Rachel flew down the hall, not stopping until she reached the choir room. She texted Quinn "Mission accomplished. I'm in the choir room" and sat impatiently to wait. When her phone vibrated a few minutes later she eagerly looked to find Quinn's reply of "perfect. stay. b there n 15".
So Rachel sat, anxiously tapping her feet as she watched the clock's hands tic-tic-tic tortuously slow, waiting for this nightmare to be finished.
Desperate to calm her nerves, she turned to the piano; stroking the keys, honing her pitch as she matched different notes. She'd barely begun the scale when her eyes flitted to the envelope sitting lightly on top of the instrument, and then away again.
She stood and turned her back to the piano, addressing the large invisible audience in the chairs before her as she began warming up her vocal chords. Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but see the manila envelope, the dull beige a sharp contrast to the glossy black of the instrument.
The brunette sighed noisily and strode over to her backpack, pulling out a piece of sheet music from her bag, humming along to the score while focusing on her footwork for the choreography.
And then her eyes darted to the envelope again. It was gossip, and Rachel despised the stuff personally (often because she seemed to find herself on the wrong end of the scandal); but Quinn had said that inside was information she was going to use that day. Rachel's mind began to race: the day was all but over—what if she was planning on using something against Noah? What if the information she was about to blindly hand over was going to be utilized to hurt him?
Or what if it was about herself? What if there were unflattering or inappropriate pictures of her that she intended on passing along to Jacob Ben-Israel to post on his creepy blog?
She reached out and ran her fingers hesitantly over the paper, fingering the material. She finally picked it up and held the envelope in her hand, contemplating her options. Maybe…maybe, she reasoned, she should just take a look, just one-if only to make sure it was nothing incriminating. If it had nothing to do with her or Noah, she would simply put it back—no harm, no foul. Although she didn't like the idea of someone else receiving a taste of Quinn's toxic tongue, she didn't see much of a choice except to refuse her, and she desperately wished to give her and Noah that chance: to show him it was their choice if he wanted it.
She looked up, walking over to the door and sneaking a glance through the window to make certain Quinn's figure wasn't yet approaching, and then seized the packet: her fingers quickly twisting the string from the button securing it, opening the flap and gently sliding out its contents onto the piano. She opened the revealed folder slowly, and at first could only stare in confusion.
Inside were pictures, labeled with names and dates at the bottom corner. They were all of Noah with various girls: Cheerios, athletes, and some that she didn't recognize, but all likely from her school. He was obviously flirting with some, often kissing or whispering seductively in their ears—Rachel could see it in their faces. But how would that be blackmail? It's not like people didn't already know about his reputation, herself included, and these girls dated all over: from beginning of freshman year to roughly five months ago. Why would Quinn—?
At that moment a few slips of paper fell out of the folder. Eager to be sure nothing was amiss, the brunette reached out to retrieve the contraband, skimming over them absently as she moved to place them back in their pocket.
The barely-interested glance transformed into a shell-shocked stare as she did a double take when her brain processed what she was looking at. In her hand were receipts of checks, all made out from Quinn Fabray to Noah Puckerman. At the bottom, written at the line marked Regarding, were the words "Services Rendered" followed by a name. Rachel's eyes widened as her eyes darted from the receipts back to the photos: Bonnie Harrison, Michelle Planer, Leslie Coleman, Summer Foley… the papers went on and on, one for every picture.
And one extra. Rachel's eyes welled as she read the last slip of paper over and over.
As if on cue, Noah chose that exact moment to walk into the room.
Puck was feeling pretty good about himself as he walked to his truck. He had stood up for Rachel and for himself, just like he should have the entire time. No doubt he was worried about what Quinn would do; but man, it had felt good to finally do what he wanted, tell that "Holier-than-thou" blonde what she really was.
And then the text had come in: You win. I'm done. She's in the choir room.
He'd stood in shock for a moment, staring in disbelief at the message. He'd won? He'd won. He smiled. Damn straight he'd won—given that bitch what-for. He slammed his truck's door shut and ran to go talk to his girl.
He sprinted through the parking lot back into the school, completely indifferent to the fact that the public had a perfect view of likely the dumbest grin physically possible plastered on his face. He was so excited he didn't stop until he reached the choir room door and threw it open.
For one moment everything was perfect. He saw her, her back to him, and he loved her: her shining brown hair cascading down her back, her tiny form hovering over the piano in her ruffled skirt and animal sweater (different than the one she'd worn this morning) that was actually pretty sexy on her. She was exactly what he wanted, and he saw a future where she'd walk with him proudly; where he'd deserve to be in her good graces.
And then she turned to face him and he really saw her: her big brown eyes overflowing with tears; her reddened face lost in grief; and in her hand a single slip of paper. Puzzled, Puck took a step forward and saw the pictures, the receipts, and realized what she was holding.
A date. A price. His name and Quinn's. Regarding Services Rendered: Rachel Berry.
"Rache, you don't understand—" he tried desperately to explain, but he knew before the useless words came close to leaving his mouth that even if he had a good excuse she'd never let him give it.
"Services rendered?" she spat. "That's what this is? That's what you are?"
He couldn't think of a thing to say. He saw her pain, her disappointment, and he felt like he was suffocating. He couldn't breathe, which was ironic because she looked like she was almost hysterical.
"So this is a game to you?" she demanded. She held up one of the pictures. "These are real people Noah! With real feelings, and you just used them because Quinn paid you to?" She shook her head hard, as if trying to erase what she'd just found out.
"I had to do it—I needed it to get out of here," he whispered, knowing his flimsy excuse would be meaningless in her eyes. "To be more than this."
Rachel glared at him. "So you figured ruining a few people's lives would be justified so long as you got out of Lima?" she retorted. "For God's sake Noah! That's just making you the same person in a different town! You should empathize with these people more than anyone, and instead you did this to them? To me?"
She threw down the papers, the photos, the folder itself, and hurried to move past him.
"Rache please," he begged, following her into the hall. Goddamn it, he didn't care if anyone saw, he was not losing her again. "Rachel I love you."
She whirled around to face him and he felt the sting as her palm as it connected with his cheek. She looked like a wreck, her chest heaving and an expression of fury and disbelief with her previous tear-streaked face all mixed together. He wondered if his own face was any better.
She regarded him with revulsion and contempt, like he saw her do when Mr. Schue passed out disco music.
"I don't even know you," the brunette told him, her voice losing all fire, suddenly turning cold and sad at her insight. "You were right Puck; I never knew you. And after this-I don't ever want to." She pivoted quickly and sped out the door, leaving him paralyzed where he stood.