Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, its characters or any intellectual property.

Author's note:

I'm so pleased with the response I got with chapter 7. People seemed to really enjoy the Quinntana friendship and their kinda crazy dynamic. Santana is becoming more self-assured and autonomous, chapter by chapter. Thank you for the lovely comments- keep them up!

Read! Review! Reread!


It was late in the afternoon when Santana's eyes opened, slowly, one at a time. Her head felt like mush. Her hangover was only worsened by the cheap nature of the alcohol that she and Quinn downed last night. The sun streamed in through the windows, piercing the heavy curtains and causing her to shut her eyes against the harsh light.

Her arms were almost numb, she realized through closed eyes. The scent of warm spice filtered through her nose as she noticed that her face was pushed against the back of a blonde-haired girl's neck. For a fleeting moment, she thought it was Brittany. Then the memories of the past evening flooded over her, like thick tar coating her heart and thickening her swallow. The drinking, the making out at the bar, the cuddling—all of it made her just want to keep her eyes shut and avoid life. But she couldn't. This was happening.

Santana opened her eyes again, forcing herself to allow time for her pupils to dilate so she could see properly. She slept in her contacts last night—which probably didn't help with her massive hangover, she mused. As she became fully coherent, Santana noticed the somewhat intimate embrace that she and Quinn are locked in. They were spooning like an old married couple, with her arms still holding her friend tight, their bodies pressed against one another. Perhaps Quinn would be too hung over to notice that Santana smelled her hair and tenderly snuggled with her all evening.

Santana's hopes of this were dashed as Quinn rolled over to reveal that she was very much awake.

"It's some expensive hair product," her voice rumbled out of her throat, surprising them both. Santana's eyes rose in shock, unused to hearing her friend sound so… masculine. It was deep and lower in timbre than usual—thick with sleep.

"What?" She questioned, dragging her partially numb limbs from the other girl's torso where they'd rested all morning. She smoothed her hair and tried to pretend like she hadn't clung to Quinn's back all evening.

"You've been sniffing my hair for the last ten minutes," Quinn stated, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "I just thought I'd let you know what that scent is that you've been moaning into." Santana groaned aloud, embarrassed. "It's really ok… I know I'm hot and my hair smells awesome. I'm flattered, really."

"Fuck off," was the only response the blushing brunette could muster. Quinn laughed again, understanding fthat she'd shamed her friend completely. She shifted the covers back and climbed out of the bed, leaving Santana there to sulk.

"I'm going to eat some cereal," the blonde announced, exiting through the curtain into the bright openness just beyond it. Santana rolled onto her back, staring up at the rafters above her. It wasn't her fault that Quinn's hair smelled good, she internally pointed out; anyone given the opportunity would have done the same damn thing.


Today already sucked. Santana had settled on it. Hours away in Lima, Brittany was probably preparing to head to the auditorium. She'd be wearing the same red cap and gown that Santana had a year ago. She'd be all smiles, showcasing bright white teeth to dozens of cameras today. Mr. and Mrs. Pierce would take tons of pictures and cluck around her, straightening her cap and expressing how proud they were. Sam would probably take her aside before the ceremony and kiss her. It wasn't fair that he got to share in this moment with her, Santana fumed. He'd never believed in her the way she did. She would give just about anything at this point for a chance to watch Brittany cross that stage and receive her diploma. But she couldn't. She'd passed on that opportunity. She could feel proud, but she had forfeited the right to be there to share in the accomplishment beyond that.

To make matters worse, her boss called her around five in a panic. She'd scheduled the days off because of Quinn's visit, but Thomas called her anyway. He begged her come in, pleaded actually. Four coworkers had called in with food poisoning from an all-staff dinner that Santana had conveniently missed the night before. He was short staffed on the busiest night of the week and desperate for her to come in to work. The only upside of his request was that Santana stood to make a lot of spending money if she did it—which was appealing to her bank account.

"Please…. I'll give you time and a half for it. You can have all the tips…" he whimpered over the phone. Usually Santana would be salivating with all the power she held over this poor man, but today was so too cranky and hungover to care much.

"I'm hungover, Thomas. I'm extra mean today. You want your patrons to deal with Snix?" She'd questioned, eyes apologetically shining at Quinn. Thomas answered yes anyway.

"Just try not to yell at anyone famous. I only need you here from six until midnight. I just glanced at the reservations and we have a vastly important client on the books tonight. Please… do me this favor, Santana," he'd asked again. She could almost envision him knelt before her, hands clasped like in prayer, begging. She rolled her eyes for good measure (even if he couldn't hear that) and put him on hold.

"They've got nobody available to work and several stinking rich people with reservations tonight. Do you mind if I go in? You can stay here and watch TV or something. I'll be back just after midnight. I'll bring a nice bottle of booze home—one that I will be able to afford with all the cash I'd be making…" she whined to Quinn.

Quinn rolled her eyes and yawned.

"I don't care. Go work. I'll nap the whole time you're gone and wake up refreshed—ready to drink that expensive booze you're going to be bringing home, right?"

Santana's face into a smile and she nodded. She removed her hand from the receiver of the phone and told Thomas that she'd be there. She seriously owed Quinn one. She was almost happy to be going to work. There, she'd be so busy that she wouldn't have time to dwell on Quinn's words from the previous evening or the fact that she was consciously missing Brittany's graduation.


As fate would have it, Santana was super busy hostessing that night. She was swamped with seating the rich snobs who sauntered up to her podium, fetching drinks because they didn't have enough waiters, and occasionally bussing the tables herself. She was half-starved and her head was pounding by the end of the evening. The worst part of it all was the fact that the "big important patron" that Thomas had been worried about didn't even show up. By eleven thirty, Santana was ready to call it a day and head home with her wad of tips that she'd accrued.

She was lingering at her station, ready for Thomas to release her for the night when the door opened, letting in a rush of air from outside. Santana watched as a slender, grey-haired man strode into the restaurant and right up to her. He had expensive looking clear-framed glasses on and a three-piece suit that was perfectly tailored to his build. His shoes looked more expensive than Santana's entire wardrobe combined. The man barely made eye contact with her as he stood impatiently by the podium.

"Good evening sir, welcome—" Santana's routine greeting was interrupted by the gentleman. He cut into her speech, as if he was already bored by whatever it was that she had to tell him.

"I have a reservation under the name Booth," he barked. Santana's blood heated within her veins. Her head throbbed even harder as she tried to keep the fake smile plastered to her face.

"Yes, Mr. Booth. I see you had a reservation for… nine o'clock?" Santana reaffirmed. How nice- this douche bag showed up two and half hours to his own reservation. She glanced back around over the restaurant to see if there was an open table where she could seat him. Because he showed up so late, the table he'd been expecting was occupied. The hottest tables in the place tended to fill up fast. "The table you reserved has been occupied, given your tardiness. Can I seat you somewhere else?" The man now turned to make eye contact for the first time since he entered the restaurant. He gazed at her with a glare that reeked of something akin to: "you peasant, how dare you offer me a sub-par table?"

"That won't do. I want my table. Move the other patrons and I'll see that their tab is paid for their inconvenience," he growled at her through clenched teeth. Santana nodded curtly and left him there. She talked to the people at the other table that seemed mildly insulted that their meal had to be interrupted. They immediately asked to see her manager for suggesting such a tacky request. Santana had to go and track down Thomas—trying to explain the situation quickly to him as he walked briskly with her to the table.

"I'm so sorry about the inconvenience," he apologized. "Please enjoy a complimentary bottle of wine for your interruption." He pulled Santana aside angrily. "Why the fuck would you ask them to move? What the hell is the matter with you?" He hissed. She gestured to the Booth gentleman standing impatiently by the door.

"That Booth guy was late for his reservation. He wanted their table. He told me that he'd pay for their meal if they moved," she told him, as nicely as she could. She didn't like having to deal with unnecessary bullshit in general, but this (combined with her growling stomach and headache) was pushing her to her limits of forced kindness. Thomas glanced over to the man she was referring to and his eyes widened significantly.

"Fuck—that's Booth. He's the important patron I mentioned earlier. Shit. I'll go move that table, you clear it off and seat him when I'm done. All the waiters have gone home. Can you please take care of him and you can go afterwards?" Thomas stammered. He waited for Santana to sigh and then he thanked her quickly, moving past her to talk to the customers he'd just apologized to. Santana did as she was told and when the table was clean, walked back over and grabbed a menu.

"Sorry about the wait, sir," she made herself say. Booth didn't look impressed.

"I'm sorry too. This experience has already been frustrating. I don't like to wait for tables, please remember that if I decide to come back to this restaurant ever again," he snapped at her. He followed Santana to the table and pushed past her to sit down. He practically snatched the menu from her hands. "Bring me a bottle of Grey Goose and a glass with ice."

Santana counted to ten as she walked to the bar. Her bartender friend Liam was working that night (he managed to not get sick from the all staff dinner somehow) and he sent her an apologetic smile.

"We're almost done, Santana," he offered as he opened a new bottle of the chilled vodka. He filled a glass with ice and Santana smiled weakly back at him as she turned to head back to the table. Booth was typing away on his smartphone when she approached with his drink. She set it down carefully as to not disturb him. Without looking up at her, he groaned.

"I asked for ice in a glass… not a glass with an ice cube. Please rectify this situation." He shoved the glass away from himself. Santana could feel her blood boiling now.

"Yes, sir," she muttered through clenched teeth.

He still didn't look at her when she came back moments later with a glass filled to the brim with ice.

"There you are, sir. Can I get you anything else?" Santana questioned, keeping her tone light and pleasant. Booth managed to remove one hand from his phone and roughly handed her the menu.

"I want the Porterhouse, rare," he demanded. Santana nodded (even though he wasn't watching) and walked off. She was only too happy to get away from that asshole for a few minutes.

Santana talked with Liam as he cleaned up the bar while she waited for the steak to finish cooking. Once it was ready, she took it over to the table, presenting it to the man who ordered it.

"Here you are, sir. One Porterhouse steak, rare."

Booth was still on his phone but he set it down when his steak came. He cut into the meat quickly and cut off a piece. He held the chunk of Porterhouse aloft on his fork, examining it while Santana stood there awkwardly. He eyed it carefully before turning his gaze to her.

"This steak is medium rare. That is not what I ordered. Please send it back," he demanded. He set his fork and knife down with a clink and handed the plate back to Santana as she stood there, trying not to snap. "I see you're Hispanic of some sort, perhaps you could speak the native tongue to the immigrant cooks back there so my next steak is cooked correctly." With that, he went back to his phone… like she was barely worth his time.

Santana's mouth filled with blood as she bit her tongue too hard. It wasn't worth it, she decided. This job, as well as it paid, wasn't worth being talked to like she was some dumb, second-class citizen. She wasn't about to let some asshole with money try to buy her silence as he said horrible, offensive things. Rolling over and taking it was never her strong suit. She wasn't about to start now with this douchebag business man who couldn't even make eye contact with her. Fuck that.

"Sir," she growled in a low voice. Booth turned his attention back to her. "You can go fuck yourself." His eyes went wide.

"Excuse me?!" Booth recoiled, shocked. Santana gulped. She couldn't help it. She'd transformed into Snix by this point. The alter ego had emerged from the depths of her to rear its bitchy head. She couldn't stop herself from going all Lima Heights on this asshole.

"You might have money—from doing whatever it is that you do. I know I'm just some hostess but I will never lower myself to let someone treat me like shit… or make offensive remarks about my heritage. I will undoubtedly get fired for this—but not before I tell you that you are a shitty person for coming in here and acting everyone around you is disposable. You can't treat people like they're nothing and you're a bad person for believing that you can. So once again, fuck off," she stated firmly. Santana turned and started to walk away as quickly as she could towards the back. She needed to grab her jacket and purse from the back before she was told to never come back ever again.

"You. Come back here," she heard coming from behind her. She slowed her pace and turned to see Booth almost smirking at her, sipping his vodka. He waved her back over. She took slow, hesitant steps until she was standing next to the table. He cocked his head at her, looking her over briefly, with that half-grin still plastered to his face. He took another long gulp of his drink and gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit down."

Slightly in shock, Santana hesitated for a few long seconds. When he finally, seriously, gestured at the seat, she sat down opposite of him and stared. Booth had a glint in his eye as he finished his glass of vodka. He turned his head to the bar where Liam was standing there, mouth open, having seen what just transpired at the table only several feet from him.

"Sir, can you please bring out another glass with ice? And can I get a rare porterhouse, please?" He asked semi-jovially. Liam just nodded dumbly. Booth turned back to Santana and resumed looking her over. "What's your name?" He finally asked. Santana felt as if her entire mouth had gone dry.

"Santana Lopez," she managed to tell him. He thought this over for a few moments for some reason. Then he pushed the medium-rare porterhouse towards her.

"Here, Santana Lopez. You've earned this," he stated. He slid a set of cutlery towards her. She just sat there with her hands in her lap, staring at the steak. It cost more than she made a couple hours of work. She glanced back up at him in disbelief.

"Please, enjoy it. I have my own coming out," he encouraged her. Liam brought over a glass of ice and told Booth the other steak would be ready shortly. Once the bartender departed, Booth poured Santana a serving of vodka and sat back in his chair, watching her approvingly. She tentatively squinted at him, utterly confused by the last several minutes' events.

"Um… no offense… but what the fuck is going on?" She asked him finally. Her stomach was growling and she really wanted to eat the steak, but not before finding out his angle. Booth smiled at her and poured himself more vodka.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" He said simply. She paused for a moment and then shook her head. "I didn't think so. Anyone who knows who I am… would never speak to me like you just did."

"I'm sorry about that… you were just being…" she trailed off, unsure about continuing.

"No, I completely agree. I was being rude. I apologize, Ms. Lopez. You were entirely right about what you said. I never should have insulted your cultural heritage. That was completely uncalled for," he told her sincerely. He gestured to the steak again with his hand. Santana couldn't stand it anymore and began eating it. It was delicious; she almost moaned aloud at how good it was. "Like I was saying, people who know who I am would never have told me to fuck off. Perhaps that's the problem. Not to be narcissistic, but I happen to be rather wealthy and influential. People get scared easily around me… like I'm going to buy and sell their families if they don't do something correctly. It has been years since anyone has been… forward enough… to call me when I'm being rude. But you just did," he murmured thoughtfully.

Liam approached with the steak and set it down in front of Booth carefully. He backed away slowly, like he was terrified of receiving a verbal lashing like Santana did. He scampered away to finish cleaning up the bar. Booth sliced into the steak and smiled when he discovered it was cooked properly.

"Who are you?" Santana piped up, finding her voice finally. This gentleman, who went from being so cold to somewhat lukewarm, intrigued her. His reaction to the wrath of Snix hadn't been what she'd expected. "I know Thomas, my manager, said you were an important client… but I don't know who you are otherwise." Booth was silent for a few moments, enjoying his food before he paused to take a drink and gaze at Santana.

"My name is Damien Booth, I'm an Executive Producer at Metropolis Records. Maybe you've heard of us?"

Santana almost choked on her steak. She chugged her glass of vodka down, despite the stinging in her throat as she did so. She coughed several more times, hard, before she could even answer him.

"Metropolis Records? Yes… I've heard of you. There are dozens of artists I love on that label… Beats Abernathy? Pajama and the Parties? The Mausoleums? They're all on Metropolis," she gushed. Booth nodded along with her list of recording artists.

"A few of our success stories," he agreed. "We have a lot of emerging talent on the label too. I'm working on several large projects with some artists that I think will do quite well."

Santana was still amazed that she was sitting across the table from a music mogul.

"I appreciate the fact that you checked me just then, Ms. Lopez," Booth started, leaning his weight forward on his elbows. "I was late for my reservation tonight because I had to… put out a fire at work, if you will. Not a real fire, but more like a—my once-trusted assistant leaked the new Scream Bloody Murder album on the Internet for cash and has royally fucked everything up type of issue," he admitted. Santana's mouth dropped open. That album wasn't due to be released for months and now… they'd lose millions due to illegal leaked downloads. Booth went on. "Needless to say, she's been served with legal papers and it was an exhausting mess. I have been under a lot of stress because of it and I'm sorry to say that you took the brunt of it," Booth explained apologetically. Santana just nodded dumbly. He sipped his drink again and smiled at her. "From the way that you told me off, I can tell that you have a fire in your belly and integrity to stand up to people. Since I had to fire Jennifer over that bit of unpleasantness, I'm looking for a new assistant."

"A new assistant? To you? At your record label?" Santana stammered. This sounded too good to be true. What was he implying? Was she just imaging where this sounded like it was going?

Booth eyed her carefully. "I need a straight-shooter. I don't want someone who will kiss my ass and sugarcoat shit when the album sounds terrible or the art direction seems completely wrong. I need someone willing to tell me to fuck off and so things get done correctly. You seem like you have a fire in you, I can feel it from here. What do you say, Ms. Santana Lopez?"

"Are you… offering me a job?" She gulped.

"Yes. We can negotiate salary and benefits when you start—but you'll be well compensated if that was an issue," he stated. Santana felt like fainting.

"But… I'm fresh out of high school. I don't know anything about the music business."

"You'll learn. And you're young enough to relate to the important demographics. You're an insider on what is popular… what will sell. It's a win-win, really. You've got the job as long as you're willing to tell me to shut the fuck up when it's necessary," Booth chuckled. He handed her a business card with his name and the address of a very well known and prominent downtown building and suite number on it.

"Shut… the… fuck… up…" Santana murmured, feeling the embossed letters on the card beneath her fingers. "I'm dreaming, right?" She stammered. Booth winked at her and finished his vodka.

"You're very much away, Ms. Lopez, and very much hired if you want the position."

"Of course I do," Santana said confidently. Booth nodded his head at her, a grin on his face. She extended her hand to him and he shook it firmly.

"Good. When can you start?"


Quinn was planted on the couch, bathed in a soft glow of luminescence from the television, when Santana arrived back at the loft. It was almost two in the morning. The blonde turned around, resting her chin in the back of the sofa, and stared silently as she watched Santana. The Latina was humming joyously as she dropped her purse and jacket onto kitchen table. She had a large paper sack with her that clinked as she carefully set it down on the counter.

"You're in a good mood considering work kept you until past two," Quinn offered lazily. Santana twirled around, resting her back against the sink and crossed her arms. She tried to look serious but she still had a triumphant smirk on her lips.

"I don't work there anymore," she stated. Quinn's eyes widened.

"Oh god… did you get fired? What happened? If you lost your job, then why are you smiling like an idiot?" The blonde asked, firing questions off at her. Santana shrugged.

"Who says I got fired? Maybe I quit."

"Why would you quit? I thought you liked that job… well… liked it enough? You made pretty good money and you got free drinks after closing, right?" Quinn murmured, getting up from the couch to station herself atop the counter next to Santana. "Is everything alright? What's going on?"

Santana opened the bag silently and handed Quinn what was inside. It was a bottle of extremely expensive tequila. The blonde's eyebrows flew up into her hair as she saw what she was holding.

"Jesus… this stuff is like eighty bucks a bottle? What aren't you telling me?" She demanded. The Latina floated around the kitchen, seizing two glasses and an ice cube tray before turning back to her friend.

"The special patron that Thomas mentioned—turns out that guy is a wealthy, hot shot executive music producer for Metropolis Records. His name is Damien Booth," Santana started. She could barely contain her excitement and the pleasure of teasing Quinn had worn off. Quinn just nodded at this, observing her friend's hands as she opened the bottle of liquor and added ice to the glasses. "He showed up two and a half hours late for his reservation, made me move other diners from his special table, acted like a total dick… and when I told him to fuck off…"

"You told this exec to fuck off? What is wrong with you, Santana? Must you go all Lima Heights on everyone?" Quinn interjected, scolding.

"Would you fucking let me finish?" Santana defended. "When I told him to fuck off… he said he appreciated my forwardness and spunk… and offered me a job."

"Wait… what?" Quinn babbled, somewhat incoherently.

"He offered me a job as his assistant," Santana held a glass of tequila out for her shocked friend. "I start in a week. I'm going to make crazy money, get ridiculous perks, and I'll have a foot in the door of the largest record label in New York. Not bad for a night's work, eh?" She clinked glasses with the tumblr of liquor that Quinn still held stationary in her hand, unmoved and stunned. "I quit the restaurant, took all my tips and bought this delicious alcohol for us to celebrate with." Santana downed the tequila in one straight shot. Quinn shook her head as if trying to wake her brain up.

"This… really happened? You're not messing with me?" She mumbled softly. Santana pulled Booth's business card from her pocket and handed it over to the blonde with a cocky smile.

"That really happened."

Quinn examined the embossed card with a shaky hand while she cupped her drink in the other, trying not to spill. She peered up at Santana after reading over it a few dozen times.

"Holy shit," she said simply. She thrust her body off the counter and into Santana's arms, hugging her tightly. "This is fucking huge… this is beyond huge. This is how you make your mark."

Santana's eyes widened as Quinn continued to embrace her firmly. This was how she could make something of herself. This is how she could make herself, her parents… and possibly Brittany (if she still cared about Santana at all)… proud. She'd finally found something to work towards and get up in the morning for… besides Brittany. It was scary but also invigorating at the same time. This was the cusp of a fantastic opportunity. Santana now felt confident that she had the fervor for life and the thirst for new experiences to reach out and seize it.