A/N: Very excited to present a companion piece to Soirées Noires written by NEMO. I'd suggest going back and taking a quick read of San and Britt's conversations in Chp 2 and 5 if it's been a while. If it's not obvious, this is Britt's POV.

No one pays the pretty girl any mind. Sure, they notice her, but they don't mind her. Not even a little bit. I'd even venture a wager that a toddler with the insignificant letters j and r attached to the end of his name gets more respect than a pretty girl. But pretty girls don't bet. Why would we when we have the men to do it for us? A classy dame's not supposed to use her brain. So I played the part I was cast in. I smiled. I batted my eyelashes. I hid my giggles behind gloved fingertips. I curtsied and tilted my head. I crossed my legs at the ankle, never dangling one over the other at the knee. I spoke only when necessary. I conceded to the adage that it was a man's duty to educate a woman in all subjects. I gingerly patted a layer of powder over the purpled lesions his fists conveniently forgot to take along when he went home to his wife at the end of a rocky weekend. I was always a proper lady. And just as a lady should, I knew my way around the kitchen and the garden. I had to remind him of that when he mistook me for a side of beef yet again. A barely dented frying pan and a shallow grave beneath the carrots. My parting gift to the man in Arizona. If Father were alive, and sober for once, I imagine he'd have been proud of me. Right after scolding me for ruining his crops. "As if farming in the blasted desert ain't tough enough, you gotta go fouling up the soil with that guy", he'd say, then immediately feel sour for talking to me that way. Dipsomania was a soft healer and a quick killer, heaven rest his soul. But being a kept woman just wasn't for his little girl. A woman on the run felt like a more adventurous title anyway. I can hardly recognize the shaky me that felt even smaller than the diminutive ticket clerk that slid me my first boarding pass on my journey to freedom. I didn't even know enough to read the schedule.

"Next train east." Even for a farmer's daughter, I had more brains than that.

"No destination, miss?"

"Direction's enough for now. I have a feeling the rest will work itself out." The old coot shook his head at me as he stamped the paper.

"That women's intuition is always a fool's bet. Next train east leaves at a half past the hour." Four and a half bucks and 19 minutes later I was headed somewhere east. A late night cup of coffee in Albuquerque did the job of sobering me up enough to know that just picking a direction wasn't going to get me anywhere. I found my way to the ticket counter and set my sights on finding my own pair of ruby red slippers. I stood alone on the platform mentally creating a character for myself. I decided to play a jilted girl with a heart of ice that could possibly be warmed by a proper gentleman on her way to a new life. Not too far from the truth. I played it up in each town. The screeching of the train's wheels against the metal tracks beneath them at each stop took away more and more pieces of the life I left behind me. The faint smell of machine grease got to be as comforting as the aroma of Pop's whiskey. Maybe I coulda stayed. No one knew what I had done. I was just a girl who'd met a guy in the city for a meal every so often. There'd be questions about the sharp young businessman from Tucson who was supposed to be on a trip to Phoenix. Maybe some of the soda jerks from our familiar stops could recall us. They'd tell the police that he had been in a few weeks before with a real pretty girl. They wouldn't know a name. They wouldn't know where either of us rested our heads at night. They'd be no more helpful than a needleless compass. I could have found a job around town and stayed out of the city. Maybe after a while, when the heat died down, I coulda moved to the city and found a job as some fella's girl Friday. But I couldn't risk being found. Or even worse, repeating the same mistake. It wasn't like I'd be breaking anybody's hearts since there was no one to care about me, but turning Daddy's garden into a graveyard just wasn't the life I had mapped out for me.

Shame of it was I didn't have anything mapped out for me. Shorthand and a set of legs. That was my contribution to my country. I could be anybody I wanted. Go anywhere I wanted. I could disappear just like the businessman. It was a cinch. Thanks to good casting, I never met with the beast named Hunger. I stood up for myself. I took up smoking. Whenever I got bored, I took the next train headed east and booked a room at the cheapest house. I became a woman in a man's world. I tried my hand at the odd jobs offered by the temp agencies. I sat with a few babies while their mommies took spa days. I demonstrated the art of letting a fine "parfum" evanesce in the air around you rather than applying it directly to one's skin. For fifty three dollars an ounce, a lady could smell as beautiful as I looked. They didn't think twice about forking that money over. One ounce would cost me two months' salary and I didn't even get a kickback from the sales. But it was Chicago that made it all worthwhile. The Linden School of Dance printed an open casting call for, of all things, pretty girls. The preliminaries weren't even a challenge. A nice smile and a can to match, welcome to the show. But as I sat there surrounded by twelve other pretty faces I realized the aesthetic part of the competition was over. We were moving on to the talent section. I often sang to myself as I bathed, but dancing? What cause would I have had for that? I was the other woman. The bastard never took me to places where he could put me on display. Cheek to cheek dancing in a dark private club was not on the program for that audition. As I approached the instructor for my turn I could feel all of the other, probably professional, dancers eyeing me with no less contempt than I would have for some hack pretending to know what they were doing on my turf. As the pops introduced the record and he offered me his hand, I thought back to standing on my father's feet as we waltzed around the tiny living room. The way Mama would weakly smile at me every time I spun to face her. Six days before her funeral was the last time anyone danced in that house. I hadn't even noticed the music come in but my feet were keeping up with the man, step for step. Three rounds of dancing and seven rejections later, we were a dance crew of six, designated to show the older gentlemen of Club Rialt a good time. I didn't mind being passed from grandfather to grandfather. The music was intoxicating. The atmosphere electric. The flavor of the nightlife was exactly what I had been missing in my recipe of happiness. And then Blaine Anderson blew in with his own special spice. One that smelled of a woody mint, if I remembered correctly.

He stood at the top of the stairs next to a man painted in his image. Two devilishly handsome men dressed in celestial white. His smile had been the brightest light in the room as he set his eyes on me, waving his twin off with two fingers of his right hand. Not a limb nor a garment touched him as he glided across the room of swaying bodies and gave my aching toes a relief from being beneath the weight of a Teddy Roosevelt imitator's heavy hooves.

"He doesn't really seem your type."

"I'm not in much of a position to be picky."

"Ah. You're selling yourself short, sweetheart. Times are changing. I'd suggest you change with em."

He pulled me to him for a peck on the cheek just before he spun me away, the band starting in on The Continental right on cue. I can still remember the way he set my heart aflutter when he dipped his head to kiss my hand, his eyes still on mine.

"You move well."

"I have to, mister. Don't think I'd be paid much otherwise."

"And here I was thinking you and the grizzly were thataway. Well you definitely earn your wages… Miss."

His kicks were swift as the tips of his perfectly shined black and white Stacy Adams ruffled the hem of my pale green cotton dress. His flash was enough to make me not care about his sustenance.

"My folks named me Brittany. But you can continue to call me Miss if you like."

"Name's Blaine Anderson and since I think you'd probably slap my ears flat against the back of my head in front of all these lovely people if I called you Mrs. Blaine Anderson this soon, I'll just say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Britt."

"Wise choice, Mr. Anderson."

We danced another dance before he whisked me off the floor and out of the view of club management. His twin who was not his twin, but his cousin, had a table and 3 dizzy tizzys, one of which I presumed was for me but liquor would never be my vice. Sebastian sat silently sipping his two drinks as I familiarized myself with the second instance of a man that I could match step for step. But he matched me just as well. He plucked that glint of fame right out of my sparkling eyes that night we met in the club with plans of immortality. His name was going to be known forever as well as the name of anyone attached to him. Headed for Metropolis, he told me, the city of promise where even the most useless bum could discover his purpose. No one slept. The stars in the night sky only existed to illuminate one's path to success. He was just looking for that last final piece for his act. Something spectacular. I bit that hook and chomped my way right on up the line. I hadn't been a dreamer for long but I knew the life of an entertainer was the only dream that made me happy. Another man with sweet promises and I became that reserved pretty girl again. The ice block had melted. It wasn't a month before I was a Mrs. and handing off my bouquet to Sugar Motta, who took the title of maid of honor as serious as a heart attack; til death do she and I part.

It was karma. What else could explain it? I kill a sharp man with a slick tongue and get far enough away just to hitch my wagon to a meticulously slick man with the sharpest tongue. But the way he looked at me was different from most men. I wasn't a lamb and he wasn't a lion. He made me believe we were equals but with each grimy venue that his foolish magic act dragged me through, it became clearer that he was just another smooth talker who fancied himself a modern Gepetto and me the marionette missing my strings. Perhaps even I believed it myself. Maybe my perils weren't exactly the same as Pinocchio's but the escape from home was a familiar plight. Even with all his deceptions, I stayed by Blaine's pathetic side, knowing my place and not asking questions. After all, he'd given me a ride to the city of my dreams and, eventually, my very own stage to live them out on. There was no doubt in my mind that I could have killed another man but I knew I hadn't killed this one. I wasn't a murderess. Just a prime example of Darwin's theory in action. It's only natural for a lady to wanna protect herself. The lies from Blaine's serpent tongue had never marred my skin. A little sting to my ego would never drive me to daggers and bullets. At least I'd hope not. But it was clear that my past was catching up with me and doling out its own form of justice at somebody else's hand. Treated like a common criminal, I was. My name dragged through the mud and all for something I didn't do. But it was his name too. Even from six feet under, the shiny nickel of a man was entertaining the masses. He'd made a promise and kept it. No one in the nation would ever forget the name of Brittany Anderson or Britt Noir. Too bad Arizona was in that nation. My face plastered on all the major rags. Even if they never read the words, the image was enough to spark some interest. "The mug of an angel, heart of a killer!" one newsboy had shouted as he shoved the papers at the windows of the cars waiting for the green light. Court hadn't even been in session a fortnight when the clever slogans started ruining my smoke breaks. An angel with the heart of a killer might have ripped his freckles off his face then and there but I understood he had a job to do. Anything to earn a few cents. So there I was again. In the back of a cab, my suitcase already picked up from my former apartment and wondering about my next destination, knowing my arrival would be accompanied by the soothing sounds of screeching metal. I chanced a glance at the woman who had dared to care about my freedom even with her doubts about my innocence. When we first met she had looked at me like the men do. Like I was a lamb in need of saving. But she was no shepherd. She was a field mouse looking for a dry home for the night. I couldn't tell if her opinion of me had changed or not but that was my fault for playing on her obvious weakness. She was a caped crusader without a civilian to rescue. I blew her a kiss and a wish that she'd still be in good spirits when she eventually followed the aroma of my perfume to an envelope in her desk drawer. Without another thought of the remnants behind me, I looked forward to the next foothold with an anxious heart.

"We can go, driver."

My dearest Santana,

I don't expect you to understand this completely but I implore you to at least try. You have been my hero as well as my conscience these past few weeks. They say a girl should be well trained in the art of dance. It's perfect practice for being able to know what a guy's going to do before he does it. I'm grateful you're not a dancer or you'd have stopped the taxi before I could even enter it. There's far too much about my past that you don't know and I would prefer that it stayed that way. But I must admit that your profession has kept me in fear of that not being in my control. I could ask you to forget the person I used to be but I doubt that would do. I don't take you much for the forgetful type. I'm sure we'll meet again but for now I need to go where the wind takes me. Some of us just aren't built sturdy enough to withstand the breeze. I'm so sorry for doing it this way but I hope my words reach you before someone else relays this message in a less pleasant tone. Please keep an eye on my sweet Sugar. I honestly don't know for sure who's to blame for my husband's death and I wouldn't want to return to this beautiful city for another funeral. Be nice to her. Get to know her. Who knows? She may surprise you.

I've been a lot of places but nothing will ever measure up to this city you call home. But the most beautiful of all has been the rain. Everything made the color of wet cement, the heat still unrelenting to the cool drips of water pouring from the clouds. That bittersweet smell that wafts through the city. Would you think me peculiar if I said it's what I imagine morning dew to smell like? It's that promise of a brand new day that comes after the rain. How the sunrise makes all the remaining droplets sparkle across the city. That's you. You were my summer rain and I will never forget that, Santana. Thank you for giving me a new day.

Until we meet again,

Britt

XX

A/N: NEMO's dedication: To Ginger(s everywhere).