A/N: For those of you reading 'Dress You Up In My Love' - I promise I haven't forgotten. Real life's been busy, and Tuesday just isn't playing nice. I still plan to finish it, just had to step away and write something else.

M - for language and smut in future chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.

"Rachel, it's been ten months!"

"Nine, Santana. It's been nine months."

"Ten, nine, whatever. You're stressed and bitchy and you need to get laid."

"I was with Garrett for almost two years. I'm just not ready for another relationship."

"I didn't say shit about a relationship. I said you need to get laid."

Rachel just blinked at her as if she was speaking another language.

"Don't look at me like that. You need a fling, a hook-up, a one night stand. I know you've heard of em, I mean, you've met me right?"

"Santana, I don't think . . ."

"Good. Don't think. It's spring break. Just come with me to Mardi Gras and have some fun for a change. You're single. Your smokin'. You need to sew some wild oats before before you end up married to Mr. Boring McNiceguy."

"And what exactly is wrong with nice guys?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all . . . as long as they're not boring as fuck."

Rachel huffed and crossed her arms.

"Come on B. It's one little trip. We'll drive, see some cool stuff, spend three days in New Orleans, and drive back. One little trip, then you can go back to your celibate ways. You're young. Live a little."

Rachel was pretty sure this was a very bad idea, but it had been a long time, and maybe she did have one wild oat to sew.

"Fine. I'll go."

"Yes." Santana pumped her fist triumphantly.

OO

It was Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras. Their third day in New Orleans, and tomorrow they were starting their road trip back to New York.

Santana typed out a text to Rachel.

'How'd it go?'

'It didn't. In your room? Can I come over?'

'Yep.'

Santana opened her hotel room door, and looked into the hall. Rachel emerged from her own room and crossed into her friend's.

"What the hell happened? I saw you leave with that guy."

Rachel scowled and looked at the floor, searching for an explanation. "You remember Blane in high school?"

"Shit Rachel. You'd think, as a theater major, you'd develop some kind of gaydar!"

"Hey! If he wasn't sure, how the hell was I supposed to know!"

"Whatever. I'm just saying you suck at picking guys. I mean Sunday you're playing therapist for some guy whose hung up on his ex, and last night you're shoving one out of the closet."

"It's not like I didn't try Santana! Maybe I'm just not cut out for this no strings hook up thing."

"You're cut out for it just fine. You just need to quit looking for a nice guy. You're not looking for brilliant conversation and emotional depth here. There are plenty of guys out there who'd be happy to give it to you good. Maybe you just need ME to help you find one."

"Santana! Must you be so crass? And no, you will NOT be picking a sex partner for me!" Rachel hissed the last part in a whisper, as if there was someone there to hear her. "I am perfectly capable of doing this. I'll just have to adjust my strategy. Perhaps you're right. I just need to look for a different type of guy. I can do this. I can."

OO

I can't do this. Rachel sat at the bar wondering if maybe she should just give up. She had chatted with a nice guy, but nice was off the table. She had also been hit on by several sleazy guys, and for the love of Barbara, that just wasn't happening. Santana had disappeared with a hot blond a while ago, so maybe she'd just head back to the hotel. All her efforts seemed a waste now. She had her hair fixed all wild and sexy, and Santana had picked tight strapless purple dress for her. She had painted a green and purple mardi gras mask on her face with glitter and gold stars. She looked the perfect combination of festive and hot, but she felt neither.

As she sat watching the club she noticed an couple of very attractive guys heading for the bar. They were both wearing snug t-shirts, and were nicely built. One had shaggy blond hair and a charming boyish smile, but the other one - the other one made her mouth go dry. He was extraordinarily delicious. Dark hair cut quite short. Strong jaw. Full sexy lips. She realized she was staring, and looked down at her drink.

"Two beers." The dark haired one said, then turned to his friend as they waited. Rachel listened to their conversation, and tried not to be too obvious about watching them.

"Sam! I thought you cut her loose?"

"I tried man, but she had a bad week, and I just . . . I will, I will."

"Dude, you can't pity date her forever, and waiting'll just make it worse. It's like a band-aid, just rip that fucker off and move on."

"Puck, you are really a dick sometimes."

"Oh, and leading her on is nice?"

Sam groaned. "I know . . . why do I always get in these situations. . . never mind, don't answer that."

"Course you don't want me to answer, cause you know the answer. You don't see any clingy chicks following me around, do you? I've told you the rules. You just never listen."

"Not everybody wants to be a sex-shark. I'm not anti-girlfriend like you."

"You want a girlfriend, fine, get a girlfriend. No one's stopping you. But if you're trying to pretend that you're out with me every weekend, picking up slutty drunk women . . . because you want a girlfriend . . . pft. Don't lie to me and don't lie to yourself."

Sam started to speak, but Puck kept going.

"And as long as this is what you're doing. No virgins. No repeats. No staying till morning. No teenagers, which I shouldn't even have to say after Kitty or Katie or -"

"Kimmy was nineteen!"

"Exactly nineTEEN, and how did that work out?" Rachel saw his smirk as she glanced up through her lashes. "No dinner. No going to your place EVER."

The bartender handed them their beers, and they walked away. Rachel heart raced as she realized this was exactly the kind of guy Santana was talking about.