Chapter Seven
Santana reached over to turn off her alarm when she heard the screeching.
6:00. 3:00 in Seattle.
She had been lying awake since 4:47. That's when she woke up with an irrational need to know Brittany's favorite color. She was in the middle of a pretty hot dream about the blonde, actually. But, at 4:47, it's 1:47 in Seattle. It was automatic now. Lunch time for her meant Brittany was just getting to work. If she could get away from Rachel around 3:30 in the afternoon, she could catch her just after she'd eaten and before heading back into meetings. By nine her time, Britt was probably just walking through her door after making sure that crazy sounding Rhodes lady was safely in her own apartment. Watching the clock was second nature now. She had always checked her phone regularly, but now it was downright obsessive.
She may be obsessed. Yesterday, Kurt had burped and she'd nearly sprained an ankle thinking it was a text notification.
She had never understood before what it was like to crave someone. There wasn't one other person in her life that she wanted to know every single thing about. She was Santana Lopez, she didn't long to get to know anybody. People fell all over themselves getting to know her. Not that she had let that happen many times anyway. Brittany Pierce, though. Brittany Pierce was turning her inside out in all the very best fucking ways. She pulled up Brittany's pictures during her downtime. Yeah, pictures, now she had three. She kept Brittany's voicemails and listened to them whenever Rachel and Kurt went on fashion tangents. She thought about Brittany as she was eating, working, walking, and now sleeping.
At 6:00, she still wanted to know what Brittany's favorite color was. That's something you know about the important people in your life. You just know it. It's like Knowing People 101. She could call. She could. She knew she could. She could call and Brittany would answer in that super sleepy hushed voice with all the slurring and half words. Santana would say, "hi" and Brittany would say, "Saaannn, it's 3 ina morin, dontch know anthin bout phone equtte." And then Santana would ask and Brittany would tell her. That's all it would take. Just hearing her voice would satisfy this insane urge. But then, Brittany would insist on waking up and talking before Santana had to head to work. Then Britt probably couldn't go back to sleep. She'd be tired all day and just want to pass out when she got home. That might cut their conversation short tonight and that's just not acceptable.
Santana was waiting at their usual meeting spot when she spotted Kurt approaching with her coffee. She glanced quickly at her watch. 8:09. 5:09 in Seattle. See, it's automatic.
"Fuchsia," Santana said in greeting.
"Bronze," Kurt said back, handing off her latte.
"Your favorite color, right?" She asked seriously. "Fuchsia?"
He gave her a curious up and down, "Yeaah," came out slowly.
"I thought so," the woman replied before starting on their way to Rachel's apartment.
"Are you buying me a shirt?" Kurt asked. "Because if you are, I want to pick it out."
"No, Cinderella, I'm not buying you a shirt. I was just confirming that I know you. That we're friends."
"Is this some kind of trick?" Kurt regarded her carefully. "Because, just four months ago, you stated definitively that we were not friends as you maliciously chucked my brand new Hermes scarf, that I got on sale mind you, out a 10 story window."
"I warned you if you said 'brand new Hermes scarf on sale' one more time, I was going to strangle you with it," Santana said with an edge in her voice. "Personally, I think you got off easy."
"Whatever," Kurt swept his hair back in a move that he stole from a Kennedy. "Of course, we're friends, Santana. We have to be. Rachel would kill us if we didn't stick together."
"That's true."
"We rely on each other," Kurt said with just a hint of melody. "Uh huh."
"No, no, no," Santana knew this trick. "I'm not singing 'Islands in the Stream' with you, so just cut it out."
"You can't resist," the man said with a sway. He sang, "From one lover to another, uh huh."
"I told you last time was the last time, Kurt."
"How is your new lover by the way?"
Santana bit back a smile, "She's not my lover."
"Oh really?" Kurt teased. "You haven't hit redial yet? Didn't get her on your party line?"
"Those are the worst sexual innuendos I've ever heard," the woman said in disgust. "You could have said booty call. Perfectly good, if not overused. Hitting the pound key would have been creative. Star sixty-nine would have worked flawlessly there."
"Did you get her num-berr," he asked as suggestively as he could, considering he's Kurt.
"If you're asking about phone sex, no, too early for that."
"Too early?" he stopped abruptly. "Too early for you? Because I've seen you sleep with people you've known for under 20 minutes."
"That's about sex, Kurt," Santana told him. "This is not that. I woke up this morning wondering what her favorite color is."
"Her favorite color," he said to himself. "Wow, I never took you for the sappy romantic."
"I'm not," Santana claimed. "I just...this girl...I don't.."
Kurt laughed and started down the street again. '"Whoa."
"Don't even," she warned him when she caught up.
"Why don't you just text her, Santana?"
"Not the same."
Minutes later in the master closet, Kurt still couldn't wrap his head around that. "It's not like it's a personal question?"
"No, but we have this thing," the woman motioned with her hands, "where we ask each other questions. Texting is cheating."
"Tell that to Finn," Rachel complained as she practically fell into the oversized closet.
Santana and Kurt shot each other looks across the room.
Rachel, in all of her hungover glory, noticed. "What?"
"Nothing," the designer said quickly. "Santana doesn't know Brittany's favorite color. It's keeping her up at night."
"Thanks!" Santana huffed.
"Why don't you just ask?" the movie star looked at her publicist like she was possibly the dumbest woman alive.
Santana held up one finger, "One night. It kept me up one night, and I haven't talked to her yet today."
"My favorite color is gold," Rachel told them, because it was Rachel.
"Really, Rach?" Santana mocked her. "Because it wasn't me who commissioned Crayola to make special edition Rachel Berry Gold crayons. And it wasn't my hand you bit down on while you were getting that gold star tattooed on your left butt cheek. And, I'm almost positive, I wasn't the one who had to find every Goldie Hawn movie ever made and watch them one after another while we ate Rold Gold pretzels and wore gold footie pajamas."
"That was Golden Tuesday 2010, Santana," Rachel bit. "And when you say it like that, it sounds crazy."
"When it sounds crazy, it probably is," Kurt offered from his place at the rotating shoe shelves.
Santana would have agreed with that. In fact, she was all ready to do just that when Mercedes came bounding into the master closet with a vengeance.
"Mercedes, my sassy black lawyer," Rachel glopped on that sugar sweet voice. "I'm so glad you could make it."
"You said it was an emergency."
Santana looked to Kurt again, who shrugged his shoulders in response. "What's the emergency, Rachel?" the publicist asked.
"She said there was some loophole in a contract and the distributors of Run Joey Run were backing out," Mercedes informed them. She lifted up the briefcase in her hand, "I searched through the documents, but I can't find any loophole."
"I may have exaggerated that a bit," Rachel said nonchalantly.
"What contract?" Santana looked to Mercedes. "I'm lost."
"There's no loophole, everything is okay," the celebrity said. "I just needed to get you here."
Mercedes' rigid posture relaxed, "What's going on?"
"I need to sue somebody."
"Dammit, Rachel," Santana groaned as she fell onto the master closet couch. "Is this about those fucking shoes? You can't sue Kristen Stewart for wearing a similar pair of shoes."
"Are you for real with this?" Mercedes asked her, getting worked up again. "You called me out here to sue Kristen Stewart over a pair of shoes?"
"Those shoes were made for me," Rachel screamed. She pointed to her designer furiously, "Kurt is my witness."
"No," Kurt said rifling through brown off-the-shoulder sweaters.
Mercedes took a deep breath. She seemed to pull the air down as she clenched a fist in front of her, "Dear God, gimme the strength to not kill. this. woman. Gimme the patience, Lord, to not slap her upside her dumbass head."
"Can I get an amen?" Kurt said from the skinny jeans aisle.
"Rachel Berry," the lawyer started as she situated herself in front of the star, "I have defended you all those times you claimed you were the lovechild of Barbra Streisand and Pavarotti and tried to legally change your name to Rachel Barbra Streisand Pavarotti. I've filed motions on behalf of Petey, your childhood parrot, when your parents wanted to put him down. And I," she paused and tilted in her skyward, "Lord forgive me," then stepped closer to the actress, "advised you to commit perjury when you got mixed up in that cult that thought your debut record had hidden messages in it. But I am not, under any circumstances, going to sue Kristen Stewart for wearing your shoes."
"Okay, okay," Rachel took a step back. "I just wanted ask. See if you thought we could sway a jury."
Mercedes turned on her heel to head out, "Oh, and one more thing," she eyed Rachel, "if you call me your sassy black lawyer one more time, I'm going to sue you myself."
The movie star immediately looked to Santana for backup.
"Oh no, don't look at me," Santana shook her head. "I told you the same thing about Spicy Latina Publicist."
"I kinda like Flaming Gay Stylist," Kurt said as he steamed Rachel's socks for the day.
At 3:28, 12:28 in Seattle, Santana was licking her lips nervously. Rachel had been giving Better Homes and Gardens a tour of her house for their Celebrity Designers edition while Santana and Kurt looked on. They had already done the interview and pictures, so both of them were pretty much in the clear. The superstar was now upstairs going on about some fabrics she had imported from India and turned into throw pillows.
Santana grabbed her phone, maybe she could get in a few minutes of chat time.
"Hey, pretty lady," made her heart double and almost burst out of her chest.
"Hey, you," Santana said two octaves above her normal tone. "Busy?"
"Not at this second."
"Yay," the brunette smiled. "Good day?"
"Better now."
"For me, too."
"Is he there?" Brittany asked. Shit. Santana had just remembered the promise she made last night. Brittany wanted to start "sharing people." Which in Brittany speak meant she thought it was time that they 'phone met' some of the people important to the other. Santana didn't really love the idea, but for Brittany...well, she'd do it. "You promised. I only want to say hi."
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Is he there?"
"No."
"San."
"Yeah," Santana pouted. "He's here. Just a second."
The brunette covered the mic on her phone and looked over to her left where Kurt was already nearly jumping with glee. "She asked about me?"
"She wants to talk to you."
He reached for the phone and she slapped his hand away. "No, not yet," she said. "Here are the rules. 1. You do not embarrass me. 2. You do not ask her anything about her previous sexual experiences that you wouldn't ask your own father. 3. You do not embarrass me. 4. If she says something you don't understand, don't question it, it's because you're too stupid to understand it. 5. And I can't be more emphatic about this, You do not embarrass me."
"Way to take every ounce of fun out of it, Santana," Kurt complained as he accepted her phone. He shot her a quick smile and shouted, "BRITTANY!"
"Fuckin' hell," Santana rolled eyes. "You just violated three rules, Kurt."
The man ignored her and went on, "So Santana showed me your pictures and I just wanted to say 'holy high cheek bones, lady.' Where did you get them and are they available in my size?"
Brittany probably didn't have time to answer because as soon as Santana caught sight of Rachel coming toward them, she slapped her phone out of Kurt's hand onto a nearby chair. She sat down on it, pulling the gay man down with her, and put on a winning smile, "Rachel!"
"Who were you talking to?"
"Br-'
"Brad Pitt," Santana cut him off. "Angie's trying to steal our Kurt away again, Rach. Better get on that."
"I swear, that bitch thinks she can just have anything she wants," Rachel complained. She continued to do so around the corner.
"What was that?" Kurt asked.
"Oh yeah," Santana slugged him in the arm, "like you'd put Rachel on the phone with anyone you liked."
By the time the New Yorker dug her phone out of the chair cushions, Brittany had gone back to work. She had left the cutest message, though.
Brittany
Kurt sounds awesome. :) I must have lost him. :( I can't wait to talk to you. :) In six hours. :(
At 8:45, Seattle time: 5:45, Santana had really believed she was going to get away. Brittany would be home by the time she got home. She'd hop in the shower, throw on some sweats, and be conversing with the most magical girl in the universe within the hour. There was no deviating from her plan. Nope. No way. Not a chance.
Then came Rachel Berry.
"It may be the only way I stay out of trouble," Rachel said slyly as Kurt handed her one of her many little black dresses.
"Or you could not go out at all," Santana suggested. "I like Option B."
"If Finn's out and I'm not, everyone is going to think I'm at home elbow deep in Rocky Road while he's having intercourse with all the slutty girls in the city under 25."
"Just so you know, everybody knows he's doing that whether you're out or not," the publicist informed her.
Rachel ignored the comment and just kept spinning while trying to get a good look at her ass. "Santana," she asked after the 12th twirl, "how do you get your butt to look like that?"
"I do ass-ercizes, Rachel," Santana said with annoyance. "How do you get your schnauz to look like that?"
By 12:16, 9:16 Pacific, the three of them were in some club that only catered to celebrities and trust fund babies. Sweaty bodies were already flinging around and it wasn't even late enough for the truly fucked up people to have shown yet.
"You should have a little fun," Kurt screamed over the crowd. "You're out, you might as well enjoy it."
"I was supposed to spend the night with Britt," she shouted back.
"She's not here, Santana," the man said.
"No shit, Kurt."
"You said spending the night," Kurt leaned in. "You're spending the night with your phone, she's 3000 miles away."
"2,859, actually," she said.
"Close enough," he shrugged.
Santana shook her head, "Not nearly close enough."
"Somebody's checking you out," the designer pointed with his chin.
Santana groaned, she didn't want to put up with any crap tonight. She turned to see who he was looking at and almost lost it, "Kurt, you asshole, that's a man and he's checking you out."
"I thought so, but I needed a second opinion," he said as he wagged his fingers at the guy.
At 2:12, 11:12 on the West Coast, Santana was seething. She had finally wrangled Rachel into her limo and Kurt away from his new friend, Unique, when Puck showed up snapping pictures left and right.
"Puckerman, you piece of shit, get the fuck out of here."
"I can be anywhere I wanna be, Lopez," the grungy photographer said as he snapped a few photos of Rachel, upside down, hanging her head off the seat of her town car.
"Holy Gross Moses," Kurt was aghast when he noticed Puck, "what are you wearing? Do you live in a boxcar?" He then proceeded to scratch himself frantically.
"What the fuck?" Puck asked Santana. "Is he high?"
"No," the brunette answered and pointed to Puckerman's attire. "He breaks out into hives around plaid flannel."
"That's the reason I can't be around Santana on Sundays," Kurt told him.
"Puck," Santana snapped at him several times, "I'm in a really bad mood, so why don't you put your camera away before I put it away in your ass."
"I already got what I needed anyway."
"And you still look like an idiot. Didn't I tell you to cut that damn shit streak off your head?"
"What?" he looked genuinely confused, because it's Puck. "No."
"Oh, yeah," she realized. "I told somebody else you needed to."
Santana almost laughed at her own personal hell when she got home and saw that it was 4:47. It was 1:47 in Seattle, and you don't call someone at 2 in the morning. You just don't. It's rude.
But she could. She knew she could. She could call and Brittany would answer. Before she could stop herself this time, she had dialed the number.
"He-o?"
Santana breathed easier, "Hey."
"Wokn late?"
She couldn't help but snort at Brittany's just-woke-up mumble. "Yeah."
"Misd you."
"Me, too."
"Goo day?"
"Not really."
"Sucks." That was clearer, she must be waking up a little.
"Hey Britt Britt," Santana said softly. "I have a question."
"K."
"Now it seems kinda stupid," the brunette suddenly felt self-conscious about calling the other woman to ask an inane question.
"Go head, ask."
"Uh, okay," Santana paused dramatically. "What's your favorite color?"
The other woman laughed. "That's it?"
"Yeah."
"I don't have a favorite color," Brittany informed her. "Picking favorites is mean to the other colors."
Santana smiled. Yep, she was talking to the most magical girl in the universe.