Title: The Bodyguard [Chapter Five]
Rating: NC-17/M
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!
Word Count: 8200
It's 4 P.M. when Santana takes off to examine the fences surrounding the residence. The sun is beating down heavily through the thick foliage, but the larger leaves are shading some of the Latina. Her head is aching, the lack of sleep is invading her brain and she rubs a hand over her face as she discovers the next gap. Number twelve.
She takes a moment to write down the location of the hole, quickly scribbling it down on the grounds map given to her by Puck. She nibbles on the end of the marker as she peers over the fence, examining the two foot drop separating her from the pavement below.
Someone could easily climb that without a struggle or a ladder.
The grounds are large. It's taken three hours to cover over three quarters of the residence, and a whole page in her notepad has already been taken up. But she continues. The sun is warm and the quiet is peaceful. Much better than the constant worry back in Afghanistan, and so much better than always having to be on edge. Now that's up to St. James and Chang. It's their problem, not hers. She flinches at the thought. She's a bitch.
A light breeze picks up, swaying the foliage and flowing through her loose dark locks. A tickle forms on the back of her neck and she swipes it off with a flick of her hand. But it continues. She wants to look around, study the surroundings for any traces of followers and give into the burning military training buried inside her chest.
But her feet carry her forward, until she meets another gap. Once more, she scribbles down the location and nibbles on the pen, examining the map. There's something off about each mark. The scale seems to be screwing with Santana's brain as she thinks they're each an equal distance apart.
A tingling sensation shoots down her spine, and tickles the hairs on her neck. It's cold. Colder than the crisp wind. Her mind burns as a she fights the sweep of paranoia casting over her. An unfamiliar scent fills her nose and she winces, turning on her heels to glance around the area, examining every shadow and swaying tree that plays with her mind. Just to make sure.
Eighteen months ago, she would've been grasping her gun tightly for the first time, ignoring the intense heat invading her thick military pants and body armor as her teammates crawl towards a known terrorist's base camp. But after seeing the most mentally scarring images possibly known to man, she'd return to the newly found safe base and crawl into bed, spending the night hearing imaginary noises and shuffles, which caused her to fear for her life.
Nothing in goddamn LA can be worse than lying in a damp tent on a really fucking uncomfortable Z bed, wondering if she or one of her teammates is going to be the next sent home in a cheap wooden casket.
So now she shakes off the paranoia and follows the remaining stretch of the fence.
It's just paranoia. She's just gotten out the military after spending two years of her life there, constantly on edge. It's an irrational thought.
Her feet meet several tree roots on the way, but her legs gracefully step over them, making sure not to make much noise. It's not something she's doing on purpose. She's used to having to walk around light footed, trying her best not to make a sound, despite the heavy gear or whatever St. James decided to lumber her unit with that day.
So when she hears a twig break, her head snaps up and eyes narrow. The years of military training kick in, and the next thing she knows, she's hit the floor, stomach first. Her hand hovers over the belt, where she knows her Desert Eagle used to be. Damn airport security.
She inwardly kicks herself and reaches down into her boot where a small switch blade is. It's better than nothing. She scans the surrounding area for the source, making sure to study every shadow and dark crevice. Her vision of the area isn't clear, the thick bushes and huge trees doing their damn best to cloud it. She feels her pulse in her ears and swallows against a thickened throat. Paranoia? Bullshit.
Her lungs inhale and exhale slowly and deeply in reaction, Rutherford's words echoing around her head; take a deep breath Lopez, it slows everything down. Just like he said, the whole world seems to turn just that little bit slower. Her body is trained to suppress the instant psychological reactions, like her fight or flight response, so she has no need to flinch at the adrenaline as it pumps through her veins.
Her eyes focus on a dark figure, standing ten or eleven feet away beside a large oak tree. The thick foliage is still restricting her vision, so she can't make out whether it's just another damn bush or if it's actually a person.
"Johnson! Hurry your ass up! I need to piss!"
Santana whips her head around and spots a figure pacing the gates at the front of the house. She glances back to the oak tree but the figure, or bush or whatever it is, has vanished. And she's on her feet again, switch blade returned to its booted home and back straightened.
Her eyes focus again as the uniformed guard switches with another. A fair haired guard arrives, who takes refuge inside the small hut, propping his feet up on the table and switching on the small TV. After what only seems like a few seconds, the guards head tilts back revealing his opened mouth and closed eyes.
Anger and frustration burns through her brain. Her brows rise in shock, but she isn't concerned by her reaction. LA's done nothing but give her surprises ever since she got to the goddamn place.
The Latina shakes her head and bends down to pick up a handful of mud. She rubs it across her body, staining her shirt and marking her skin. Her hair is next, which she ruffles up, only finishing when she feels a few satisfying knots in the back. The hobo effect.
Her legs are leading her over the fence, and she jumps down to pavement level with a graceful landing and heads towards the gate before her mind can figure out what her body's doing. She stops short as she reaches the hut and stands in the doorway, her fingers tearing a small rip at the base of her shirt for added effect.
The guard jumps up, his eyes still hooded from his 'nap' and straightens his tie, wiping the small amount of drool off his chin with the back of his hand.
"Beg your pardon. Had a long night last night," he mutters, while his pale grey eyes scan over the Latina's attire.
Bullshit. He's just a lazy fuck.
Her brain takes note of the disapproval masking his face she smiles, quirking an eyebrow. "I'm Maria Rodriguez," she says, her voice tinted with a strong Spanish accent. "Miss Pierce has requested I come as soon as possible. Apologies for my appearance as I've just come from my other job."
"Of course," the guard replies, reaching behind him and pressing a button which causes a large bang and the silver gates to slowly open.
What a joke. Breaking in is just too fucking easy.
Santana represses the urge to slap the guard silly and feigns a smile. "Gracias, good Sir."
Without another question, she walks up the driveway and into the forest, where the cut-through passage to the house is located. In two minutes, the dolphin fountained round-a-bout is standing dauntingly tall in front of her and she shakes her head at its ridiculous shape.
And then there's Brittany to her left, giggling and brushing her palm against the front of the young, dorky man's name she knows to be Artie. Douchebag.
A wave of steaming hot jealousy pours through her body, and she almost doesn't catch it as it bubbles at the back of her throat. Fucking Artie. His fucking anorexic model shaped body and fucking stupid thick rimmed glasses. In Brittany's stupidly large mansion. The one she wouldn't fucking have if she'd stayed with Santana.
She has to clench her fists and breathe quickly and heavily to suppress the urge burning through her calf muscles, screaming at her to run over and slap the flirtatious smile off his face into last year. But she knows she has no right. Brittany left her. Not the other way around. Brittany can do whatever or whoever the hell she wants. And Santana can't do a single fucking thing.
Blue eyes meet brown just for a second, and Santana turns away. Brittany can't manipulate her with her incredibly distracting eyes. She can't apologize from across the yard with a single glance. It's not fucking fair.
Santana's feet are leading her towards the pool house where she knows a few shots of vodka with her name on it are waiting, before she can even choose to do so. The whole way she feels the familiar blue eyed burn etching itself into the back of her mind.
It's not fucking fair.
"Right, we need to check the perimeter. Karofsky, who's on your security team here?"
"Puckerman, Azimio, Anderson and Qu-"
Santana's head snaps up, and she looks quizzically at Karofsky from across the security office's table. It's just them inside the small, smoky dark room, filled with a few metal shelves and a table situated in the center.
"Anderson?"
Karl Anderson was an officer in her unit. He was shot during a routine patrol, and before they could even get him to the medic he died due to blood loss. It can't be him. She knows that. But she winces anyway, before looking up as the bulky man stares at her with an unreadable expression. He probably thinks she's crazy. Not that she cares.
"Yes. Blaine Anderson."
"Oh." The tiniest glimmer of hope singes out in the single word. It's a ridiculous thought. But she still, just doesn't care.
Karofsky leans his elbows onto the table, pushing one of the folders in front of her onto the floor. Probably on purpose. Asshole.
"Do you know him?" he asks, his voice softer than usual.
Santana shakes her head and leans off the side to pick it up. Her back twinges painfully. She really needs to keep up her muscle workouts. "No, I just thought he might be related to one of my old colleagues."
He's looking at Santana like she's just arrived off a mental institute, wondering if he needs to dial the asylum to report a missing patient.
"There's more than just one family with the last name Anderson, Lopez," he grunts in response.
Santana creates a low, throat-vibrating noise that almost resembles a growl, and his eyes widen comically. "But you should ask Blaine anyway."
"Ask me what?"
A short man with bushy eyebrows and heavily gelled black hair is standing behind her. Did he swim here? A small laugh almost escapes her chest but her military training snaps in and suddenly she's on her feet with an arm stretched out in front of her. The faint scratching of a chair on concrete catches her ear but she ignores it, knowing it's only Karofsky on the phone, by the sound of it.
"Maria Rodriguez."
The man smiles, one bushy eyebrow raising. "Nice to meet you. I'm Blaine Anderson."
Santana smiles in return and heads to the corner of the room, where she spots another chair. By the time she returns, Blaine has taken her seat so she sidles up beside him, and reaches across the table to grab her steaming cup of coffee.
She glances up to see Karofsky muttering on the phone unintelligibly on the far side of the office, one hand covering his mouth as if he's a teenage girl trading secrets with the receiver.
He leans over until his lips are at the Latina's ears. "Sorry, Karofsky told me to take your seat. Pretty sure he's trying to get everyone to not like you."
It almost sounds like an elementary school trick, but Santana's not surprised. "I gathered."
Blaine cocks his head to the side. "You did?"
"I met Azimio earlier," she reasons, pursing her lips and shrugging her shoulders as her arms cross.
"Ah, Azimio. Don't worry about him, he's a homophobic ass."
Santana turns her head to look into sparkling eyes, which really are quite bright. She quirks an eyebrow, silently questioning his statement when she glances at his seated position; one leg crossed femininely over the other and both arms crossed lazily on one thigh. She immediately zooms into his perfectly manicured nails and too-neat attire, taking note of the strange smoothness of his lower ankle, shown off by ironed chinos. Then it clicks.
"Anyway, I'm pretty sure Karofsky has a thing for Azimio anyway. The way he looks at him sometimes reminds me of a lost puppy who just found a new home."
Santana scoffs, but Blaine continues. "It's quite endearing. Really, it is. Well until he catches you looking at him, then he starts snapping at you like you just walked in on him watching porn."
A disbelieving laugh escapes her lips and Blaine shuffles in his seat while Santana can feel his eyes studying her. She picks up her steaming coffee and blows into it to cool it down. After taking a tentative sip, she knows Blaine's finished with his inspection.
"At least Kurt and I won't be fighting him alone," he murmurs.
Santana smiles Blaine's unspoken recognition of her sexuality, and momentarily ponders on the name 'Kurt', when the chauffeur from a few days ago snaps into her brain. "You and Kurt are together?"
Blaine's eyes flicker back to her and he nods. "We are."
"I'm sure you make a lovely couple."
He shrugs and grins. "We do."
They both look at each other for a long moment before chuckling in sync at Blaine's modesty towards his relationship with Kurt. A snapping sound breaks them out of their laughing fit and her eyes dart to Karofsky, who's strolling back to the table.
"Go laugh somewhere else, Tinkerbelle. Don't want your fairy dust sprinkled around the room," Karofsky spits, pure disgust dropping off every word.
She almost hisses something explicit in response, but she finds him staring at Blaine with a half-disgusted, half-ashamed expression on his face. The shorter man laughs and bounces his leg up and down above his other, in a manner that almost pastes rainbows over his head. Santana clenches her fist at the way Karofsky hates on Blaine's obvious sexuality, and she suppresses the urge to lash out.
"Well it could do with some brightening up," he retorts, a half-smile, half-smirk pasted on his face.
Karofsky tightens his fist, his knuckles whitening against his skin painfully so, and Santana feels her body hovering to the edge of the seat, legs coiled like a spring, and ready to pounce.
"Karofsky!"
Her body deflates and she sees Quinn standing at the doorway just behind her. Hazel eyes flicker between the two men, as if she's trying to figure out what's going on and how she's going to diffuse the situation. A silence settles around the room, and Quinn wanders in with her hands clasped behind her like a headmistress would do in a 19th century English classroom.
"Enough."
Apparently Quinn's in control here.
The larger man immediately slumps into the chair crosses his arm like a four year old does when he's told 'no ice cream'. Santana scoffs and turns her attention back to the table where she scans over several folders. She picks up one labeled 'camera locations' and flips it open.
The pale yellow file contains one piece of lined paper, with a few lines scribbled on it in loopy, black handwriting. The writing notifies the reader of three cameras, two at the front gate and one in the dolphin fountain. Her eyes flicker up to the top corner where the paper is dated '16th January 2012'. Four years ago. Santana can feel the thousands of jobs piling inside her brain.
She raises both eyebrows and looks across the table to Karofsky. "You only have three four year old cameras plotted around the premises and you're surprised someone snuck into the house without being noticed?"
Quinn brings a seat to the table and perches on it, leaning her forearms onto the table as she examines the piece of paper in front of Santana.
"It's enough."
"It won't happen again, we just need to be on higher alert," Blaine interjects, crossing his arms.
Santana shakes her head. "No, we need some high security here. Otherwise God knows what's going to come next. First semen on the bed sheets, next blood on the floorboards with your head on it."
Images of Blaine headless snap into her brain and she flinches, despite just meeting the man. She likes him already.
"I agree, Santana," Quinn says while nodding in approval of her idea. Santana almost lets a smug grin paste her face as she knows the blonde runs the show around here. So she's already won.
Blaine furrows his brows and cocks his head to the side. "Santana?"
Santana knows her game is up. But she also knows she's played it for long enough and it's hard evidence that'll work on her side.
"Yes…" Quinn says slow, gesturing to the Latina. "Santana Lopez."
The shorter man straightens up and glances to the Latina with a quizzical, confused expression. "She told me her name was Maria Rodriguez."
When Santana is finally over the smugness of her genius plan, she realizes all eyes are on her. Quinn's staring at her expectantly because she doesn't know about Santana's plan, which reminds her, damn, she needs to give the blonde her 'gap in the fence' notes.
"See how easy it is? Earlier I approached the gates, looking like I'd just been dragged through a hedge backwards, with just Bri-," she swallows audibly, "Miss Pierce's name. And the guard still let me waltz right in. Just now I told Blaine my name was Maria Rodriguez, and he didn't even question it, despite knowing he's never met me before."
They're all dumbfounded. Karofsky looks a little confused, Quinn's shocked, and Blaine looks impressed. So she nods, happily pleased by her reactions and she points to the several empty folders on the table.
"All of this… this is a pathetic excuse for security. For all we know, someone could be walking around this place with a fake name and claiming to have a job here while secretly sneaking into Miss Pierce's bedroom and getting their rocks off to one of her thongs."
A memory of Santana flicking one of Brittany's thongs across her dorm clouds her mind, but when the jolt of almost unbearable pain seers straight through her heart, she shakes it off, trying to suppress the growing ache that settles in her gut.
A hand is placed over her own, and she traces up the limb to find Blaine smiling at her. She turns her gaze upwards when she sees Karofsky stand up. He slams his fists on the table top, jolting Blaine and Quinn about half a foot out of their chairs.
"Are you serious? Is that possible?" he half-yells, panic lacing his tone.
Why is she not surprised that he's a pussy? Santana shakes her head. "It's definitely a possibility. I've done a background check on all of the regular people here, and so far, all clear. But for all we know, someone could walk onto the grounds claiming to be a backup dancer and actually have the intention of psyching her out again."
Karofsky slowly sits back down again, shock and fear consuming his expression. She glances around to see Quinn and Blaine mimicking him and her lips curl upwards into a small, smug smile.
"Exactly, so now do you think it's enough?" she directs her question to Karofsky and Blaine who shake their heads. "Thought not. Now we need to get some real security around here. Is everyone in agreement here?"
Her voice is more demanding than she expected. But she ignores the quizzical stare from Quinn and picks up the pen that the blonde's spinning between her index and forefinger before scribbling down 'camera locations' on the back of the piece of paper.
"Quinn, I need you to go and type this up." Quinn takes the piece of paper, and her eyes widen as they scan the page from side to side. "Since you're probably the most computer literate person here."
The blonde nods and Santana turns her attention to Karofsky and Blaine. "And we're going to talk security."
It's 9 P.M. when Santana is being led into the dingy pits of the basement, with Karofsky in front and Blaine hanging slightly behind. It looks like something out of a scary movie. The dim, low hanging lights, the crumbling brick walls and large, rotting metal gates on either side. Karofsky takes out a bunch of keys, where he locates one and twists it into the lock of a gate in front of them. One Santana's only just become aware of.
"This is the armory," Karofsky announces as they step into a tall, darker room.
None of them say and word as Santana examines the room. There are daunting, metal shelves covering the left and right walls and a small safe in the back that looks like it hasn't been touched in years. There's a small dead rat rotting in the corner, and Santana knows if it wasn't for the years of seeing her teammates collapse with a bullet lodged in their brain, she'd have to do some serious control of her gag reflex.
She glances at the almost-empty shelves, where there are a few empty paint cans and a small cardboard box, clad with tiny holes, probably created by the rats or some other critter. Her eyebrow raises and she runs a finger along one of the shelves. When she looks at it, her finger is covered in a thick layer of dust. Her eyes scan the room, and settle on the safe in the back. It's a small black box, literally. To say it's a safe is probably a stretch too far.
"This is it?"
Karofsky nods. "Well what the hell were you expecting? This isn't the Army, Lopez. All we got is a few guns in that safe."
Santana follows the sausage like forefinger belonging to Karofsky and heads towards the safe, where she crouches and fiddles with the lock, which complies with her low expectation as it's only guarded by a key lock.
"But the last Head of Security didn't leave the key so we haven't actually seen if anything's in there," Blaine adds, heading towards the safe.
Karofsky's glaring at the smaller man, his eyes are narrowed and teeth bared. There's something dark behind his eyes; something dangerous. But Santana shakes it off, passing it off to be paranoia and reaches into her hair, where she finds two bobby pins.
Blaine moves beside the brunette and bends down to her level, hiking his pant legs up in the process. "You're going to pick the lock?"
Santana nods, because surely that's obvious. It's not like she's going to start fiddling with her hair. She's obviously not that kind of girl.
Karofsky steps in, barging the shorter man aside and takes his place. "We've all tried to get into it. There's no use in even trying. I've picked thousands of locks but even this one just won't budge."
Within a second of slipping the pins into the lock, the door freely swings open and she turns around with a smirk on her face. "You were saying?"
Karofsky narrows his eyes. "H-how did you know how to do that?"
Santana shrugs and turns her attention back to the safe. She knows the answer, and the words, because my dad was an alcoholic and would always forget his keys, or lose them from being so damn drunk that I had to learn how to break into my own house otherwise I'd be sleeping on the park bench, which I've done more than a twelve year old should've done, lingers on the tip of her tongue, but she bites down and shrugs once more. "Just do."
Blaine seems to sense the tension and steps forward, bending down next to the Latina and nudging her shoulder with his own. "So what we got?"
She reaches inside and brings out a small bag, which it's handle breaks due to age, and reveals two 9mm pistols which land on the floor with a large thud. Karofsky reaches forward and picks one up, twisting it in his hand.
"Two lousy pistols?" he mutters. "Is that it?"
They're two fucking guns. Loaded. Santana knows Karofsky carries around pepper spray, and he finds that threatening, so she has no idea why he's complaining about this.
Santana turns. "I took down a maniac wielding an AK-47 with just a switchblade. Trust me, this is enough to take down one sick psycho."
She watches as surprise shades behind the bulky man's eyes and she smiles smugly before turning back to the remaining gun and checking the magazine for bullets. Her fingers work with military experience while her eyes are still glaring down Karofsky.
"But even so, I think we should get a few more. Just in case," he adds, fear lacing his tone. Santana feels the satisfaction spread through her body, but then she remembers that despite Karofsky being a complete douchebag, he actually has a point.
So she nods and says, "You know, I think I'm actually going to have to agree with you on this."
Karofsky smiles and stands, before offering out a hand to help her up. She accepts and throws in quick thanks, before they both start talking about weaponry with Blaine rolling his eyes at their quips at each other every now and then.
Two days later, it's 6 P.M. and Santana is standing in the yard in front of the dolphin shaped fountain with her arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed as she studies her new security adjustments to the house.
It's been a long two days, with only around two or three hours sleep combined. She rubs her eyes and shoves her hand into her pocket, where she finds the note pad she was scribbling on. She grabs it and flips it open, going through the check list of her newly made additions to the house.
Her eyes find the seventeen security cameras darted outside the front, which don't include the various other thirty or so inside the house and around the back. There's one down by the pool house, but since Santana's staying there, she reasons there's not much point in buffing up that area, security wise.
The next thing that catches her eye is the several new security guards, armed with pistols and police-like batons, standing outside the front door. She knows there's another three by the front gate, which she personally trained and threatened with their life to stay awake and actually do their job - as well as adding a few hidden cameras to make sure of it. She chuckles inwardly at the thought of them searching for the cameras, seeing as they don't know the locations and constantly worrying about them being watched.
Kurt walks up beside the Latina and taps her on the shoulder, to which she turns around and feigns a smile. "Hey Santana."
"Hummel," she grunts in response, still fully focused on the check list as she scans the area for each point.
"Is everything up to date with the security?"
Santana quirks a brow, suddenly put off by the happy demeanor that constantly radiates from the chauffeur. "Yes. Just going through the checklist." She bites down the urge to say 'sir', as she's accustomed to doing so. "Quite busy, though."
She inwardly kicks herself at her tone, knowing it's sharper than intended, but she's in military mode and her caring for other people's emotions is definitely at the bottom of her list.
The man body turns rigid at her tone, just like she expected. Kurt shuffles away from her slowly. "Oh, right. I'll just leave you to it."
Santana nods and returns to her note pad where she sees the next point and grimaces. It's not her most dreaded task to do, but it's definitely in the top five. She turns to see the chauffeur's retreating form and starts into a slow jog up beside him.
"Hummel?" she calls, catching his attention.
Kurt turns and waits expectantly a few feet in front of the Latina. When Santana catches up, she straightens and shoves her notepad back in her pocket. "As one of my security requirements, I'm going to teach you how to drive."
The man raises an eyebrow and stares incredulously at Santana who only mimics his expression in response. "I know how to drive Santana, I'm a chauffeur."
Santana shakes her head. "No, Hummel. I'm talking about real driving."
"Right. Because I'm fake driving."
The Latina almost laughs at the man's sarcasm, but instead remains professional and pushes her chest out. "I mean the kind that will ensure you escape with your life in a shoot-out."
Kurt turns his head uninterestingly and crosses one arm across his chest, while nibbling on the nail of his other hand. Santana narrows her eyes and suppresses the annoyance burning in her chest as she eyes him not-so-subtly staring at Blaine's butt from across the front yard. She knows how to pull his strings; she knows how to pull most people's strings and bargain to get the ball in her court. It probably has to do with the military, considering eighty five percent of her life skills have been learned and developed by the Army.
"The kind that'll save Miss Pierce's life, and get you enough money to book one hell of a holiday for you and Blaine, or a honeymoon if it comes to that," Santana adds in, catching the chauffeur's eyes.
That caught his attention. She reads the silent acceptance but is put off by the footsteps she hears. They make their way from behind her and soon after, Santana hears a soft, "Hey."
Kurt's eyes widen as they flicker between the two figures and she doesn't even need to turn around to know who it is. It's a strange reaction, and makes Santana wonder if he knows about her and Brittany's past. Shit, does anyone know? She turns, and backs away to stand by Kurt's side obediently.
"Hey San," Brittany says in that voice that makes Santana feel about two inches tall.
It's the voice that always used to grab her and make her forgive the blonde for any argument. It's the voice that could make her forget everything, and cause her anger to disappear. But right now, it just does nothing but fuel the anger. Brittany can't talk to her like that anymore; she has no right to. She wants to lash out, scream at the blonde and tell her it's not her place, that she has no fucking right to talk to her like that anymore.
But instead, she settles for biting her tongue. "Miss Pierce."
"So, what can we do to help you, Britt?" Kurt interjects as he bounces up and down in his step a little too enthusiastically.
Santana can hear the informality in his voice, and she knows that despite being an employee of Brittany's, Kurt's more like a friend that helps out. Just like everyone else: Quinn, Puck. They're friends who happen to work for Brittany, they're not employees.
And that makes pain cut straight through Santana's heart. She knows Quinn hired her for this reason. Brittany was just too good of a god damn person to treat her employee's like employees, and so somewhere along the line the blonde would try to befriend her again. Quinn fucking knew that, and still fucking hired her. Even after everything. Fuck Quinn Fabray.
"I was actually just wondering if I could talk to Santana," Brittany answers with a smile.
But Santana can hear the sadness laced with it and see it shade behind her ocean blue eyes. She clenches her fist at the way it settles in her gut and suddenly she's angry. She shouldn't feel this way; she shouldn't have to feel this fucking way. She did fuck everything up, Brittany did wrong. Not her. It's not fucking fair.
"Of course, Britt. I'll just be over in the garage, Santana, whenever you're ready."
Santana nods and smiles lightly, and her eyes watch as the man walks away, a slight skip in his step that just creates rainbows. She's suddenly increasingly aware of her situation, and just how close Brittany is to her. Her legs step back, distancing herself from the blonde as her throat thickens.
"Ready for what?" Brittany asks, taking a step towards Santana.
She almost trips over the crooked pavestone as she steps backwards on instinct. "Driving. I'm teaching him how to drive."
Brittany cocks her head to the side, the way she always used to fucking do when she didn't understand something. Santana tries to keep her eyes away, knowing just how adorable that confused face could be and how it could probably produce a pathetic mess out of the military-trained woman. Her eyes search the courtyard, looking at everything that isn't tall, blonde and really, really fucking gorgeous.
She spots Artie across the fountain, whose staring at her intently with dark, narrowed eyes. She could spot that burning jealousy from anywhere - mostly because she'd experienced it herself. And Santana knew just how furious she used to get because Brittany was always so fucking touchy, and oblivious to the reactions to whomever she touched. It was always the same thing, Santana getting jealous because the blonde just didn't see the way she was stared at whenever they were out together as a couple. Her stomach sinks slightly as she puts two-and-two together. Shit, are Brittany and Artie dating?
"But he already knows how to drive," Brittany says softly, in that same goddamn fucking voice that just spews on the acidic fury burning in Santana's stomach. She just can't fucking do that anymore. "He's a chauffeur," Brittany continues. "He drives me around."
Her hands are starting to cramp in rejection to the clenched fists. "Advanced driving."
"Oh, right."
Brittany bites down on the corner of her lip, and plays with the hem of her shirt. One of the things she used to do when she wanted to say something but didn't know if Santana wanted to hear it.
"So how have you been?" Brittany asks, her eyes searching Santana's intently. Yep, she was right. She didn't want to hear Brittany's attempt at small talk.
She runs her tongue along her teeth, and suppresses the initial words going somewhere along the lines of terrible, I love you, and please take me back and she feigns a smile. "Fine."
The blonde's head nods, but her face looks more like it's calling out Santana's bullshit. Santana pretends not to see, knowing Brittany could see through her lies and probably pry any piece of information out with those piercing blue eyes. She digs her hands deep into her pockets and rocks onto the balls of her feet expectantly.
"Good. I'm glad."
Sure. She finds Kurt looking over at her, and by the time she turns back, Artie's standing by Brittany's side with one arm draped over the blonde's shoulder. Another wave of hot jealousy pours through her, and sizzles out at her fingertips where she clenches her fists once more.
"Santana, this is Artie," Brittany starts, motioning to the male pressed up against her. "Artie, this is Santana."
"Hey, Samantha right?" Artie says smugly. She doesn't even meet Brittany's searching eyes, knowing Brittany is still fucking oblivious as ever, and can't see the way Artie's looking at her, no, drooling over her, in his peripheral vision. And how he quite obviously knows her actual name, but tries to play it cool.
"Santana," she deadpans, tearing her burning eyes away from Artie and over to Kurt as she suppresses the urge to punch something, preferably Artie. "I've gotta go. Kurt's waiting."
She brushes past Brittany and towards the garage, hands deep in her pockets, and almost misses the quiet, "Okay, bye San," Brittany calls out in response.
"Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?" Santana asked as she approached Brittany's table, one hip cocked up against the side of the booth.
Santana had just come from a dinner with her lawyer about sorting out her father's will, and left the dinner a hell of a lot richer. Brittany glanced up, her cerulean orbs sparkling as they scanned up the Latina's tight red dress-covered body. She grinned and met Santana's brown eyes. "Hm, I'm not sure."
She took a seat next to the blonde and ran her hand up the dancers jean cladded thigh. "Why's that, beautiful?"
"I'm actually waiting for my girlfriend."
The Latina smiled. "Hm, well she must be one lucky girl."
Brittany leaned in and hovered about an inch away from Santana's lips. "She is. But we gotta get out of here quickly; she'll definitely go all Lima Heights on you if she catches us talking."
She smiled and closed the gap, pressing her lips gently to Brittany's and ran her hands higher up the blonde's body, settling on her hip. She felt Brittany smile into the kiss as her tongue flicked against the dancers soft lips. A small moan escaped her lips and she pulled back from a giggling blonde.
"Hey baby."
Brittany laced their fingers together. "Hey beautiful."
Santana's heart fluttered and Brittany cocked her head to the side, scrunching her nose as the Latina felt her cheeks flush. "You're cute."
She raised an eyebrow at the blonde. "Cute? Really, Britt?"
A low, throaty chuckle escaped Brittany's mouth. Santana licked her lips and pressed a kiss to the blonde's cheek. "I'll go get us some drinks," she whispered into the dancer's ear, nibbling softly at the earlobe.
Santana stood from the booth and headed over to the bar where she ordered a vodka and cranberry for Brittany and a JD on the rocks for herself. As she leant against the bar, her eyes immediately returned to the blonde who was sitting in the booth… with a man sitting next to her.
She immediately grimaced and narrowed her eyes. Who the hell was that? The bartender handed over the drinks and she paid with a ten dollar bill, telling him to keep the change and heading back to the booth.
On her way back she watched the unknown man slide his arm to rest it behind Brittany's head on the back of the booth and shuffle closer. The blonde did nothing but giggle, and swat at his arm as he murmured something unintelligible.
Santana gripped the glasses tighter, hoping her sheer strength wouldn't crack them as the man reached over and brushed a piece of hair behind Brittany's ear. He was making a move. Why the fuck isn't she pushing him away? He's practically fucking drooling over her and she isn't doing a fucking thing!
She cleared her throat as she approached the booth. Brittany's head snapped up and she grinned, before allowing her face to fall into a quizzical expression. The man obviously missed the Latina's features harden and moved closer.
"Do you mind?" Santana hissed, putting the drinks down and gesturing to his seat.
Brittany tilted her head to the side. "San."
"No, I don't actually."
The Latina slid into the booth seat opposite the blonde and slid around, grasping Brittany's side and tugging it towards her. The man raised an eyebrow as his eyes flickered to her tightening grip on Brittany's waist.
"San, this is Scott. He's in my contemporary dance class."
Santana scoffed. "Awesome," she said sarcastically.
Scott slid out from the booth and stood, grabbing his pint of beer and sipping on it gently. "I've gotta get back to my friends."
"Yeah, you do that," she snapped out, her voice dripping with venom.
"What the hell, San?"
She turned incredulously. Of course, Brittany was pissed. Despite getting leered at and practically drooled over by some guy she fucking knew from her stupid fucking contemporary dance class, she was annoyed at Santana. Not at the fucking guy with ridiculously toned arms and charming smile that was making a move on her, despite her having a girlfriend. She took a sip of her drink, hopefully Brittany would drop it.
"Santana," Brittany chastised, glancing between Santana and her drink. "What was that?"
Usually when the blonde used that voice, her facial features would harden and it would somehow make her look even more adorable than usual. However, Santana tries not to look at her, knowing the chances of getting turned on by an angry Brittany are very high, and that wouldn't help the situation.
"Nothing," she said sarcastically, eyes trained on anything that wasn't Brittany. "Absolutely nothing."
Brittany grabbed her elbow, jolting her drink so some of the liquid slipped over the top. "Santana!"
She turned, clenching her jaw. For a millisecond, literally a millisecond, the thought of walking out crossed her mind. But then she looked over to Scott and who he was looking at. Brittany was staring at her, anger and expectation sketched over her face, but Scott? Scott was gazing at Brittany from across the bar, eyes shaded with lust and arousal and possibly in need of a very cold shower. And she lost it.
"Are you really that oblivious Brittany? He's practically fucking drooling over you and touching you and you don't do a fucking thing! Anyone would think you like the extra attention," she spat, enjoying the way Scott's eyes widened comically at hearing her scream, almost as if he was scared.
Brittany's face fell, her expression contorted with anger and hurt. Santana almost immediately regretted what she said, but she told herself she didn't care. She had pride, and she sure as hell wasn't going to lose to that face because she told the truth. Even if it was Brittany.
"Is that really what you think?" Brittany demanded, but Santana heard the hurt lacing it, and grimaced at the way it left the guilt to settle in her gut. "Maybe I'm just too stupid to notice it."
What the hell? She didn't mean that at all. Her face fell into a shocked expression immediately, and she suddenly hated the fact she could feel Scott watching them. The blonde stood up, grabbed her purse and before turning and gazing down at the brunette with fury burning in her usually calm eyes.
"Call me when you grow up, Santana."
And then she walked out.
Two hours later, Santana discovered angry sex. Wow.
An hour after that, she found out make-up sex was fucking mind blowing.
It's 9 P.M. when Santana and Kurt finally arrive back in the garage after two and half hours of stunt driving lessons. One hour spent showing Kurt how to perform a handbrake turn, a parallel spin parking job, and a J turn in, and the next two watching him practicing the maneuvers.
She gets out the driver's side and shuts the door as Kurt does the same. The black Sedan clicks as she locks it and they both exit, with Santana patting him on the shoulder awkwardly.
"Well done Kurt, you're learning a hell of a lot quicker than anyone else I've taught," Santana says genuinely, flexing her hand after retracting it, still feeling the muscles tighten from her injury.
Kurt's eyes flicker to her hand and back up to her eyes, and she sees the shock shading behind his eyes. She assumes he's surprised that she's being nice to him as she overheard two dancers saying Karofsky's going around telling everyone she's a bitch. She doesn't care though, she is a bitch.
"Thanks Santana, I know I still haven't got it down completely, but if I practice I think I'll get there," he replies, nodding his head appreciatively as they approach the safe box hanging on the wall near the exit.
Santana smiles, actually smiles and reaches into the box, placing the keys on one of the spare hooks before turning back to the man, "Definitely."
"Then I'll be ready for Britt's show."
She crooks an eyebrow. "She's got a show?"
They exit the garage and head towards the marble steps. "Uh, yeah, didn't Karofsky tell you? He's in charge of Britt's transport."
Karofsky. Of course. That's why she doesn't know. "No, he didn't."
Kurt stops at the base of the step and climbs a single one, before looking back at the Latina. "Well it's Thursday and we need to be at Marbella's by seven, which means leaving at six, but I'm not sure what it entails for you. Talk to Q about it. I'm just a driver."
She nods, exchanges quick "goodbyes" with the man and turns away, hands in her pockets as she heads towards the pool house. Another lonely, sleepless night. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.
Well, that's what she thinks until she sees the envelope lodged in between the entrance of the pool house, with Lopez scribbled on the front in thick black marker.