By flirting with the bartender, Quinn managed to score a bottle of Jimmy Beam, which is mostly empty by the time she pries off her pants and falls into bed. The hotel duvet smells stale and is rough against her cheek, but she's too drunk to care enough to move.
Everything is humming slightly; even her lips are numb. There's a hollow feeling in her chest that even the whiskey couldn't mask. She hates it.
Just like she hates Rachel Berry. But she hates everything mostly, so to be fair, tonight she took her anger out more on the bottle than the girl sitting next to her.
There wasn't even much of an opportunity for Rachel to bear the brunt of it. Quinn found the longer she sat at the bar, the less she could actually stand to be there. Something about the proximity of Rachel to Finn, even if by accident, made her teeth grind. Despite wanting to fuck with her last night, something felt off and Quinn turned to booze for answers she didn't want to be asking.
Her jaw hurts now, so she tries to ignore the pulsing in her temples and succumbs to darkness on the crappy duvet.
When she wakes up, it's past noon and the crik in her neck hurts to the point where she doesn't know if she's able to lift it. She discovers she can't, and compromises by sliding down on the bed her stomach until she's crouching and gravity helps her gently lean upright against the wall.
She wipes the drool off her cheek and lets herself sit there for another few minutes until the urge to relieve the pressure in her bladder becomes too strong.
Once she's standing, Quinn knows whats missing from her life right now and goes to the gas station thats next to the hotel. Four bucks and fifteen minutes later, she's at the computer with a new 2 liter bottle of Diet Coke and pack of peanut butter crackers that glow orange in the room, even without the lights on.
After spending the better part of the next hour catching up on emails (nothing of value, only the daily deals and a mass email from her mother containing photos from her latest cruise) and checking the clearance section on her favorite shopping websites, there's a brief moment of hesitation when her finger hovers over the mousepad before she changes to a Facebook tab she's had open since stumbling back to the room last night.
Quinn sneers at the photos of Rachel beaming beneath marquees in New York, arms spread open as if the world were hers. As if she were still 18 and full of fucking sunshine. How dare she be so happy.
It's like staring at a car wreck; she's cringing at the photos and comments, wall posts, and events, but can't for the life of her turn away. It bothers her, seeing Rachel's life, her having gotten it all, despite everything: despite having been nothing in high school when Quinn had everything.
The resolve inside her doubles suddenly and if Quinn had any doubts about her plan of action before, they evaporate quickly. She slams the laptop shut harder than she probably should and starts getting ready.
Finn will be hers and everything will go back to being the way it should be.