A/N: All rights belong to the writers, cast, and crew of Glee and Pretty Woman.
"Now, wait a minute. You don't seem to understand me."
The blonde paused on the stairway, peering over the rail to see who was out in the hall. It was one of the seeder people that rented out a flat, and the infamous landlord had him backed against the wall, hands up and pleading.
She shrunk away and bit her lip, realizing she would be his next victim. When was the last time they had paid their rent? Had Santana done it?
"That's my job," the landlord said, gruffly. "At the end of the month, I collect everybody's rent. Now give me the money, or you're outta here."
She backtracked to her room, checking the cash box they hid in the toilet only to find it empty. Cursing under her breath and planning on exacting revenge on San when she next saw her, the blonde heard a knock on the door and rushed over to the window, dropping out onto the fire escape, and scaled down the ladder, jumping the last platform to the ground.
For a landlord, he really wasn't too bright. He should have barred the window or something, because she definitely wasn't the first to use that avoidance tactic and she wouldn't be the last, either.
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she made her way down a few blocks and into the bar she knew she'd find Santana in. The fresh air began to wake her up, and she wondered if her roommate had come home at all. Then again, it was now six at night. This city had turned them both nocturnal.
"Welcome to Hollywood!"
She jumped a little, but smiled at the man when he waved around a sign. He winked at her. "Everybody comes to Hollywood got a dream. What's your dream? What's your dream?" He turned to another passerby. "Hey, mister? Hey, what's your dream?"
How was she supposed to know what she wanted? No one had dreams in this area. No one could afford to have dreams on these streets, the backyard of Hollywood.
"Detective Albertson. What happened?"
Quinn glanced into the alleyway, seeing a couple cops flashing badges and questioning a witness over chalk lines.
"Some chick. She bought it over there."
"What do you know about that girl?" the detective asked.
The witness shrugged. "I tell you, man. I don't know who she hang with."
"C'mon, guy. We just pulled her out of a Dumpster in the back. Who was her pimp?"
"Cocaine her pimp. She a strawberry." The guy glanced around. "She be out on these streets day in, day out, tradin' her sorry self for some crack."
The cop sighed. "And what do you do?"
"I cool," he said, throwing his hands up.
The blonde grimaced, forcing herself to walk away. Another sister down. How many would it take before she was next? Would she give it up in time?
"Hey, hey, hey! Excuse me!" The detective rounded on a family snapping photos. "Excuse me! What are you, from the press?"
"No, no. We're from Orlando," the wife responded, laughing.
The cop groaned. "Oh, I don't believe this. Do you—I got tourists photographing the body, Al."
The blonde shot the family a glare as she brushed past them. Seriously? That's how they do in Orlando? The Hills might have its faults, but at least everyone kept their distance from a scene that still had fresh chalk.
Stepping into the smoky bar, she stepped towards the bartender. "Hey, Pops, has Santana been in here?"
He nodded. "Upstairs in the poolroom."
She thanked him and turned to the stairway, making her way up.
"Ey, Quinn!" The blonde glanced up to see a still-drunk Santana barreling over to her with outstretched arms. She caught her roommate and tried to steady her. The brunette turned to the group of people with her.
Quinn scowled. "Is it all gone?"
San bit her lip and pointed to a guy leaning on a railing. "Israel, you know my roommate, Quinn." She nodded at the other guy sitting next to him with a joint. "This is Angel. That's the dude—"
"I know everybody!" Quinn snapped. "ls it all gone, S?"
The brunette backed away from her. "Israel sold me some great shit. We just had this party. I was the hostess."
"I can't believe you bought drugs with our rent," Quinn said, incredulous. "What is goin' on with you, San?"
The brunette shrugged. "I needed a little pick-me-up."
"Well, we need rent money!"
"Oh, calm down, chica."
"She only owes me a couple hundred more," Israel said.
Santana narrowed her eyes at him.
"Another two hundred dollars?" Quinn asks, glaring at her roommate.
"That was from way before," San protests.
"That's right," Israel clarifies, and turns to the blonde, eyeing her. "But if you wanna work off her money with me, we can work something out."
Santana rolls her eyes. "That's a very sweet offer, Israel, but not now."
Quinn stiffened under the frizzy haired guy's stare, ready to use him as a human punching bag if necessary.
"Come on, Q. Come downstairs." The brunette tugged at her arm and Quinn shot Israel one last glare before following her roommate to the bar.
"You took it while I was sleeping?" she asked, staring straight ahead.
Santana glanced at her. "You were unavailable for consultation. Besides, it's my apartment."
"Yeah, well, I have to live there too, S."
"Look, you came here," Santana pointed out. "I gave you some money. I gave you a place to stay... and some valuable vocational advice."
They both chuckled.
"He was on my case. I had to give him something," Santana finished, popping a peanut into her mouth. "So don't irritate me."
"Irritate you?" Quinn repeated, frowning. "I just saw a girl pulled out of a dumpster."
Santana sighed. "I know. Skinny Marie. But... she was a—a flake. She was a crack head. Dominic was trying to straighten her out for months."
A glass shattered against a wall and there was a skirmish next to the counter, which the bartender attempted to break up before getting shoved away. They watched it for a beat, quiet.
"Don't you want to get outta here?" Quinn murmured.
"Get outta where?" Santana said, her eyes turning cold. "Where the fuck you wanna go?"
Quinn set her jaw, regretting the question, strode out of the dimly lit joint. Santana followed her out, regardless, blinking against a setting sun.
The two of them walked a few blocks, before reaching their street. They took up their usual post, and Quinn lit a cigarette as she leaned against a building, watching Santana scare away any trespassers.
"Hey, hola, Tina."
"What?"
Santana smirked at her. "Yeah. You see the stars on the sidewalk, babe?
The woman glanced down, looking bored. "Yeah."
"Well, Quinn and me, we work Bob Hope, we work the Ritz Brothers, we work Fred Astaire, we work all the way down to Ella Fitzgerald." She sauntered up to the stray prostitute, making it clear that she wasn't going to move. The other woman backed up a little. "This is our turf. We got seniority. You better get off our corner."
"Forgive me. I was just takin' a rest here. I'm new."
"Yeah. Well, I'm old, so go rest up by Monty Hall or Esther Wilson."
"Williams," Quinn corrected absentmindedly.
"Esther Williams! Where you belong."
The younger woman slunk away, and Quinn pushed off the wall. She joined San on the sidewalk, eyeing the cars as they passed. "You know, you're really becoming a grouch."
She snorted. "Am I really a grouch?"
"Yes. Sometimes."
"Well, just 'cause I'm hungry. I'm gonna go get something to eat."
A car honked at them and some sweaty guy hung out the window. "Hey, girls!"
Quinn crinkled her nose, but Santana winked, playing her part. "Hey, yo, baby!"
"How about a freebie? It's my birthday."
Santana swore and flipped them off. "Dream on!"
Quinn laughed, then sighed. "It's lookin' really slow tonight."
"Yeah, well... maybe we should get a pimp, you know. Israel really digs you."
"And then he'll run our lives and take our money," Quinn said, pointedly. "No."
"You're right. We say who, we say when, we say how much."
Quinn nodded, and tussled the pink streaks in her hair. "Do you think it's too rebel?"
Santana looked her over. "No! I love this look. It's very punk. It's sexy."
The sound of brakes screeching distracted them, and Santana laughed. "Oh, yo, oh, yo. Catch this!"
The sports car was stopping short and jamming, and the (incompetent) driver pulled over to the side as the gears ground against each other.
Quinn squinted at it. "Wait a minute. That's a Lotus Esprit."
"No, that's rent," Santana said, smirking. "You should go for him. You look hot tonight."
Quinn nodded, and began to make her way over to the stalled car.
"Don't take less than a hundred. Call me when you're through," Santana called after her. "Take care of you!"
Quinn tapped her heart. "Take care of you."
The blonde took in a deep breath, running her hand through her choppy locks before shrugging off her coat, letting her now visible hips take over, swinging her weight side to side and gliding across the pavement.
She made it a point to have her exposed skin in view as she approached the sports car, waiting until the very last minute to bend over.
But when she leaned into the car window, she realized two things.
One, the driver had missed the entire show. Two, the driver was a woman.
Way to reinforce the stereotype of terrible drivers, lady. The tiny brunette was almost too small to reach the pedals of a car clearly meant for a tall man, and was looking out of place in a striped, collared shirt and a short skirt with matching black heels. It wasn't exactly what people wore around here, and Quinn wrote her off as a tourist almost immediately.
The blonde raised an eyebrow, watching amused as the woman muttered to herself, fiddling with the stick shift. "Yes, you can handle this. First is here somewhere."
The car made an awful screeching sound, and the driver cringed, before noticing Quinn's presence. Big brown eyes trapped hazel, and they were locked in a gaze for a moment before the blonde cleared her throat, remembering why exactly she had approached the car.
"Hey, sugar, you lookin' for a date?"