Have I told you guys how amazing you are just recently? You kind of are, like, it's a fact. I think I read it somewhere in an Encyclopedia. Thanks you so much for your response and interest in this story. It's really appreciated. To those of you who think Santana is funny, I must confess to having a few cheeky giggles whilst I write her dialogue. Sometimes anger's just funny.
Massive shout out to louicorn, who graced me with a few tips on the mechanics of my dialogue : ) As to whether I've managed to implement them correctly is a different story altogether, but I hope everyone enjoys this anyway.
Chapter Three:
"So go out with him, 'specially if he's payin'."
"I don't know, 'Cedes." Santana holds up her hands. "He's ok, but I don't know if I could handle the fact that he's balding up here." She takes a demonstrative hand to the crown of her head, taps it.
Mercedes chuckles, shaking her head. "Well at least you're getting out there, dating again." She deadpans, reaches over to flick her cigarette's ash into a nearby ashtray. "All I seem to be attracting at the moment is females."
Santana's eyes grow in a beat of silence. "What?" She begins to bounce up and down on the sofa, shaking Mercedes' knee with child-like eagerness. "Tell me the deets – how come I haven't heard about this before? I wants those deets."
"Girl, how many have you had?" Mercedes chuckles, pointedly prying the can of beer from Santana's grasp and sitting it on the coffee table. "You're about two seconds away from losin' your horns, you're so pink an fluffy right now."
"No changing the subject, Ellen Degenerate."
Mercedes' head slightly leans itself to the side, her features still coloured in disbelief over the recent ordeal. "Well, I went shoppin' a few days ago, and some woman comes up to me, asking for the time."
Santana smirks, curls her feet beneath herself and leans back into the sofa. "This shit sounds funny already."
"So I gave her the time, and trying to be discreet about it, she starts following me round the shop. Now, I thought she was either tryin' to rob me, or pin a shoplift on a sista, but just as I was about to hop up outta there, she stops me, talkin 'bout 'Can I get your number?'"
Santana throws her head back, the laughter rippling through her sides causing her to cradle her clenching stomach.
When she finally begins to regain herself, she throws her tussled black mane back off of her face, quickly tucks a strand or two behind her ear, and palms her hanging open mouth. "What did you say to her?" her mirthful voice vibrates through the gaps in her tan fingers. "Tell me you snatched the bitch up, right there and then."
"I didn't do that, but I did write the number of my mom's church down on the piece of paper she gave me. Then I got the hell on outta there." Without so much as a glance at her friend, she raises her palm up in her direction, drops it when Santana hi-fives it, the loud snap shrieking throughout the small living room.
The Latina twists slightly then, cuddles up into the sofa's cushions, and settles into a contemplative stare through the TV. "Yeah," she breathes. "I think they're breeding them on farms, or something. These god damn fags are everywhere these days. Just look at what went down with the slut Noah was screwing behind my back."
"Mmhmm." Mercedes nods, cheeks hollowing in a particularly long draw on her cigarette. "Grandma used to say it was one of the signs of the last days. And by the way," she says, disappearing behind grey swirls of smoke as she gently nudges Santana, "I was really impressed that you didn't beat that girl a new vagina."
"Yeah," Santana sighs, long and drawn out. She fidgets, dusts something that isn't there off of her thigh, and focuses her absent gaze at the can of beer sat on the table. "I would've." – She quickly interrupts herself to nod emphatically at Mercedes, as if to convince – "But..." She scratches the point of her nose, feigns a deep contemplation of the topic when she feels the pressure of Mercedes suspicious gaze waft at the side of her face. "When I thought about everything – especially the fact that she seemed to have the mental capacity of a six-year-old – something said 'Stop, this isn't worth going back to jail over.' I mean, if I had started to pound on her, I wouldn't have stopped until I saw her soul rise up out of her body. Manslaughter's a long stretch, you know? And there's no dick in a women's prison."
"...You ok, Satan?"
"Uh, y-yeah...Why?" Santana slips her arms around her mid-section, feels like she has to with the look that her friend's giving her.
"It's just that the jail time's never really bothered you before..."
"Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf, huh? Just drop it!" she snaps, reaching forward to snatch her can up from the table, elbow skyward as she throws her head back and pours the fizzy alcohol down her throat.
"You're the one who brought it up, and then you started actin' shiftier than a mother fucker."
Santana grudgingly gulps the beer down, and slams the empty can to the table, watching it rock from side to side through a deep frown. "Whatever."
Mercedes rests her cigarette in the ashtray and turns so that she's facing her heated friend fully. She just stares for a few seconds, and then she speaks: "It's me you're talkin' to now, girl. You aint gotta edit the truth around me. I don't give a fuck," – she waves a quick hand from Santana's face down to her lap – "about this front you put on."
"It's not a damn front. It's who I am; who Santana Maria Lopez is. The fiery Latina who'll rock your jaw into the next milky way on any given day."
"Well look at you." Mercedes slowly shakes her head, like a disappointed mother. "Talkin' 'bout yourself in third person, like you not even here. A damn character out of a book or somethin'."
Santana's shoulders heave up, and deflate with the exhalation of a sigh. "Why's it so hard to believe that the reason I didn't smash her was 'cause she was dizzier than a mother fucker, I didn't think she was worth it, and I didn't wanna go back to jail?"
"Because I know you, S. It's always all or nothin'. Because when you wanna beat a bitch's face in for disrespecting you, it's not like you to stop and give two damns about the jail time, especially if you've already gone to the effort of finding out where the broad works, and you're up in her face, wearing some knuck's."
Santana shrugs a shoulder, folds her arms even tighter around her stomach. "So what, because I didn't go through with popping her neck, you think I've gone soft?"
"No, that's not it at all." Mercedes sighs, later kissing her teeth. "Man, you know what, just forget it."
"No! I fight every day of my life, M. Whether it's fighting to come to terms with the fact that my folks got murdered, or arguing with the bitch at the liquor store for givin' me the wrong change, or the fact that I'm...the fact that..." She pauses, blinks entirely too many times, before she briefly closes her eyes and quickly shakes her head. "Look, I fight! Every day," she says, a pained expression shadowing her features as her eyelids fall shut once more.
A moment passes before she slowly lifts them to say, "Sometimes I just...sometimes I get tired. So she got away, this time, provided that she stays outta my face so I don't have to think about her, or even know that she exists."
It's only half of the truth, and Mercedes knows it, but she can feel how the air surrounding them has thickened, and she decides to ease her fingers up off of all those button Santana's always warning her not to press. "Look, if that's really the case, then that's cool, S. The truth, that's all I ever want from you, girl. You aint gotta sugar coat anythin' with me. We roll upfront with each other. That's how it's always been, right?"
"Yeah...upfront," Santana mutters, bowing her head to stare solemnly into her lap.
"That's right. So don't close off around me, because I see you," Mercedes says, leaning to the side to affectionately bump Santana's shoulder with her own, a trying smile floating over her lips.
"No, don't nudge me like we're tight. I still have hate in my heart for you right now," Santana mumbles, a smile she's choosing to suppress warring its way up and taking over her lips.
"Stop trippin', you love it when we have these talks." Mercedes chuckles, nudges her grumpy friend again.
"I'm never coming round here again."
Her lips draw out in a strong pout. "Is it bad that I kind of wanna run into Santana again?"
Artie wheels himself around the couch with well-practiced flare, parks at the side of the arm chair that his roommate is slumped in. "Well..." His eyes lift into a pensive gaze with the ceiling for a moment, then he nods his head. "Yes, Brittany, considering she promised to have the mob take care of you if she ever saw you again."
The blonde's pout grows. "She's soo hot." She whines. "I wish you'd seen her. Your legs would've started working again, she was so hot."
"So she's Jesus now?"
"No. Jesus wasn't hot – was he?"
"I doubt Jesus was even real."
Brittany gasps. "Don't say that. What if he was real and his ghost hears you? He'll regret dying for mankind's sins, and then I'll feel bad."
Artie rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses up. "Well, according to the things you've told me about this Santana girl, she sounds like the type to wheel me into a small lake, just for being your roomie. Not. Very. Jesus-like." He nods, once, as if to put a cute full stop on it.
"She was perfect," Brittany mutters ruefully to herself, glancing down to pull at a loose thread in the couch's fabric.
Artie holds up a hand, begins to tally each finger off: "Mobster bloodline, aggressive, violent, homophobic, and the victim in your affair with Puck. Yes," he nods, dropping his hand back into his lap."Just perfect."
"...I guess you're right," Brittany quietly mumbles. "I think I'm getting like this because Lord Tubbington passed away and I'm having lady cramps right now." She smoothes her hand down her taught stomach, stares at it when she feels it gurgle against her palm. "She didn't wanna hurt me, you know, Artie? Otherwise she would've. Like, if she was that mad, nothing would've been able to stop her, you know? I have no idea why she chose not to jump me. I just know that she chose not to, and that's what I'm focusing on."
"But she can hurt you, Brittany, and that's all that counts."
"I know where she lives. Like, before I quit working at the office, Puck said he'd left the apartment they were sharing, sounded like she's still living there though. Maybe I could buy something from the costume shop and show up at her door claiming to be the gas lady or something." A slight smirk grows in her features as she considers the ridiculousness of it. "I'd check her gas," she giggles, imagining Santana rubbing her stomach with a frown before letting one rip.
"I'm so relieved that you're joking about that."
"I've gotta go teach the kids in an hour. I'll decide what I'm gonna do whilst I'm out."
Artie's relief shrivels, leaving an ugly frown in his brow. "What do you mean, you'll decide what you're gonna do? Brittany, you can't go anywhere near that apartment."
"I won't be there long." She smiles.
"No!" Artie emphatically shakes his head, and waves his hands across one another, stern. "She sounds really dangerous. What if she's not feeling so gracious this time, and attacks you? I can't do anything." He gestures at his chair helplessly. "Except call the pigs. And by then it may be too late."
"Then, at least I'd get to be with Lord Tubbington and Jesus."
Artie deadpans, mouth hanging open...
"No, no! I'm kidding." Brittany quickly waves it off with a grin. "I do miss Tubbers though," she adds sadly.
A few beats of silence play out...
Brittany suddenly lifts her leg over the arm rest of the chair, elongating it in the air in a manner only befitting a dancer. She stares up at the pale toes she's wiggling. "Artie?"
Gazing up at his roommate's luxuriously long extended limb, he's only coherent enough for a lacking: "Hm?"
"Where's that voice changer you got for Halloween?"
He snaps out of his daze, frowns. "Why?"
"If I put on a mask and hook the voice changer up with it, I could talk to Santana without getting her mad. I mean, the deal was that if she ever saw my face again, she'd kidnap me for hours of deep conversation and passionate sex – wait..." She trails, holding up a finger, lost in a tangle of what actually happened and what she's watched play out in her head thousands of times. "The deal was that if she ever saw my face again," she says, slowly combing through the beautiful Latina's words in her mind, "she'd get mad. So, what if I just put on a mask?"
"What in the world would you say to her? She'll be creeped out by the mask, and by the fact that you sound like Stephen Hawking. Plus..." His words skid to a halt, and he grimaces slightly, in anticipation of his roommate pouting at what he's about to say. "...I don't think she wants to talk to you very much," he tells her, feathering his tone so that it's as soft as possible without having him sound like Michael Jackson. "I think you should just leave well alone, Britt, especially since you said you haven't been able to contact Puck recently."
"But, I have to try, Artie," she groans, like trying is the most obvious thing she can do in this situation. Like walking away isn't. "I still think about her and it's been, like, two months." She finally lets her leg fall, swinging it gently as it hangs over the arm rest. "I have to try."
For the better part of thirty minutes now, she's been sat, chair drawn right up to the kitchen table, staring at the small shiny gold box that she found on her doorstep whilst collecting her letters earlier. The box looks harmless enough, the thin gleaming red ribbon traveling around it giving off a Christmas vibe.
"This better not blow up in my face," she husks hoarsely to herself, sleep still cloaking her true voice.
With all the caution in the world, she slowly reaches her index finger out towards this suspicious box, quickly ramming it with her fingertip and shielding her face in case it explodes with a poisonous gas, or blows her and her apartment sky high. But there's no hiss or explosion, just a shiny gold box sat on the kitchen table, looking slightly perplexed as to why it's just been shoved.
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, mumbles, "And there it is ladies and gentleman; that's what growing up being a Lopez will do for your paranoia," as she snatches up the box, and flicks off its lid, all caution abandoned.
Because nobody else on this planet – except maybe Jesus, 'cause you know, he's magical and everything – could look as stunning as you do whilst wearing a pair of knuckledusters : -)
Santana runs her squint over the fine handwriting scribbled to the note over and over again, before lifting it at one of the corners to reveal the gleaming silver chain beneath. Placing the note to the side, she pulls the seemingly never-ending chain from the box, until the moderately-sized knuckleduster pendant hanging from it is swaying gently between her two eyes, shimmering with the wash of sunlight spraying in through the blinds. "Brittany," she whispers in realization.
Her lips suddenly screw, and she slams the chain to the table, jumping up and racing into the bedroom. She's on her knees in front of the bed before she's even slowed her maddened gait, frantically feeling around underneath it until her fingers brush with a box much larger than the one out there sat on the kitchen table. She drags it out into the light, and bats the lid off, pulling out her silver and black Beretta 92.
"Alright, you wanna play, bitch?" she says, thumbing back the weapon's hammer. "Let's play."
Thoughts? And thanks for reading.
