Chapter 4
Mercedes and Tina had taken their lunch to the quad to enjoy the clear spring afternoon. The hardworking student had gotten a full night's rest the night before, and woke up giving herself a pat on the back for not turning to the bottle again.
"So, how long until the big day?" Tina asked, setting her empty food container on the bench next to her and crossing her legs.
"What big day?"
"Bryan Ryan Day!"
"Oooohhhh! Two weeks! I have it marked on my calendar and everything."
"Aw, with a big red heart?" the ebony-haired girl said, fluttering her lashes.
"And a kiss," Mercedes added, puckering up.
"Maybe you could finally give it up to Bryan Ryan. That would be one hell of a first time," she paused, "Unless he's bad at it. That would be a different kind of hell. Anyway, I'm sure he hasn't got women clamoring for his washed up attention these days."
"Oh my God, you sound like Tana! What is up with you two throwing so much shade at him?" Mercedes laughed. "He's hot! He probably gets some on the regular. And how is that supposed to make me feel, huh? He's desperate enough to sleep with me?" she took a sip of her mango smoothie, cocking an eyebrow at her friend.
"You know that's not what I meant. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. I mean, if I didn't have Mike..."
Mercedes cackled, nearly spitting out her drink. "Shut up!"
"Just imagine. You could be all," Tina struck a demure pose, lowering her voice into a purr, "Oh Bry, you're so fly..."
Throwing her head back in raucous laughter, Mercedes waved off the comment. "I just pretend that line isn't in the song."
Little did Tina know, Mercedes had been toying with the idea of trying her hand at seduction with Bryan. In fact, it had been in the back of her mind for years, but as silly teenage thoughts. She never dreamed she'd ever be in the position of actually meeting him. He was a superstar...or had been, at least. Santana had known about it from the start, and immediately made fun of her.
"He's going to bust out some of those sexy dances moves while he's doing his thing," Santana said, providing a demonstration by grinding the corner of Mercedes' desk.
Another day, Mercedes had promptly fallen onto her bed, screaming into the pillow for her to be quiet when she exclaimed, "You'll be singing high notes you never hit in church when he tickles those ovaries!"
"When you do it, can the dirty talk be the lyrics to one of his songs?" she'd said in lieu of goodbye after a long phone conversation while Mercedes was away on a family vacation.
"BYE, Santana."
The ridicule had died down for a while, but was regaining steam with the meet-and-greet day approaching.
"Anyway, two weeks. You should come by the store," Mercedes said to Tina.
"Oh, I'll be there!" she replied with a grin, "My mom loves him."
Meanwhile, Sam and Quinn were taking their break on the loading dock behind Castle in front of the painting of Beyonce sprayed on the wall. Quinn was enjoying a cigarette while they made light conversation, but a lull gave Sam an opportunity to make an observation. "You seem different."
Quinn blew out a puff of smoke with a smirk. "Different how?"
"Like...sad. You barely smile anymore," Sam said honestly and she looked over at him, her smile faltering for a moment before she restructured it.
Quinn shrugged, brushing her bangs to the side and taking a drag. "I've never been too smiley anyway."
"That's not true, Quinn." She pursed her lips, silently asking if he was serious. "Well, not entirely true. Things at your apartment, good?"
"They're okay."
"And Puck?"
"Probably the only good thing I have going right now," Quinn said absently. She noticed Sam's frown deepen. "Sam, I'm fine. Just the same shit I've been dealing with. Nothing new. I don't need my little brother acting like a third parent."
Sam bumped her shoulder. "I'm just watching your back."
"Trying to save me from myself?" she asked humorlessly, looking out toward the street.
He rested his arms on his knees, stating simply, "If I need to."
Quinn laughed softly. "All those comics must have gone to your head." Putting out her cigarette, she flicked it into the driveway and changed the subject. "Why don't you and the twins come over tonight? We'll have take-out."
"I can't. I have to work," Sam said sadly. It was Friday night, and he had a shift at Stallions. "You should go by the house. Mom and Dad will be happy to see you—"
"I find that hard to believe," she scoffed, still refusing to look at him. Every visit to her parents' house to date had ended with an argument that forced her to leave or a conversation that one or the other didn't want to have. Quinn could have been more patient with them, but Mr. and Mrs. Evans could have been more understanding.
"It's been a while."
"Not long enough."
"One of you is going to have to bend, eventually."
"And it's not going to be me!" she barked, startling Sam.
"...you sure you're okay, sis?"
"I'm fine," she said, abruptly standing and leaving her worried sibling seated on the concrete.
His talk with Quinn was still bothering him when he went to Stallions that night, but he had to put on his game face. Sam had to pay his dues over the past year to earn the right to work only Fridays and Saturdays, and he couldn't start slipping now. Tonight, he was dressed as the postal worker and whoever he gave his prop parcel to would receive a free private lap dance.
A police officer knocked on the dressing room door. "Bachelorette party out there, guys!"
"Hell yeah!" Charlie, the lifeguard, yelled with a fist pump.
There was going to be a lucky bride-to-be that night. And if he did a good job, her friends would probably pay for a few more dances.
As soon as "White Chocolate" was announced, Sam hit the stage and immediately started scanning the room for the group as he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the "package" held in place by the waistband of his shorts. They weren't hard to find, having worked themselves through the crowd to the front, waving money around like white flags. Sam made eye contact with the bride, a redhead wearing a sparkly tiara and a sash, and grinned wickedly at her, coaxing her forward with his index finger.
He licked his lips. "What's your name, darlin'?"
"M-M-Melanie," she stammered, giggling nervously.
Jumping down from the stage, a chorus of squeals burst forth from the other women with her as they gave him room. "Ms. Melanie, I've got something special for you, but I need you to help me out." He took her hands and placed them on his shoulders underneath the open fabric of his postman shirt. "Get me out of this first?" he requested sweetly.
Melanie's hands shook as she trailed them down his toned arms to push off his shirt. Sam caught it just before it fell to the floor and threw it back to the stage where one of the guys tossed it to the back. When he looked back at Melanie, her eyes were on his abs, and he cleared his throat.
"That's for you."
"Huh? Wha...?"
"This package is for you, but you have to take it yourself if you want it." He held out his hand in invitation and she looked around at her girlfriends, all wondering why she was taking so long. After she placed her hand lightly in his, Sam set it on his chest, giving her permission to go ahead.
Trailing a path down to the fake packing envelope, she removed the "free lap dance" voucher from his waist, and Sam took off his dark blue board shorts to reveal a smaller and tighter navy blue pair. It was then that he noticed the one girl in the group dressed in a light pink skater dress, frozen to her spot and staring at him—not like a piece of meat, but in shock. They made eye contact.
"Sam?" she mouthed.
His eyebrows scrunched in confusion as his brain made the connection. "Rachel?" he asked himself just before realization hit and he exclaimed, "RACHEL!" Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to a private room while catcalls surged from the rest of her party and Melanie looked lost.
"You work here?" Rachel asked once they were behind the curtain.
Sam looked down at himself, in nothing but a hat, shoes, and tiny shorts that suddenly had him feeling overexposed. "Obviously. Are you with the bachelorette party?"
"Yes, Melanie and I grew up together. She's like a cousin, but we aren't really related," she explained. "Does Mercedes know?"
Why would she ask that? "Wha—no, no one knows. Well, now you know, but you can't tell anyone."
"Sam, even though it's not the most respectful career, you shouldn't be ashamed of being a stripper." The pseudo-postman nearly gagged at the way her eyes raked over him.
He started pacing. "I'm not ashamed of being a stripper. It's good money—"
"Dirty money."
Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "All money is dirty money. Think about it. Seriously, Rachel, don't tell. I don't want to have to explain this to my parents or my little brother and sister."
He didn't even want to think about the shit storm that would create. They already had one child who was hanging out with "rock stars," smoking, and not living up to the rest of their stubborn expectations. Sam was already on the watch-list. No need to add "stripper" to the strikes already against him.
"Okay, I understand. I won't say anything," Rachel replied, nodding.
"Thank you," he breathed in relief.
"Is this where you guys give the private dances?" she asked, looking around at the black and silver room.
He rubbed his bare bicep uncomfortably. "Yeah..."
"The color scheme is really unoriginal. They should add some red."
Satisfied with her own assessment, Rachel let herself out through the curtains, giving Sam some time to brace himself for what was sure to be an awkward night.