Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, and followed my story. Your support is not only welcomed but motivating. I wasn't sure how this story would be viewed in this fandom but I am happy that people who actually liked it are looking forward to future chapters. There is one thing that I would like to clarify. Unfortunately for some, Sam and Mercedes aren't going to meet right away. Sam isn't going to fall out of the sky all of a sudden. Like anything else, it takes time and makes the story much more realistic than Sam falling head over heels within the first paragraph. But, don't worry. They will meet and there will be full on Samcedes and the M rating will come in handy. Also, since this is loosely based off of Nick and Norah's Infinitely Playlist, there is a Mercedes & Sam's Epic Night Out official playlist filled with music from well known artists such as The Wanted, LMFAO, Hot Chelle Rae, Boys like Girls, and One Direction. Also, there are a few tracks from some obscure artists like The Chemical Brothers, The Stiff Dylans, and Richard Hell. Nonetheless, head over to my page if you are remotely interested. Without further ado, here's the second chapter!
PAIRINGS: Samcedes, Finnchel, Fabravans, and slight Klaine
DISCLAIMER: Glee is owned by FOX.
RATING: Rated M for strong language, underage drinking, teen angst, drug use, sexual themes and innuendos. For mature audiences only!
Two
The Morningside Inn
235 West 107th Street
Upper East Side
"Berry, how are we supposed to get past Frenchie?" Mercedes demanded. She shifted her feet uncomfortably.
She, along with Rachel, was hiding in a little alcove in the Morningside Inn's brightly lit lobby. The pair had managed to quietly leave their hotel room, tip toe down the long corridor and into the elevator without raising a single shred of suspicion. They made it downstairs but Frenchie was going to be a problem. Mercedes's dark eyes were glued to the short and skinny man at the front desk. He had black hair that was slicked back and a weird mustache with handlebars. She grimaced at his black overcoat, white button shirt, and matching bowtie. In her opinion, it was time for Frenchie to get rid of that sad outdated 19th century wardrobe. Maybe that would loosen the stick shoved really far up his little French ass.
To everyone in Glee Club, he was known simply as Frenchie, not that they ever called him that to his face. He was from some remote countryside town in France and had a name that was totally unpronounceable in English. Frenchie was the Morningside Inn's evening concierge. He was prim, proper, and very European. He was sharp-eyed and watchful, thanks to Mr. Shue. At the beginning of the trip, he warned Frenchie to keep an eye out for any students trying to sneak out. Frenchie was like a hawk with these dark beady eyes that gave Mercedes the chills.
Mercedes let out an impatient groan. They had been crouching quietly in the same alcove for at least fifteen minutes. She couldn't talk for the pint sized brunette kneeling next to her. But her knees were killing her and she was creasing the front of her favorite high top Nikes in the process. Frenchie was reading the New Yorker, those owl eyes scanning the magazine intently.
"Berry, I got dressed for this?" Mercedes snapped.
With Rachel's constant nagging and whining about being late to the gig, Mercedes had absolutely no time to actually get ready and look like her normal diva self. She was certain that she had broken some sort of new world record when it came to getting dressed. Usually, it took her close to two hours to get ready. This time, she had taken only a five minute shower and quickly threw on random pieces of clothing, disregarding her most important rule of her outfits having to match. She had no time to actually blow out her hair. Instead, she brushed it out quickly, holding it in place with half a can of hairspray and a sequined black headband. At least, her makeup was decent. She would've broken the deal if it weren't. Her lips were glossed with her favorite lip gloss flavor, raspberry soiree from Lancôme.
The last thing Mercedes wanted to hear while trapped in a small alcove was Rachel complaining endlessly about being late to the gig. For Rachel, even being ten seconds late was out of the question.
"He isn't leaving any time soon," Rachel finally said.
"No shit," Mercedes retorted, with another sarcastic eye roll.
"I have a plan," Rachel said quickly. For reasons unknown, Rachel was cradling a white terrycloth robe along with her clutch.
"Again, why do we need a robe?"
"You'll see."
Rachel quickly threw off her heels and covered herself in the robe. It was huge on her and she was practically swimming in it. She grabbed her oversized black sunglasses from her clutch and placed them on the bridge of her nose. She handed Mercedes her heels and clutch for safe keeping.
"Frenchie hasn't met the real Rachel Berry," she announced, smirking deviously.
The brunette composed herself and quickly got into character.
She dramatically appeared from the alcove and stormed to the front desk, her bare feet slapping harshly against the shiny marble floor. Frenchie looked up from his magazine and placed it neatly on the desk. Rachel, a nasty scowl on her face, opened her mouth before the Frenchman could even blink.
"Who's the manager?" she demanded.
"That is me," Frenchie replied. His accent was thick and he smiled politely at Rachel. Thankfully, he didn't know who she was.
"My fucking toilet is flooded and it ruined my Jimmy Choo slippers!" Rachel shouted furiously. Her hands flailed erratically as she talked.
"I'm so very sorry Miss," Frenchie whispered apologetically.
"You fix that toilet now! Or I'm your gonna here from my lawyer ASAP," she threatened.
"No lawyer," Frenchie stammered. "We fix it now,"
"Ugh! Puh-lease fix it this instant. There's shit and piss everywhere."
"What room?" he said, nearly choking on his words.
"380," Rachel answered dismissively.
Frenchie, red as a ripe tomato, quickly scurried away in search for a janitor. There were beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Rachel Berry had really scared the shit out of him.
The girls waited a few seconds, making sure that he and his tacky style were out of sight. Mercedes appeared from the alcove, Rachel's heels and gold clutch in hand. The brunette wriggled out of the oversized robe, stuffing it in a nearby trash can. She quickly slipped on her heels, yanked on her blazer, and grabbed her purse. She ran a quick hand through her hair.
"Let's go!"
The girls dashed out of the hotel's revolving door and walked quickly up to the corner of West 107th and Broadway. It was cold out and Mercedes instinctively huddled her arms to her chest. Rachel was unfazed by the cold even though her legs were exposed without stockings.
"That was fun," Rachel breathed, a smug grin on her face.
"How the hell did you pull that off?" Mercedes asked.
She knew that Rachel was a natural born drama queen. She had seen Rachel in action plenty of times during Glee Club meetings and rehearsals. But, Mercedes had no idea that Rachel was that amazing at fooling people.
"I'm not going to NYADA for nothing," Rachel winked.
She hailed a cab and both girls slipped inside.
"Where to?" the wormy faced cabbie asked.
"Arlene's Grocery on Stanton," Rachel replied.
As the taxi drove away, she gave Mercedes a thankful grin.
"I promise tonight will be a night you'll never forget!" she assured.
Arlene's Grocery
95 Stanton Street
Lower East Side
"Another please," Sam Evans said. He looked at the gangly bartender and shook his empty Heineken bottle. Within seconds, the old bottle was replaced with a freshly opened one. Usually his day began late at night and tonight was no different. He was at Arlene's Grocery on the Lower East Side. He'd been there a couple of times, mostly with his best friend Noah Puckerman. The blond wasn't too fond of Arlene's. The place was always crowded, the music was almost always shitty, and the beer was shoddy.
From the corner of his eye, Sam watched as Puck downed his third vodka shot. He slammed the glass onto the table. His face contorted and he let out a satisfied grunt.
"This shit's good!" Puck said, shouting over the loud music. He was talking about the vodka, shaking the shot glass eagerly.
Sam rolled his eyes, shook his head, and took another half hearted swig of his drink.
"This shit's shit," was his response.
He was talking about the whole thing. He just wasn't in the mood and the band's music was epic garbage. He knew Puck was just trying to be a good friend by dragging him to Arlene's. Puck wouldn't let his best friend stay in bed all day like a pussy.
"C'mon Sammy boy! Enjoy our last night of vacation!" Puck shouted, knocking his shoulder in Sam's. "Tomorrow, it's back to the ole drawing board," he added.
Sam grimaced at the thought of going back to school. Tomorrow morning he would be dressed in his school uniform that consisted of pressed khakis, a white button down shirt, a red tie, and a navy blue blazer. Like always, he was going to meet Puck down the street from The Oxford, the white gloved doorman building that Sam called home. Then, they were going to walk, sharing a cigarette, to The Windsor Day School for Boys on Madison Avenue and start yet another week of monotony. Drinking water-downed beer while watching a shit band play was not in the equation.
Puck looked at him, shook his head, and smirked. "Q's got you pussy whipped bad Evans," he simply said.
Sam glared at him. She was the last thing he wanted to talk about. Puck ignored the glare and continued.
"You broke up with her. You were the one who said that she was a bitch. Remember?" he yelled.
Sam sullenly shrugged his shoulders, staring at his half finished beer. For once, Puck was right. He did break up with her. At first, He thought he was doing himself a favor. She was clingy, jealous, overbearing and most of all, a world class bitch. But, the breakup actually stung. There was a part of him that actually kind of missed her and that annoying high-pitched voice. After all, it was only three nights ago on New Year's Eve.
There were two minutes left before the New Year. Puck had thrown a huge New Year's bash in his three story penthouse suite on Park Avenue. Everyone was gathering in the living room to watch the ball drop on Puck's movie theater sized TV, eager to ring in 2012 with style. Everyone was having an awesome time, except for him and his girlfriend Quinn Fabray. They were on the verge of breaking up for like the fiftieth time that year. They were locked in the upstairs bathroom arguing.
Well, Quinn was screaming her blonde head off while Sam stared blankly at her, tuning her out. All he wanted to do was ring in the New Year by downing a few more Jell-O shots and finishing the roach in his pocket. From the bathroom, Sam could hear the boisterous laughter, the clink of beer bottles, and Puck screaming for everyone to get ready for the countdown.
Sam should've seen this coming, especially because they had been fighting more than ever for the past week. Quinn had come back from St. Bart's two days after Christmas with a sexy peanut butter tan but bitchier than ever. He'd made the mistake of inviting Quinn to Puck's bash, especially because Quinn loathed Puck and the fact that Sam chose to hang out with more than her.
The drama started when Sam chose to drink and smoke instead of paying attention to her. He was already on her shit list for ignoring her calls on Christmas Day. She lost it when she spotted Sam getting a little too close with some random girl that he was innocently smoking with.
He couldn't help but stare hungrily at Quinn, licking his red lips. After all, he was a little tipsy, a little stoned, and itching for a good fuck to ring in the New Year. She was wearing a red mini dress so short that her perfectly round ass was almost hanging out and leather white heels. Quinn was the hottest girl on the Upper East Side and he was probably the luckiest motherfucker in New York. She was a cheerleader and an avid tennis player. It definitely showed. She was a hottie with a banging supermodel's body. All Sam wanted to do was to slip his large hands under her dress. He wanted to hear the sound of her moaning crazily as he finger fucked her against the porcelain sink. He was pretty sure she wasn't wearing any…
"Are you even listening to me?" Quinn demanded, stamping her foot angrily on the marble floor. She was waving her hands furiously in Sam's face. He quickly snapped out of his thoughts and stared at the seething blonde girl looking up at him. Her hazel eyes were narrowed into a death glare and her nostrils were flaring. Suddenly he wasn't in the mood.
"See! You never fucking listen!" Quinn screeched. She threw her tanned arms into the air.
Sam rolled his eyes, enough was enough. He couldn't take Quinn's petty drama anymore.
"I never do anything right!"
It was the first thing he said during the whole bathroom argument. Like Quinn with him, Sam found her both annoying and irritating. With them, it was the same old sob story.
She was a clingy bitch while he was an underachieving loser.
She was going to Yale while he wanted to go to art school.
She was super jealous and territorial while he had wandering eyes.
She was too high maintenance while he was high all the time.
The list when on and on.
She started her screaming again. There was no end in sight. Sam ears perked up at the sound of the New Year's countdown. There was no chance of joining in on the fun. Because of his shitty luck, he would ring in the New Year in the bathroom with his girlfriend. And not in the way he wanted to.
5!
"Sam! Listen to me!" Quinn demanded.
4!
"You asshole!" she hissed.
3!
"Quinn, we're through" Sam blurted without thinking. It practically flew from his lips. Quinn blinked at him with disbelief. She was the one always dumping him, not the other way around.
2!
1!
"Fuck you Sam Evans!" she shouted. With one quick motion, she slapped him squarely on his left cheek. Like a herd of banshees, everyone downstairs began to scream: "Happy New Year!"
"You're going to pay for this!" Quinn threatened before slamming the door.
She was gone and left Sam starry eyed in the bathroom. His hand was glued to his red cheek. There wasn't go to be any midnight kiss or bathroom quickie. All he was going to get a bitch slap across the face. This would be a New Year's for the ages.
"Dude, this place is crawling with chicks!" Puck said. Sam's green eyes lazily scanned the crowded and dimly lit room. Again, Puck was right. There were an unusually high percentage of girl compared to guys. Most were indie chicks and/or hipster wannabes, wearing oversized T-shirts, skinny jeans, those clichéd geek glasses, and sheepskin moccasins. They were all screaming crazily and singing loudly along to the music. They were all there to see the band, Sam was sure of it.
The said band was The Cosmic Slices and Finn Hudson, the lead singer, was the main attraction. The Slices was the most famous indie band in New York's underground music scene. They were known for their so-called poetic lyrics and their famous secret shows that threw their fans for a loop. Most importantly, Finn was the perfect indie rocker despite being a rich kid from the Upper East Side. Finn, wearing his trademark dark shutter shades and white wife beater, was shouting gibberish lyrics into the mic while the rest of the band sloppily played along. They were halfway through their set.
Sam knew of Finn Hudson, who was a few years older than him. Finn graduated from Windsor Day when Sam was a freshman. All Sam knew about Finn was that he was pretty much an outcast of New York's high society. He went to Dartmouth in New Hampshire but got kicked out after four weeks for dealing E from his dorm room. He came back to New York, lost his trust fund, and formed a band with three NYU misfits that he knew. He was a fucking legend. Girls dropped their panties for him. Fucking three girls was considered a slow night from Finn.
"Forget Q. I bet there are plenty of easy girls here willing to bang in the bathroom," Puck assured.
Sam nodded in agreement as he finished his beer. Most girls who came to Arlene's were looking for a good time even if they couldn't get with the band. He needed to blow off some steam. It was two months and counting since he had gotten any, thanks to Quinn refusing to put out. He wanted, no needed a girl, and fast.
His eyes drifted from girl to girl, licking his lips as each girl seemed prettier than the last. Finally, he settled on a short and petite girl with long red hair. She wore a jumper, fishnet stockings, and Doc Martens. The girl was the polar opposite to Quinn's preppy style. Plus, Sam had never done a red head. He had a plan. He'd wait until The Slices played their last song. Then, he'd approach her with Puck acting as his wing man. He'd even tell her that he was friends with Finn if she was the groupie type.
Out of nowhere, Puck quickly tapped him and said. "Look at her!"
Puck's eyes were glued on a tiny brunette. Like the rest of the girls, she was singing along and pushing forth to the stage. She was definitely a cutie, especially in that suggestive black mini dress and those hot pink heels.
"She's a bona fide rock star sex kitten," Puck crooned. Sam nodded his head in agreement. She was definitely a rock star sex kitten. Sam was sure of it by the way her dress rode up her thighs. He came across sex kittens especially at music gigs like this. They were the girls dressed like sluts, hoping to fuck the lead singer or even the entire band. That girl was definitely looking for a fuck.
Suddenly, Sam's eyes widened at what he assumed to be the sex kitten's friend. She was a full bodied black girl who wasn't an indie, hipster, or sex kitten. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Her style screamed diva instead of indie and people noticed.
She was getting weird looks from indie and hipster snobs, the kind that liked their stuff to be totally exclusive from the mainstream crowd. Another problem was that she was biggest and curviest girl in the room. Her sex kitten friend seemed to fit in more because of her size. It was a known fact that Indies and hipsters were always under a certain weight. Even the guys, who were certified manorexics.
Sam couldn't take his eyes off of her even though she wasn't his typical type. He liked his girls petite and most times blonde. But, there was something about this girl that captivated him. She was certainly pretty and her smile made him smile. She bobbed her head to the music and seemed like she was enjoying herself. She didn't notice the hateful stares she was getting or she noticed but didn't care. The girl was confident and Sam liked that. Actually, he found it really hot.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the mood to fuck that hipster redhead in the bathroom. Heck, he wasn't even in the mood to get drunk or get high.
He just wanted to talk to that girl.