Chapter 8: Quinn
I push the guy up against this sweet shiny black Porsche, one that costs way more than my BMW. "Here's the deal, Karofsky,," I say. "You either pay now, or I break something of yours. Something you're permanently attached to," I glance down to his microscopic package. "Got it?"
Karofsky, huge football player but as pale as a ghost, is looking at me like I've handed him a death sentence. He should have thought about that before he took on the Unholy Trinity and bounced without paying.
As if Roz would ever let that happen.
As if I would ever let that happen.
When Roz sends me to collect, I do it. I may not like doing it, but I do it. She knows I won't break into people's homes or work the streets. But I collect. I'm good at it.
To say I don't live a squeaky clean life puts it nicely. It's true I'm no user nor do I drink, but that doesn't mean I don't sell. The thing is, is I'm good at it. I'm good at scaring people. So when Roz Washington, head coach of the cheerios came up to me freshman year and gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. I took it. In reality, I'm a pawn in the whole scheme of things. The entire cheerios squad are pieces of a chess game that Roz controls. If you think about it, it's a brilliant set up. We do all the dirty work, and Roz sits on her throne of money.
You can't imagine the type of people I break down. Karofsky is no different than the other guys I've threatened. I can tell by the way he tries to act cool at school while his hands shake from withdrawals.
"I don't have the money," he blurts out.
"That answer doesn't cut it," San interjects. She likes coming with me. She thinks it's like playing good cop bad cop. Truthfully, I'm not as ruthless as I make myself out to be. And San. She's not as bitchy as everyone thinks. It's an act. It works for us.
"Which limb should I break first?" I ask. "I'll be nice, I'll let you choose."
"Took too long. Smoke his sorry ass, Q. I'm getting bored." Santana says lazily.
"No!" Karofsky begs. "I'll get the money. I swear, I'll get it. Tomorrow. Just give me tomorrow."
I shove him hard against the car and press a knife to his package. "You," I spit out. "Do not give me orders. I need collateral." I eye his car.
"No...not the car, please Quinn."
I take out my gun. I'm not going to shoot him. No matter what I've become, I'd never kill anyone. But Karofsky doesn't know that.
At first glance, Davie boy tosses the keys to San. "Tomorrow Karofsky. Seven o'clock behind the old tracks on Irvine and tenth. Now get out, before I change my mind."
"I've always wanted a Porsche," San says after Dave's left.
I laugh. "It's yours until tomorrow."
We drive back to school. Walk around back and walk into coach's office. We give Roz the update. She's not happy.
I walk into an empty house. Surprise. I peak into the fridge and find leftovers. As the foods heating up in the microwave, I pull out my homework. I'm interrupted with my mother walking through the front door.
"Quinn?"
"In the kitchen," I yell.
"Here, this is for you," she tosses a bag at me.
I reach into the bag and pull out a light blue designer top. "Thanks," I say, not making a big deal about it.
"It'll go well with those new dark denims I bought you last week," she says as she pulls out frozen steak and starts defrosting it in the microwave.
My dad walks through the door a minute later, grumbling about work. I'm not really quite sure what he does, but he owns a car company. Hence the new BMW that sits in the driveway with my name on it.
"What's for dinner?" my dad asks. He looks tired. "I'm not in the mood for anything heavy. Just something light" he continues walking to his office. Work always follows him home.
My mother turns off the microwave. "Eggs? Soup?" she says listing off suggestions that go unheard.
"Whatever, something light!" he calls out.
It's times like these where I feel sorry for my mother. She doesn't get much attention from my dad. He's either working or on a business trip. Or more recently, just not interested in hanging out with his family. "I'll make a salad," I tell her.
She seems thankful. We work side by side in silence. I set the table while my mother mumbles complaints to herself.
"I'm going to France on Friday for two weeks," my dad announces. "Our supplier there is upset and I've got to go find out what his deal is."
"What about the annual church get together?"
My dad drops his fork and looks at my mother. "Yeah, because the stupid church gathering is more important than keeping my business afloat."
"That's not was I was insinuating, Russell. I'm just saying that we've already RSVP'd for it."
"You can go by yourself."
"I will not go by myself and have rumors start because you're not accompanying me."
This is typical Fabray dinner conversation. My dad talks about how hard work is, my mother keeping up the pretense that we're a happy family, and me quiet on the sidelines.
I get up, "I've got homework to do" I mumble while I trudge up the stairs to my room. At night, I'm in my room unable to sleep because of the constant yelling from my parents. I wish that I was fighting for something worth fighting for. Instead, I'm lying in bed, covering my ears, and fighting for the night to end.
A week later, I'm sitting on the bleachers at my school stadium eating lunch. Most of the students eat outside until late October, when winter forces us to sit in a stuffy cafeteria during the lunch period. Right now, I'm soaking up as much of the sun as I can.
My friend Lauren Zizes comes and sits by me. "You ready for next period? I swear Rachel Berry hates you like a disease. It's hilarious watching her try to sit as far away from you as possible."
"Zizes," I say. "She might be one hot babe, but she ain't got nothing on this girl." I point to myself.
She laughs "tell Finn Hudson that."
I lean back, resting my eyes for a second. "I've seen Finn play football, believe me. He's got nothing to brag about."
One look at little miss diva and my defenses go up. She thinks I'm this drugged up bitch. Everyday, I've dreaded having to deal with her scrutiny in class.
"I heard your girl, Rach, was talking trash about you and your friends."
I shake my head, wondering what Rachel had said and how much damage control I'll have to do. "Maybe she wants me and doesn't know any other way to get my attention."
Zizes laughs so hard the entire bleacher is shaking. "There's no way that Rachel Berry would get within two feet of you on her own free will, let alone date you," she says. "Hell, I'll bet my 1976 Honda CB750 K you can't get into her pants before Thanksgiving break," Zizes challenges me.
Do I need to state the obvious? "She's straight… and a bitch." I'm not into straight girls. And I'm certainly not into egotistical chicks whose idea of a conversation revolves around them.
"So what if she's straight? Come on, Quinn. You've done it before. Don't be an idiot. Look at her. I'm not even gay and I'd still hit that."
I take a glance. I admit she's got it going on. Long shiny brunette hair, tanned arms with a hint of muscles in her biceps making you wonder if she works out, full lips that when she smiles you think world peace is possible, and those legs. Shit.
I shove those thoughts out of my mind. "Her nose," I blurt out.
Zizes smirks "you want her," leaning back on her arms. "You just know that you can't have her."
Something inside me clicks. Call it my ego or my cockiness. I don't care. "In two months I could have that ass. You want to bet me your bike, I'm in."
"You're kidding!" When I don't answer, Zizes frowns. "You serious, Quinn?"
"Yup."
She shrugs, "if you lose I get your new ride," her frown turning into a wicked grin.
The new BMW my parents bought me. They'll kill me if give it up. But I hate the piece of junk. I mean, I guess it's not really junk. I just hate the looks I get when I drive in it. But for real, my parents would kill me.
Zizes is not backing down. The problem is, I'm not one to back down either. Not ever.
I look over at Rachel, flirting it up with her pathetic lug of a boyfriend. I bet all it'll take for Rachel to come around is a bit of flirting. I could kill two birds with one stone, get back at the bear by taking his girl and get back at Rachel Berry for having me called to the principal's office and dissing me in front of my friends.
This might even be fun.
I hold out my hand. "Deal."
"I want proof."
I sigh. "Zizes, what do you want me to do? Take her panties?"
"How'd we know it was hers?" Zizes shoots back. "Take a picture."
How trashy. It's times like these that give us a bad name. But to be honest, my friends are entertaining when they're ragging on someone else. When they rag on me, I don't find it half as funny.
"What are you talking about?" Santana says, joining us.
"I bet Quinn my baby for her car she can't get into Rachel Berry's pants by Thanksgiving."
"You loco, Quinn?" San says. "Making a bet like that is suicide. You know your parents."
"Shut up San." It isn't suicide. Stupid, yes. But not suicide. If I could handle hot headed Kitty Wilde, I can handle diva princess Rachel Berry.
"She's out of your league. You might be pretty as hell, but you're messing with a straight gal. That never works, amiga."
I'm not listening anymore. My eye is on Rachel. Now that it's game on, I'm focusing on the prize. It's time to start flirting, but no bullshit one liners. I have a feeling that's what she gets from her airheaded boyfriend.
I decided on a new tactic. I'm going to keep getting under skin until I'm all she thinks about. And I'll start next period when she's forced to sit next to me. Nothings more satisfying than a little foreplay in chemistry.
I walk to chemistry and slide onto the stool, pushing my stool closer to the middle of the table.
Rachel walks into the room, her tousled hair, but in a good way, falling down the front of her chest. She shouldn't turn me on as much as she does.
I wink at her when she looks my way. She huffs and pulls her stool as far away as possible from me. I turn towards her. "You're going to have to talk to me at some point."
"What? So your girlfriend can have a reason to beat me up. No thank you."
"I don't have a girlfriend. Want to interview for the position?" I scan her from top to bottom, focusing on the area where the clothing isn't covering.
She glares at me and tightens her lips. "Not in this lifetime."
"Baby… you wouldn't know what to do with all this," I point to myself. "In your hands," I smirk.
That's right, Quinn. Tease her into wanting you.
"You're pathetic."
"What if I said we'd make a great couple?"
"I'd say you were a moron."
