't intimidate me," Rachel said. She squared her shoulders. "I don't like to be bullied." Finn smiled despite himself. She was something else. And, he realised, she hadn't said anything about the secrets Santana had implied Finn kept.
Should he say something? Maybe it would be better to . . . ? But, no, it wouldn't do anyone any good, least of all Rachel.
"When do you want to take me to the movies, then?" Rachel asked, dragging his thoughts away from all of that.
"When do you want to go?" he said. "Tomorrow night?"
She shook her head. "I can't," she said. "I have to be at McKinley's — just in case, remember? We could go some afternoon, maybe tomorrow, but that wouldn't be much like a date, would it?" She looked thoughtful, frowning a little.
"So . . . it's a date, then?" he asked softly.
She glanced at him quickly, only to glance away just as quickly. "I'd thought so," she admitted. "I like you very much, Finn. I've never met anybody like you before."
He tried not to turn too red. Honestly, he was a bumbling, blushing sap around her. "I like you, too," he said. "And it — it should be a real date — at night and everything. How about . . . how about next Saturday? McKinley's will never need you on a Saturday. Madame Sylvester's girls'll always go on then."
"Oh, yes, that would work perfectly!" Rachel exclaimed.
Finn puffed out his chest a little proudly at his suggestion. "Next Saturday, then," he said. "I'll take you out to the movies. Dinner, too." He glanced down, and he could see her smiling softly to herself. He grinned. It was quiet for a few blocks, and it was actually kind of nice.
"Tell me about your home," she said. "Before you came to Detroit, I mean."
"Home?" he said. He shrugged. "I'm from Grand Rapids, or thereabouts." When she didn't say anything, he hesitantly went on. "My old man worked in this big factory just down the street from our house, and I used to wait for him to get out every night when I was real little. Like, I'd sit on the porch, and when the horn sounded, I'd run down to meet him. And all his friends would say 'There's your boy, Chris,' and it always made me so proud that I was his kid."
"That's sweet," Rachel said, and she leaned a little into his arm.
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "He died, though, in the war. I was still a kid. It was just me and my ma after that. We got along well enough. I didn't want to end up in that old factory, too, though, so I came here. And, anyway, Ma sent word a few years ago that they shut it down."
"I'm sorry," she said, "about your father, I mean." Again, it was quiet. "My daddy died just last year, and I miss him every day."
"I'm sure he's real proud of you," Finn said softly.
"And your father of you," Rachel said, and she smiled.
Finn wasn't so sure about that; in fact, he was pretty positive that proud was the last thing his pops would be now if he could see the life Finn led. But he wouldn't tell Rachel that.
They reached her little house. And she turned to face him. "Thank you for walking me home," she said. "I feel so safe with you around." She gazed at him through her eyelashes, and he wondered if that was his cue, if that meant he could kiss her again, 'cause God knows he sure wanted to — the want made him weak in the knees.
She bit her lip, and she stepped a little closer to him, resting her hands on his chest.
And he leaned down and kissed her. His hands gripped the sides of her face, his fingers tracing over her soft hair, and he felt as if he were drowning in her. She smiled into his lips, even as his tongue darted out and slipped into her open mouth. She tasted so good, and he could feel her fingers tightening around fistfuls of his shirt, and he kissed her harder.
When she pulled back, he pressed one soft, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow night," he breathed. He smiled slightly. "Orange Blossom's on me."
She smiled softly, too, and nodded, and he waited to leave until she had made it onto the porch and opened the front door. But as he walked away, he glanced back, and he saw her leaning against the door-frame, her hands clutched together and held to her chest as she smiled and tilted her head back, eyes closed.
She looked so swept away, so thoroughly kissed, so happy, and he didn't think he'd ever made a person that happy before. He'd never wanted to make a person that happy before. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he grinned and started the trek back to McKinley's.
He would see her tomorrow night, and every night next week, and then he'd take her out on Saturday.
The further he walked from her house, though, the more his elation drifted away. He thought of Santana, and he frowned a little at the half-empty street. What good could come of any of this? She listened to him, sure, and she made him smile, and she made him feel better than he had in ages. And the very idea of a date with her made something swoop inside him. And her kisses, Jesus, he was already nuts about them.
He was already nuts about her.
But it couldn't really last. She would have to leave for New York eventually, and there was no way he'd ever make it out of Detroit, or even away from McKinley's. And what if Rachel left him? It might not be much now, but if he grew close to her and she up and left. . . . Or worse, what if she didn't want to leave him, and she ended up like Mercedes, stuck in McKinley's when she could have so much better but for some boy?
He sighed.
When he sank into a seat at the bar, Kurt was still there, and he leaned on his hand as he faced Finn. "She's pretty, Ms. Berry, isn't she?" Kurt asked, and his eyes were knowing. Finn pretended they weren't. He only shrugged.
"Give me something strong, Sam."
He could barely see through the rain.
The little drops pelted the ground — and him — and it was cold rain, no less. His raincoat did nothing for him, and when he finally pushed his way into the tiny wayside diner, he was soaked through. There was almost no one around, though, and the few people who were didn't even bother to glance his way.
The broad behind the counter was too focused on the man trying to flirt with her, and the older couple by the window had eyes only for their breakfast. There was one man in a corner, drinking coffee and staring out the window. He frowned slightly — was this his man? He didn't actually have any information on the informant's appearance.
He glanced quickly around the rest of the diner one more time, and he spied another man in a back booth. This one was much younger, dressed meticulously with not a hair out of place, and he was sipping tea as he read the papers. That had to be him, Blaine just knew.
He crossed the diner quickly and slipped into a seat at the booth.
The man didn't look up from his paper.
"Mr. Green?" Blaine asked quietly.
One eyebrow rose on the man's forehead, and his eyes lazily glanced up to look at Blaine. "Mr. Black, I presume?" he asked.
"That's right," Blaine replied, nodding.
Slowly, the informant folded up his newspaper. "Were you followed?" he asked.
"Nope," Blaine said, "and I drove all around town, just as you wanted. Sorry I'm late, by the way. After I drove just about everywhere, I had trouble finding the place. I guess that's the point, though, right? To pick a place in the middle of no where, and all?" He smiled, but his informant only eyed him blankly. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Green —"
"If you weren't followed, and we really are alone, you can call me Mr. Hummel. Or Kurt, if you prefer." He offered the smallest of smiles and took a sip of his tea.
"Okay, Kurt," Blaine said. "Please feel free to call me Mr. Anderson, or Blaine, if you like, whatever makes you most comfortable." It was quiet. "Do you have the information?" he finally asked.
"I'm afraid I didn't bring it today, actually," Kurt said, stirring his tea.
Blaine frowned. "But I thought —"
"I told you over the horn that I had everything you would need to put Karofsky in the pen for life. I have every story, all the details of each backhanded deal and hidden murder. I even have the whereabouts of evidence, and I know witnesses for nearly every case." He paused, as if to stress his point. "I have it all."
"Yes," Blaine said. "You told me. I thought we meant to meet today in order to —"
"I only wanted to meet you today," Kurt interrupted. "I wanted to see if I could trust you. That's all." Again, it was quiet, and Blaine didn't know quite what to do. Usually when he talked to informants, they were nervous and jittery, and they generally wanted to toss the information his way and flee. If that wasn't the case, then they were greedy fellows out to make a deal.
He had never had a calm, collected informant like Kurt Hummel before. How should he . . . ?
"Look, Kurt — Mr. Hummel, I understand your hesitance, I do."
"I really don't think you do," Kurt replied.
"Maybe I don't," Blaine offered honestly. "But I thought you wanted to see Karofsky go down as much as I do." He tried to find some sort of tell in Kurt's expression, but there was nothing. "I can help you take him down, Kurt. I can. And you can trust me. You have to trust me. Together, we can lock up Karofsky and all his goons for good."
"No," Kurt said sharply, "only Karofsky. No one else."
"I —"
"You assured me," Kurt said, "you promised me. You said that you could protect everyone else. If I told you want I know, if I told you what you needed to know, then you could keep everyone else involved safe — even the men who work for him."
Blaine wasn't sure what to say. "The men who work for Karfosky are as bad as he is, Kurt. Take Mr., ah, Mr. —" He reached into his raincoat and pulled out his notes. He skimmed over them quickly and glanced back at Kurt. "Take Mr. Noah Puckerman," he said. "You mentioned him on the phone. Did you know he's a suspect for several murders, Kurt?"
"This isn't about Puckerman," Kurt dismissed.
"And, well, what about that Boxer — Finn Hudson? You mentioned him as well, and I've looked into him, and it's pretty clear that he —"
"Finn hasn't hurt anyone," Kurt insisted.
Blaine bit back a protest. "Okay, what about this new singer, Rachel Berry? I made some calls to Ohio, and it turns out that she —"
Abruptly, Kurt stood. "I think we're finished here, Mr. Black," he said icily. "Don't expect another call from me." He picked up his coat and began to shrug it on. Blaine bit back a curse. He couldn't let Kurt walk away.
"Mr. Hummel — Mr. Green — Kurt — I'm sorry if I —"
And Kurt paused, stared hard, and then leaned forward, his palms flat on the table and his face disconcertingly close to Blaine.
"I'm only going to say this once," he whispered. "I'm not doing this for me. I'm not risking everything for me. It's for them. For my friends. For the people I think of as family. Sure, they've made mistakes. Sure, they're tied up in all this because of their own crimes. But they've paid for their sins twice over, and I won't see them fall with Karofsky.
"If you can't promise me that as you have before, then tell me now, and I'll find another way to handle the situation."
Slowly, Blaine nodded. "We won't touch anyone but Karofsky," he said. "You have my word."
Kurt stood straight, took a slow breath, and finally, to Blaine's relief, sat back down. "There isn't a crime in this city that Karofsky doesn't have a hand in," he said. "But it'll be impossible to touch him from any way but the inside. Every witness to every crime is under his thumb, and every piece of hidden evidence will hurt each of them as much as it would hurt him."
"And we don't want to hurt them," Blaine said.
"That's right," Kurt replied.
"Then what . . . ?" Blaine paused. "How, exactly, Mr. Hummel, do you want this to go? Clearly, you aren't simply going to hand over the information you have. What do you want me to do, then?"
"I have a plan," Kurt said. He took another sip of tea and frowned. "My tea's gone cold." He sighed.
"A plan?" Blaine prompted. "Which is?"
"I can't give you all the details yet," Kurt said.
"Then what can you tell me?" Blaine asked. He couldn't take much more of this.
Kurt eyed him carefully, and Blaine felt once more as if he were on trial, as if he had to prove something to Kurt. "I can tell you that, within the next week or two, there will be a murder. And when that murder takes place, it will turn the tide of desperation, and there won't be a better time to take him down. I've waited a long time, you see, for the right person, and now it's all about to fall into place. Wait until then, and we'll talk again afterward."
He stood. Blaine only gaped at him. "But —"
"That'll be all, Mr. Black. Don't contact me. I'll contact you." He slipped on his coat.
"How do you know there'll be a murder? By Karofsky, right? Can we prevent it? If we can, shouldn't we?"
For the first time, a hint of distress flickered across Kurt's face. "If it plays out the way I think it will, then . . . then if I know her, and I do know her, then . . . it'll be a necessary evil, but it won't . . ." He straightened. "I'll call you." He started to walk away.
Blaine stood quickly. "Mr. — Mr. Green!" he shouted. The waitress glanced at him curiously. He couldn't make a scene. But he couldn't simply let Kurt walk out the door. Moments later, however, Kurt had left.
What now?
tbc
a/n: There's actually only one other scene from Blaine's POV, and it's not for a while. This was just a little teaser. The next chapter is all Rachel's POV. Get pumped! :)