So sorry for such a long wait for an update. Life sorta happened all at once. With exams, the holidays, the new year and some serious re-conceptualizing, I've finally got back into the swing of things. I will now try to update bi-weekly. Or sooner depending on my schedule. Now I'm trying something new by alternating 1st person POV's and I want to know what you guys think of it. If you guys hate it or prefer the way it was; don't hesitant to shot me a review and let me know.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Glee, not Nike, not Amy Winehouse...Nada. Although I did make up the Blue Mic Club. That's mine
Santana POV
Running in Central Park has become my favorite past time since I moved to New York. It started out as a just a short cut to my favorite bagel shop in the morning but quickly turned into a run through and then a part of my morning routine. Even though it's kind of cliché to say that I run through the park to take in the sights; it's 100 percent true. I run through to appreciate the trees. The leaves. The lake. The venders. The people but mostly the women. Hell, solely the women. If there is one place pretty women in New York seem to be found (besides the night club scene); it's in Central Park. Taking in all of the loveliness. Just like me. And I've been pretty lucky in the women catching department too. Like this one time a few months back…
I was out on my usual morning run when I decided to stop at one of the venders for a bottle of cold water. It was a crazy hot day for October in New York and I felt like I was bout to die from heat stroke. So anyway, after I got my water, I took a seat next to some young black girl. She was dressed in running shorts and a tank top and was cradling a water bottle just like me. She was pretty cute and from what I could tell, had a pretty athletic build. Like a dancer or runner or something. My favorite type of girl. So it was just my luck when she tore herself away from the water bottle and asked me a simple, non-flirtatious question. "Are those the new Nike cross trainers?" At first, I was thinking 'What the hell is she talking about?' but then she pointed at my shoes. OH.
"Yup," I said, taking another sip of my water bottle. "I just got them about a week ago."
"Oh really? Where'd you get them from? Because I've looked in all the sneaker places around here and I can't seem to find any in my size." She turned her body slightly so that her knees were nearly touching mine. Flirting 101: if a person turns their body to face you in a conversation; they are interested in something about you. All I needed to know then was if she was interested in me or just my damn cockblocking footwear. "I actually got them online on the Nike website. They have them in all makes, colors and sizes so whatever you want; they probably got 'em."
"Yeah. I might just do that. Are you sure they have alotta color options? Because I don't wanna get something that would look totally tacky on me." And there was my window. Cue the Lopez charm.
"Well I'm sure you could wear any color, even a ridiculous one like jade green and still look hot," I said, turning to face her completely. Not my best line, I know but I could tell that I worked from the way that her eyes lit up and small smile appeared on her face. It was then when I realized how pretty she really was with her hair pulled up in a loose pony tail, no makeup and a thin layer of sweat on her face, neck and cleavage. Yup. She was definitely someone I wouldn't mind taking home with me.
"So, you think I'm hot?" she asked, playing with the end of her ponytail. Girl Flirting 101: when a girl is actively flirting, she either plays with her hair, bats her eyes, or both. The latter is a bit cliché nowadays but the former has definitely but proven true by trial and error so I dove right in with the full on Lopez charm. "Yeah. Definitely. Not even the marvelous glow of the autumn leaves can hold a candle to how naturally gorgeous you are." Hell yeah. I'm poetic. It sorta developed during my angst filled, sexually repressed, heartbroken point in my teenage life. I spent many a night tucked away in my room for hours writing poetry that ranged from 'I hate my life and I wish I could disappear' to 'I can't imagine a day without your lips gently caressing my own'. But after graduation and Brittany (the source of my love pain) moved to California to be a dancer and I moved to New York to go to Colombia, I used my newfound interest in poetry to pick up women. They absolutely love all that shit and surprise surprise; it works every time. "I bet you use that line a lot," she said, sliding closer until our hips and thighs were touching. Even with the slight fall breeze, my legs felt like fire when her skin met mine. Now all I had to do was get us both naked and then we'd be getting somewhere. "Not really. It's the first time actually. How's it working?"
"Decent."
"Decent enough for you to give me your name and number so I can call you sometime?" She looked at the water in her hands, probably mulling it over or whatever shit girls always seem to think about to make people anxious. Eventually, she looked up at me with (wait for the cliché…wait for it…) sexy, big brown eyes (there it is) that were so dark under the light of the sun that they were almost onyx. "Yeah sure. Why not?" she said, reaching in her pocket and fishing out her cell. "Give me your phone." I reached into my pocket and when she handed me hers, I handed her mine. I typed in my cell number and watched and waited as she quickly did the same. Then we traded back. "There you go," she said, peering down at the recent contact in her phone, "Santana."
"Thanks," I looked at the new name in my contacts, "Rebecca. That's cute." She smiled and got up from the bench and stood in front of me.
"I look forward to the call, Santana."
"Count on it."
What was the point of that little tale? Well not only did I get her name and number that day but I also got a dinner date and some very steamy sex the following night. Long story short: running through the park has proven to be very beneficial to my sex life. Since then I've met, went out and had sex with four girls I met in Central Park. Let's go down the list. First, there was Sage: the biker chick lesbian from Montana. She was watching one of those random street painters when we made eye contact. The next thing I knew, she was fucking the hell out of me in the back of my car after our very short dinner date. Probably should've called her back for a second helping. Oh well.
Second, there was Olivia: the 19 year old Colombian lesbian. She was resting by the fountain during her lunch break or something. She said "Hola". Then I said, "Hola. ¿Cómo estás sexy?" and all I had to do was speak a little dirty to her in Spanish and her panties practically fell off.
Third, there was Erica: the voluptuous, bisexual blonde. What the fuck is it with blondes being bisexual? But I digress. She was apparently new to the whole bisexual thing so I was more than willing to show her that women are much better than men at pretty much everything. Sex especially.
And finally, there was Emily. Oh Emily. The adorable 18 year old questioning straight girl who I happily corrupted by convincing her that sex was the only way to find out if you're gay or not. Not complete bullshit but not the truth either. But hey, it worked and I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian now so all-in-all, I helped her so mission accomplished.
So today, I'm pretty much hoping for the same result to help me get over that disaster that was Carla. All the shit with her made me realize picking up chicks in the club isn't the best way. I barely knew a thing about her because with all the alcohol induced sexy dancing we did at the club, we never actually had time to talk before we were fucking back at my apartment. Not much conversation there. At least when I meet girls in the park, I actually talk to them and get to know them a bit before I sleep with them. Hey see. I'm not completely a cold-hearted, womanizing bitch. Anymore at least.
It's a bit chillier than I was expecting when I first ran out (well it is February in New York so I have no idea what the fuck I was thinking when I ran out of my damn apartment without a fucking jacket on). So basically, I'm fucking freezing in my little shirt and shorts in the middle of Central Park. Excelente. But the Lord somewhere up above has made it so that my normal water bottle vender guy is now a hot chocolate guy. Gracias al Señor. I run up to him and he immediately pours a seemingly piping hot cup of hot chocolate, puts a lid and a sleeve on it before handing it to me. I take it eagerly. "You do realize that it's February in New York," the big black man asks, laughing at me practically inhaling the piping hot liquid. God that feels so good. "So what got you out here almost naked, girl?"
"I…I…I got di…di…distracted," I shivered.
"Hard to keep focused when kicking another pretty but loose girl from your apartment, huh?" I look up from my cup at him with what anyone could interpret as a 'what the fuck' face. "Oh don't look at me like that, Santana. I've known you for two years now and I know you have bad habit of hooking up with girls you tend to pick up here."
"What? I like sex," I say, nonchalantly.
"That may be true. But not once. Not once have I ever seen you with the same girl twice."
"Well I like sex with a lot of different people."
"I know you're better than this Santana." Oh God. Is he seriously trying to judge me right now? Mr. Hot chocolate vender man is judging me on my life choices? Oh this is rich.
"Look, I know you think you know me and you may think that I'm better than fucking girls until they scream my name and kicking them out on their asses before the sun comes up but really, I'm not. I have absolutely no problem with the way I live and why be better or do better when I'm happy just the way I am?" I challenge.
"No you're not."
"How the fuck do you know what I am and what I'm not?"
"Because I can see it in your eyes." Cliché much. "I hear you saying that you're okay with the way that you live and all I see in your eyes is anger and pain," What the hell? Pain? "So don't beat the shit out of me or anything for doing this but I have to ask. Who was it that broke you so badly that you've convinced yourself that you don't need to love? Or be loved?" I can feel the anger, the disgust, the hurt, the everything building up inside of me and I hate it. The rage is slowly taking control over me and I hate not being in control. "No one fucking broke me," I start releasing my rage from its leash and letting it consume me. "There's nothing about me that needs to be fixed," I spit back with the red hot intensity almost enough to warm my entire body.
"Then why, Santana? Why go about going from girl after girl after girl after girl after,"
"BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING BETTER THAN BEING ALONE, CALVIN!" He takes a step back and I can see that he's scared shitless. Which is surprising I can see him at all considering my vision is kinda clouded by the darkness running fast through my veins. I wish someone can see us now. This small, half naked, shivering Latina posting up against a big black guy. When he doesn't speak, I continue. "Because I'd rather feel pleasure than nothing at all. I felt nothing for so long that it's good to feel again."
"Who or what made you feel nothing? Or better yet; like you are nothing? What made you so jaded?"
"NO ONE, GODDAMMIT! Calvin, no one did a goddamn thing to me to make me feel like this. Like I did. But I just did. But I don't now so just stand back, serve your whack ass hot chocolate, shut the fuck up and stay out of my fucking private life because it's none of your fucking business. Got it?" He initially shakes his head but then concedes and nods. "Good. Now you have a very nice fucking day, Calvin," I say snidely, turning to jog far away from this impromptu therapy session.
"You too, Miss Lopez. You too." I hear him say softly. His words are dripping with disappointment and while most people should feel guilt or have some life changing revelation or some shit like that but, as usual, I feel nothing. Not the biting wind against my face, torso and legs. Not the burning rage that has enveloped my body not just a minute ago. Nothing. The same nothing I feel every night when I go to sleep. The same nothing I feel when I have sex with girl after girl after girl. The exact same nothing I feel when I kick each and everything one of them out of my place in the morning. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
Rachel POV
What the hell does one even wear to a jazz club anyway? And in Brooklyn? I have different outfits for the opera, the theatre, cocktail parties and even some for the regular club but a jazz club? Why did I even agree to this? "What the hell? Did Macy's throw up in here?" I turn around and find Becka standing at my bedroom door staring at the very large amount of clothing thrown haphazardly about my bed, floor and closet. Told you I couldn't think of a thing to wear.
"What does one wear to this jazz club you and Caroline insist on taking me to?" I ask, returning to sift through the pile of dresses in the closet floor.
"Something nice," she says. Really? I hadn't thought of that, smart ass. My face must being saying just that because she adds, "And not a 'night at the theatre' nice. More like '1st date' nice. A sexy dress or skirt, nice heels, modest jewelry,"
"Got it." Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the perfect dress hanging in my closet. The only one still hanging up actually. "So how'd you hear about this place anyway?" I ask from behind my closet door, while trying to put on the dress.
"Well…uh…a…friend, yeah a friend, from some time ago told me about it." I can't help but hear the uneasiness in her voice when she says friend. Definitely gonna have to ask about that one later. But for right now, I'm just gonna go with the "friend" story. "She said that it was the best jazz club in New York." So it's a she, huh? "Not sure how she knew that but when I went there to check it out last weekend,"
"The weekend I was editing the script," I interrupt, thinking back to that almost "lost weekend" that consisted of me, my script and a bottle of moderately tasting Chardonnay.
"Yeah well, I went there and the atmosphere was so relaxing and music was so good that I guess she was sorta right. So now I pass this knowledge onto you, oh stressed out one." Finished. And I definitely think I picked the right dress. I can't really tell how it looks on me but it does feel nice.
"What do you think about this one?" I ask stepping out from behind my closet door to reveal the scandalously short, dangerously tight, black single strap cocktail dress.
"That, oh stressed out one, is THE dress," she says, placing her hands on my bare shoulders and turning me to face the mirror. Well damn. I know I felt good in this dress but I didn't know I looked this good. Why haven't I worn this dress out before? I've only had it for like a month and it still has the tags on it. Why haven't I been out…oh yeah. The musical.
Taking in all that the dress accentuated, I just barely miss Becka checking out my ass in the mirror. Oy vey, are all my roommates gay? Or at least not completely straight? "You know, with all that Caroline says and the way that you're looking at my ass right now, it's hard to believe that only me and Gavin are gay," I say, turning around to draw her attention from my ass. She takes longer than expected to return her gaze to my eye level but when she does, of course she has a creeper grin across her face.
"Hey, calm your tits woman," she says crossing her arms across her chest, "I'm not gay so I'm not gonna jump you or anything." Wasn't thinking that at all.
"Okay. I believe you." Not really. "For now. Now get out of my room so I can get out of this dress."
"Okay sexy mama," she says walking over to the door. "We're leaving at 7 so be ready by then."
"Alright." She winks at me before exiting my room. I'm seriously starting to believe that the theory that says that all people involved in musical theater are gay applies to women as well. Either that or my gaydar selected my roommates for me instead of my common sense. Turning around again, I get a better look at the dress and Becka is right. It's not too fancy but not too casual. The short length shows off my dancer's legs. The single shoulder strap shows off my toned arms and shoulders. The tight fit shows of my curves and pushes up the little cleavage that I have. All-in-all; I look pretty damn sexy. What time is it now? About 5. Which means I have two hours to take a shower, dry my hair, get dressed and do my makeup.
###
Shower? Finished. Hair? Dried and flat ironed. Dress? Put on. Heels? Found, put on and destined to turn every possible head. Now time for makeup. Looking into the mirror, I can actually see the dark circles under eyes. Maybe Caroline and Becka are right. I do need a break. I've been working on this play since the summer after junior year and since the New Year, I've been busting my butt to cast, direct, and put on the whole thing. Who knew that directing would be so much work? Why Artie wants to do this as a career, I will never know. And I definitely have a greater respect for the expertise of Stephen Spielberg. But anyway, maybe going out will help to clear my head and calm my nerves. And if I'm lucky, maybe I'll find a girl to play my leading lady. In the play, of course. If not, at least I can drink away my anxiety to the tender whine of the saxophone.
###
When we pull into the parking lot across from the club at around 7:45, I look out of Caroline's red Camry window at the very well lit club. Well, more specifically, the Blue Mic Club. Why the hell would someone name a club that? It isn't until we get inside that I find out why. It's a nice little club. Dim lighting. Small rectangular dance floor in front of the stage. Tables scattered all about. Bar to the right of the entrance. Stage in the back right corner. Quaint yet somewhat cozy. "So? What do you think?" Caroline asks me as the three of us sit at a small table near the dance floor.
"It's nice," I say, still trying to take in all the sights, sounds and smells around me. The sight of all the people dressed formally wandering about between the bar, the entrance and the tables. The sound of the band softly playing from the stage, setting the mood with the low rumble of the drums, the soft whine of the saxophone and the melodic tune of the keyboard. The smell of wine and other spirits cascading around the entire place, filling my lungs with their strong scent. As cliché as it is, I will still say that the entire place is incredibly intoxicating. I can definitely see myself hanging out in a place like this from time to time.
"Just nice?" Becka says, looking at me curiously.
"Yes. It's nice," I repeat. "I'm not sure I would say that it's the best jazz club in ALL of New York but based on the atmosphere alone, it's certainly in the top 5."
"Oh is that so?" I nod. "Oh. Okay. Well then just wait until you get a taste of the best wine ever and listen to the best jazz music since Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald." She then raises her hand to signal one of the waiters to come to our table.
"I'll believe when I taste it." I don't doubt that the wine here is pretty good because just about everyone here has some type in their wine glasses but 'the best jazz music since Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald'? I highly doubt that. But hey, maybe close enough is good enough to be enjoyable. "I heard that there's this sexy ass chick that sings on nights and weekends who has a body to kill for and a voice that is not only good enough to be a gift from the heavens but sultry enough to turn any and everyone on." Oh Caroline. Always the one to make me question your sexuality.
"Oh and where did you hear this bit of information that you seem so interested in finding out?" I ask, looking at the stage as the band stops playing and two men come to place a single wooden stool in the center of the stage.
"Rachel, sweetheart, I'm a music major," I roll my eyes at her sarcastic tone, "who also happens to be in charge of finding talent for your musical. So naturally I look around and keep my ears open."
"So that's why we're here?" Oh ulterior motives.
"Well…"
"Hello ladies. How can I help you?" We all look up to find a tall, dirty blonde male waiter standing in front of our table. Despite the goatee, he sort of looks like an older version of Sam Evans but I'm pretty sure I know everyone from McKinley High that's in New York so that's not possible.
"Yes, you can," Becka says taking the lead. "Can you get us a bottle of Chardonnay, three glasses and a plate of your fresh vegan breadsticks?" He quickly scribbles down our order on his pad.
"Okay. Got it. Will that be all?" he asks looking between the three of us.
"Yes. Thank you," Caroline says.
"Well alright. I'll be right back with your drinks and it'll take a few minutes for the breadsticks," We all nod in understanding. We do want them fresh, right? "If you need anything else, my name is Kevin," not Sam Evans (told you I know everybody in New York from McKinley), "so just give me a yell."
"Thank you Kevin," we all say simultaneously. He nods, puts his pad in his pocket then walks away towards the bar. Once he's out of earshot, I simply say, "He's cute."
"And why should you care? You're gay now," Becka says.
"Not for me." Duh. "For one of you," I correct while taking notice to the small middle aged, Italian looking man approaching the mic and the bunches of people finding tables to sit at.
"He's a little too tall for me," Caroline says.
"He's a little too white for me," Becka adds. Oh my friends. Why I have them, I have no idea.
"Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the Blue Mic club." We turn in our seats to face the stage and give the man our undivided attention. "As some of you all know, I'm Carmine," (told you. Italian), "your MC for the night. I see some familiar faces in the audience tonight and some lovely new faces," he says, looking right at us. Oh and perfect timing Kevin who just arrived with our drinks. He sets the bottle on the table and places a wine glass in front of each of us. "Thank you," I say as he walks away. He turns around, nods then walks away. Not a very talkative one. Unlike the man on stage who's been going off on a joke that I'm pretty sure most people have already checked out on. I'll take this time to fill my glass and really get this little adventure started. "Well enough of my ramblings."
"Finally," I mumble, taking the first sip of the so-called "best wine ever" and dear Lord, Becka is so right. Even if this place isn't 5 Star, they sure have 5 Star taste in wine. "Well we have some great talents tonight that I know you're gonna absolutely love but first up to start us off, the lovely lady of Blue Mic and my second daughter, Sanita." He then quickly leaves the stage. The audience starts to clap (which I immediately join in on), the lights dim and a spotlight appears center stage; set on the lone stool, the mic stand and the apparently famous bright blue microphone.
The band starts to play and I immediately recognize the tune as that of Amy Winehouse's (R.I.P) "Back to Black". Now that's a throw back if I ever heard one. I think that last time I heard someone sing that was back in junior year in high school. Santana Lopez. She was auditioning for a solo for Nationals and with the combination of her raspy voice and sensual stage performance, I even thought (just for a second) that she would get the solo over me. But in the end, neither of us got a solo thanks to Mr. Schue and his damn "let's work as a team" crap which in the end did sort of work for us. Sort of. But I'm going off on tangent here. Back to the stage.
As the band continues to play the intro, out saunters one of the sexiest bodies I've ever had the fortune to see. Like seriously a perfect testament to the female form and I haven't even seen her face yet. She has it bowed and facing the band bobbing to the beat but if the front is half as good as the side I'm seeing right now, tonight might not be as much of a complete waste as I thought. The mystery woman is a light caramel color with long black hair pushed over one shoulder and is dressed in a simple red strapless dress that stops just above mid thigh and is almost criminally tight. Like I can almost map out every muscle in her body as she sways to the rhythm of the music. She has on a pair of black 4 inch peep toe stilettos and I would kill for calf muscles like hers. And don't get me started on her ass. And… okay, I feel like a bit of a creep checking out this anonymous woman's ass but what an ass to check out.
The band lowers their volume slightly and as the woman starts the opening verse, she turns to face the crowd.
He left no time to regret.
Kept his lips wet.
HOLY SHIT. It can't be. Not here. Not now. Not in New York. I must be dreaming. I know everything about everyone and this can't be possible. What the hell kind of witchcraft is this? "Oh what the hell?" I hear Becka say to the right. I whip my head around and I swear her face has the same shocked expression I have.
"What?" Caroline asks, taking the very word right out of my mouth.
"That's the," she puts up air quotes, "'friend' I was talking about earlier," Becka whispers.
"The one who told you about this place?" I ask before returning my gaze to increasing familiar sounding and looking woman on stage giving Amy Winehouse a run for her money.
"Well yeah but she's also the friend the park."
"What park?" I ask, never tearing my eyes away from the stage, unconsciously hypnotized by the way the singer moved fluidly about the stage.
"Holy crap! Is she the one that picked you up at the park, wined and dined you, got you to have sex with her and then kicked you out of her apartment before the sun came up? That 'friend'? Carolina asks. That got my attention.
"Wait what? You had sex with a girl?" I almost yell but remember that we are in a public place and in the middle of someone's performance. In response, Becka just bows her head and nods. What the fucking hell? Have I been so caught up with writing my damn musical that I've completely missed out on the several major plot developments within the lives of my real life friends? "Omigod, when did this happen?" I whisper.
"A while ago. Like October or something," she answers. What the hell was I doing in October to distract from the fact that one of my apparently straight roommates hooked up with a girl who I'm increasing starting recognize. "She was so hot and charming." I understand. "She was so sweet and nice." That, I don't so much understand. "And I was experimenting. So one thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was out on my ass outside her apartment in my underwear." Okay, that's kinda mean. Looking up at the woman hypnotizing the audience with the way that she powers through the song with little effort at all, I hope to God that Becka is mistaken about which woman was which. I mean, my old high school rival was a bitch but she wasn't that cold-hearted and disrespectful. Well, most of the time. Me, Finn, and Mr. Schue sort of got special hate. So to clarify, I ask, "Do you happen to remember this girl's name?" I cross my fingers and silently pray that she doesn't say…
"Santana. Santana Lopez." Shit.
"So you're saying that that woman," I point to the stage, "right there is named Santana Lopez?" She nods. "And she's the 'friend' who charmed you right into your bed?"
"Yeah, Rach. Haven't we been through this? Keep up," Caroline throws in her two cents and I toss back my best "shut the hell up" glare. I redirect my attention to the darker girl who has sorta slumped back in her seat a bit and is just lazily swirling her wine around in her glass.
"Don't sound so disappointed in me," she says, softly. A bit too softly and that's when I realize how my statement must of sounded to her. "Charmed you right into her bed"? I made it sound like she was just some gullible, sexually confused girl who got seduced by a succubus. Holy crap. Maybe that's what I need for my musical?
But right now, I have to deal with my friend. "Honey, I'm not disappointed in you," I say, reaching across the table and taking her free hand in both of mine. "I cannot tell you how to live your life and who to live it with."
"Oh thanks," she scoffs.
"No sweetie, I'm just sorta disappointed in her, is all."
"Why, you know her?"
"Back story required. Please fill in the blanks," Caroline chimes in. Before I can answer, I notice the woman, who I now can accurately identify as the older version of Santana Lopez leaving the stage and approaching our table. I look back at my friends to find any reason to not look the seductress in the eye but they are so entranced by her movements that I'm almost forced to meet her gaze and when her eyes grow large for a split second, I'm pretty sure she can recognize me. But if she does, she doesn't seem to care because her eyes narrow and I finally understand what it feels like to be preyed upon. That way that she's slinking over to our table, eyes linked with mine, is reminiscent of that of a snake in the sand. So beautiful and captivating but from past experience, deadly. I see how Becka could have fallen for into her arms. The Santana Lopez I knew was hot, talented, smart and so, so strong-willed. But she was also manipulative, blunt, vindictive, possessive and very capable of flirting her way out of any and everything. Now the woman I see circling me with her free hand sliding on the back of my chair, she is downright alluring. And I can't tear my eyes away. I know I shouldn't want to but I really need to talk to her after this. I need to know what's she's been up and what's she doing in New York and… Oh God, it's really hard to think when she's walking around, looking at me like that. I can't tell if it's just for the performance or lust but some part of me hopes that it's the latter. But doesn't the king cobra make eye contact with its prey before it strikes? Do I wanna take the risk and be like Becka? Bitten and forgotten?
So there you have it. I'm finishing this at 3 am so I might have missed some typos or whatever. All mistakes are my own.
So, Why is Santana so jaded? What happened to her in the last four years? Plus, Rachel sees Santana for the first time in four years and both seem pretty interested in the other. Does Santana recognize Rachel? Is she just flirting for the performance or is she really attracted to the older Rachel? Will Rachel talk to her and take the risk of being "bitten"? Shot me a review and we'll see.
Till next time.