I meant to post this chapter sooner, but this last week was a very busy one for me. I want to say a ginormous, heartfelt "thank you" to all of those who reviewed; you guys are the most intelligent, intuitive, and caring readers I could ask for! XD As long as people are enjoying this, I will not abandon this again, I can promise you that. Please, keep the reviews coming; the more feedback I receive, the more excited I am to update.


CHAPTER ELEVEN

I lock myself in my car, sink down as low as I can in my seat, and fight back the next onslaught of tears trying to escape. Thankfully, since it's so long after school, there is no one else in the parking lot, and there are only a few other cars still here besides my own. Also thankfully, is the fact that Rachel didn't chase after me or follow me out here – I don't need any extra humiliation. I believe I've just reached my quota for three lifetimes.

A few minutes and several soiled napkins later, and I've finally pulled myself together. I flip down the visor above my seat and inspect my reflection in the rectangular mirror.

My mascara has smeared under my eyes, but it's salvageable. My eyes aren't that red; a few eye-drops will do the trick.

It's my mouth that really shows the damage.

My red lipstick is smudged all over; it looks like my mouth is bleeding at the edges. But worst of all is the fact that, when I kissed Rachel, some of her bright pink lipstick rubbed off on me.

Red and pink: a dark, bright combination. It looks like I sunk my teeth into a Valentine. Or Cupid himself.

Sighing, I pull my water bottle from my purse and dab it onto a napkin. I remove my ruined lipstick. I dampen another napkin and wipe off the smeared mascara. I apply a few eye-drops, and bada-bing, bada-bam, I'm as good as new.

Well, on the outside, at least.

Think, Fabray! You're always in control. You always know how to get back on top. What would the Old, Non-Train wreck, Far Less Complicated Quinn do?

My phone buzzes with a new text message. When I press down on the button to activate the screen, the first thing to pop up is the text message…but all I can focus on is the wallpaper behind it – the picture of me and Rachel, smiling in the bathroom, right before we did our performance.

It's hard to believe that was taken less than an hour ago. It already feels like days ago, maybe even weeks, that we were singing and dancing in the choir room, not a care or trouble in the world. Unstoppable. Free.

Stop living in the past, and prepare for your future, I scold myself. I finally let my vision focus on the foreground of the screen, to the text message alert.

It's from Sam.

I select the 'Read' option and wait the few seconds for it to load into view.

Sammy-Poo: hey baby. u want 2 come over? parents are gone, bro & sis are at a friend's house.

And just like that, I know what I have to do. The revelation hits me like a bag of bricks, knocking the air from my lungs for a second, sending my head throbbing to the frenetic beat of my heart.

It's so obvious! Why didn't I think of this before?

Feeling renewed with purpose, I hit the 'Reply' button, unable to type my response fast enough.

Me: I'll be there in five. See you soon. :) I love you!

His response is almost instantaneous, arriving before I've had time to buckle my seat belt and turn the key in the ignition.

Sammy-Poo: i love u more!

And this time, upon reading those words from him, I don't feel a twisting in my stomach.

Rather, my heart gives a jolt of anticipation, and a determined nod works onto my neck.


"Well hello, beautiful," Sam says, flicking his tongue over his lips and running his hand over the top of his hair. He's doing his best Joker-when-he-first-meets-Rachel-Dawes impersonation from The Dark Knight.

I smile; his pop culture references and occasional nerdiness is part of what endeared me to him in the first place.

Sam holds the door open for me and then kicks it closed with his foot. I look around the area of his small, respectably-sized apartment. At the bland white walls, the cheap carpeting, and the framed childhood and baby pictures of Sam, his brother, and sister. I've been here many times, and it's always stricken me as a place that's cozy to visit, but cramped to live.

"Hello yourself, handsome," I say, throwing my purse onto the couch.

"So, what do you want to do? We can play video games; I know how much you like Mario Party for the Wii. Or we could watch a mov –"

I don't give him time to finish his sentence; I capture either side of his face with my hands. I lift upward and crush my mouth right on top of his, shoving my body flush against him, moving my hands to wrap around his neck, locking us into place.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut, waiting to feel something. Anything. One tiny butterfly in my stomach, a small acceleration of my heart. Anything, damn it! Anything besides the panic seizing my veins, turning my blood cold.

"Mmmpffh!" Sam puts his hands on my shoulders and firmly pushes me away. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He pants a bit, catching his breath. I do the same. "What was that?" He doesn't look upset, just…curious. A bit confused.

I don't blame him; I've never come on that strong before. In fact, the furthest we've ever gone was second-base, over the bra. Our kisses have never been passionate, Harlequin-novel-worthy.

But that doesn't mean I can't change that now.

"Can't a girl kiss the man she loves?" I ask. Without waiting for an answer, I fling my arms around his neck and kiss him again, even deeper.

This time, Sam reciprocates; he wraps his arms around my waist, squeezing, pressing, our mouths and tongues intermingling.

I peel his shirt off of him and toss it to the floor. His chest is hard and rigid beneath me, like sand dunes and plains, peaks and valleys, this foreign territory for me to explore. I run my hands along his well-defined, rippling abs, but all I want is his shirt to be back on.

That familiar feeling of claustrophobia creeps into my senses, but I accept the closed-in, lungs-burning sensation. Because feeling like that is better than feeling nothing.

My hands travel down to the belt loops of Sam's jeans; curling my forefinger there, I use it like a reign, leading him to the couch, still kissing. I shove him down before straddling him. It feels weird being on top of him in this position, both empowering and out-of-place at the same time.

As Sam moans and kisses my neck, I hastily work at undoing the buttons of my dad's shirt. Once I have the last one undone, I whip off my shirt, send it flying across the room.

Panic tightens my chest, but a fierce determination flares through every part of my being, propelling me forward with so much momentum that I am unable to stop without breaking into a million pieces. I must keep going.

Sam pulls away from my neck and takes in the sight of me, topless; of my light pink bra with the white straps. His eyes practically pop out of his skull.

"Whoa, whoa! Quinn!" he protests, struggling to slide up into a sitting position. I press my hands against his chest, holding him at bay, and silence him with another kiss.

My fingers are clumsy, too fast, as I begin working at his belt, tugging and groping at the clasp. Tears begin to form beneath my closed eyelids, tickling against the line of my lashes.

I blink a few times, chase them away.

I trace kisses from Sam's mouth, down his square jaw, his neck, landing at his throat.

He sucks in a nervous, shallow breath; I feel the hectic bobbing of his Adam's apple beneath my mouth.

After I have his belt undone, I pause to find his hands and place them on top of my ass; he squeezes, and it's all so bizarre, this entire thing. Like I'm watching my actions from across the room as a ghost, seeing what is happening but unable to fully comprehend, unable to feel anything, be it emotionally or even physically.

I make sure to keep kissing at his mouth, silencing his weak, half-hearted protests.

He's not really taking any initiative here, so I unbutton and unzip my mini-skirt; I have to use both of my hands for this and move into a straighter position, tugging the denim material down my hips. This is a mistake; I have left Sam enabled to take a deep breath, move enough away from me, and actually think.

No, no. Thinking is not good.

"Quinn!" he says. It's a shout, a reprimand. "Stop!"

I freeze, my skirt half down my thighs, the top of my light pink panties exposed. "Why?" I'm aware of how thin and pathetic my voice is. Where's HBIC Quinn when I need her?

"This is going too fast," he says, maneuvering out from under me and scooting onto the opposite end of the couch. It's not a long couch though, so there's only about six inches of space between us. He takes another deep breath and starts fixing his belt.

"I don't understand," I say, my heart slamming against my chest. The inside of my stomach is coated with ice. "Don't you want me? Don't you want our first time to be together?"

Sam gets up and retrieves his shirt, then mine; he tosses me the button-down before he pulls his simple gray tee back over his head.

"Quinn, you know I love you," he says gently, looking respectfully away while I shimmy back up my skirt and fasten it, and throw my dad's shirt on, arranging the buttons as quickly as my shaking fingers will allow. "But we agreed to wait until marriage before having sex. I don't want to throw that away; you mean too much to me."

My lower lip quivers; my nostrils flare rapidly. No way in hell am I going to start crying again.

I am so embarrassed; my face is bright red and hot, and I just want to get out of here. I want to crawl into a dark, secluded space – claustrophobia be damned! – and curl up and cry for a thousand years and then sleep for a thousand more.

And then, like that, a switch in me is flicked; I am done with playing the victim. Righteous anger sears my flesh inside-out.

"How dare you!" I scream, jumping up and swinging my purse so violently over my shoulder that it whacks me in the face before colliding against my hip. I ignore this added embarrassment and start marching to the door. "It's my body, Sam! I know when I'm ready, and I'm ready now. I love you, and I want to be with you, and I don't think that's too much to ask. So what gives you the right to reject me?"

Sam runs, sliding to a stop between me and the door. I look pointedly to the side, my arms crossed over my heaving heart.

"Where is this coming from?" he asks, desperation coloring his voice as his big hands rest gingerly on top of my shoulders. "This isn't you! Please don't be mad at me, Quinn. You're right; it is your body, but it's mine involved in this situation, too, so if we're both not into it, then it shouldn't happen." He tries to guide my eyes back to his by setting his fingers against my chin and directing my face to align with his; I jerk away, refusing to make eye-contact.

"I love you, Quinn, but I think it's best if we wait," he says, trying again to lead my eyes to his with his fingers on my chin. "Hey, hey; look at me. Please."

I finally do, and the pain and confusion shining in Sam's sea-blue eyes makes me hate myself. But then, it makes me pissed off. Where does he get off making me feel guilty? I am sick and tired of always feeling guilty.

"Sam, please move," I say as calmly as possible, looking him straight in the eye. Wondering what he sees. Wondering if he sees someone who is afraid, someone who is 'a shell of a person,' like Rachel said.

"Quinn." It's a beg, a plea.

"Move," I say, more firmly this time.

"I'm not letting you leave until we've talked this over," Sam says, stubborn as always.

"Get. Away. From. The door," I hiss through clenched teeth, each word angry and purposeful. I want nothing more than to get out of this house right now; it's getting harder to breathe, and my nerves feel fried, like I'm short-circuiting.

"Quinn, come on, be reasonable," he begs, trying to take my hands within his own.

And that's it. That does it. Something inside of me snaps, clean in half, and I feel a dam of anger burst.

"Get the fuck away from the damn door!" I scream, a flood of tears gushing against the back of my eyelids, threatening to stream over. Using all of my strength, I shove my hip against Sam's, knocking him out of the way, and make my exit, dashing out of the door, not even bothering to close it behind me.

I run, setting pounding foot in front of pounding foot, to my car parked beside the curb, as tears run down my face, washing away the last of my mascara.

Sam calls after me, but I'm already jumping into my car, slamming the door, buckling up, starting the ignition.

He starts to sprint after me, calling my name, his shouts sounding muffled and far away as my engine drowns him out.

But it's no use for him – he's halfway to my car, but I'm already peeling away, foot hitting the gas pedal.

I watch in the rearview mirror as I leave him behind, watch as he shrinks and shrinks, until he is a speck, an ant, and then nothing at all.


After about ten minutes of aimless driving, in which I almost run two Stop signs, I pull over and take a few minutes to collect myself.

Sam has called at least a dozen times; I silence my cell phone's ringer and stuff the blasted thing down into the bottom of my purse.

I take a deep breath and sink my head into my hands, trying desperately to think about what to do next, how to move forward from this latest disaster.

I need to go somewhere; I can't keep driving around when my focus is all over the place.

Quickly, I consider my options.

Santana is out of the question, partly because she lives the furthest away of all my friends. Plus, I don't want to have to deal with her ghetto neighborhood right now – that's just added stress. But, most importantly, I can't go to her about this because Santana doesn't do very well with keeping secrets (unless they're her own or Brittany's). She's the type of person who, if – or rather when – her temper flares up and gets the best of her in an argument, she'll throw whatever she can back in your face, not afraid to play dirty so long as she gets the last word in.

And Brittany…I love her, I really do, she's a sweet-hearted person, but…I don't want to have to deal with her glib comments. She'll just confuse me even more. Also, she'll tell Santana everything I tell her…hell, she's probably with Santana right now anyway.

I realize that I don't really have that many friends. None that count, anyway. Sure, all of the people in Glee Club have my back when it comes down to it, but the truth is, they are comprised of a mostly gossipy, loose-lipped bunch. You tell one person in Glee, you might as well tell them all.

Suddenly, her face flashes into my mind – her caring eyes, her consoling hugs, the fact that she has been proven to keep secrets before. But she is the last person I can go to now, or ever.

Honestly, when I think about it, there's really only one person I know who never tells secrets, who doesn't even gossip, who brushes away rumors with rolling eyes and a flick of the hand.

The only person I know will always be there for me, not for personal benefit, but for the sake of being a good, caring friend.

Who, even though I don't hang out with that often, I know I can always turn to.

Who is in no place to ever judge me, considering their past is far shadier.

Brushing away some freshly fallen tears, I hang a right at the next intersection, knowing just where I need to go.


Who do you think it'll be? :)