Chapter 4: Revving Your Engines
"Brittany open the damn door!" A deceivingly small but obscenely affective voice calls through Brittany's closed condo door. Brittany sits, dejectedly, on her couch on the other side of the room. She's been here since her early morning boost and 'meeting' with Hunter where she listened to his needless droning for far longer than should be culturally acceptable. She makes no effort to get up, answer the door, or reply to her friend whom is still actively shouting at her from the other side.
"Brittany Susan Pierce, it's too damn late in the night to be sulking! And don't even think about pretending you're not there, I know you are. I can hear you're heavy breathing on the other side of this door and I command you to open up and let me the buck in right now!"
Her heavy breathing? Well, that's insulting. Brittany manages to roll her eyes at the use of the word 'command'. Seems like there are a lot of people 'commanding' her these days.
First, Hunter decided to re inform Brittany that she was expected to treat their guests with at least a little hospitality. Brittany had, hospitably, turned her nose up at her brother and insisted that if perhaps there were any reason to warrant such action than she would be more than happy to oblige but as it is, there is not and thus she has no desire to be pleasant to anyone who does not wholly deserve it and who is technically invading her turf.
Further, seeing as how Hunter is not indisputably in charge of her, he can kindly piss off and puppies and rainbows and yeah.
There may have been a few more less than courteous words, but details.
There's more incessant pounding on the door. Brittany sighs. She really wishes she had the power to just turn some sounds off every now and again.
"I'm not in the mood Quinn. Now go away!" Brittany finally yells towards the door of her home. She knows her friend will hear her. She's also painfully aware of the fact that even when Quinn does hear her; the woman is not going to give up. She's a stubborn mule and it's not in her nature. Quinn had a baby on her own when she was sixteen after all, and she's always told Brittany that once you do that there's not much of anything in the world that can stop or phase you.
So far, Quinn's proven that to be quite true.
"I'm flattered that you'd think of me like that but seriously, if you don't open this door I'll get Zizes to knock it down."
Brittany's eyes go wide. She definitely doesn't want the muscle of her crew coming around and knocking her doors down. Lauren's got some guns, and that's one set that Brittany's definitely not going to mess with. She bounds from her place on the couch and walks over to the door, undoing the thirty seven locks and pulling the door open just enough to be met with blazing hazel eyes and a flash of blonde pink hair.
"Okay first of all, ew Quinn, you're like a sister to me so I definitely do not think of you like that, ever. And second, don't sic Lauren on me over this. I just want some space." She tells her friend who rolls her eyes in return.
"Which means, of course, from everybody except me." Quinn replies and follows up by her strong-arming her way into Brittany's condo. Really it doesn't take much, Quinn pushes and Brittany, too weak to fight anything right now, takes a few steps back and lets her through. Not before rubbing her temples with the pads of her fingers. Too much stress, she needs something, or rather someone, to relax her.
"If you must come in, fine, but let me sulk in silence." Brittany supplies and watches the way a smirk stretches across Quinn's face triumphantly as she strides in and her floral sundress billows behind her like a regal flag. Her silence lasts about 30 seconds, but that's a record for her. Quinn is domineering and straight to the point. She gets to the couch and spins around to face Brittany who is sluggishly making her way back over to her original seat.
"Hunter says you're being unaccommodating to our new guests."
Brittany sighs again. She had a feeling that Quinn would come to talk to her about this shit.
"Hunter can go screw himself. I don't need to be accommodating to anyone, especially not a couple of hot headed Latino's who think they can come in here and take over things."
"Actually I think that Noah boy is Jewish." Quinn says her nose scrunching a bit, Brittany quirks an eyebrow in the girl's direction as she flops to the couch, "And who's taking over things? I haven't really seen them do much of anything."
"She's just infuriating and so damn precise all the time." Brittany starts to say standing from where she had been perched on the edge of her own couch and throwing her hands in the air.
"Who's she?" Quinn asks curiously, not immediately picking up on the topic of Brittany's rant.
"Always dressed so proper and posh when there's no need for it." Brittany then says.
"Oh right…her." Quinn regards, the light bulb clicking on the fact that Brittany is talking about the resident beauty queen Santana who does seem to wear a lot of ritzy outfits and tight, tight dresses.
"Talking about do this to your car, you should do that, this will work better. And she's everywhere! I mean I just want a fucking second to myself and she's always right there." Brittany exclaims turning to face Quinn again and breathing out a little more frantically. Quinn finds herself smirking in Brittany's direction.
"Do you realize how incredibly smitten kitten you sound right now?"
Brittany pauses from her flailing around on the couch and mumbling incoherent words to turn and look at her best friend's smug looking face. Her eyes narrow in an instant.
The thing about Quinn is that she's got this outward façade where she tries so hard to be perfect and what everyone expects her to be, and when that doesn't work she's cold hard bitch and you had better watch your back because nothing's safe. She's blonde and she's beautiful so she thinks she's likely to get away with murder.
The truth though, Quinn just needs someone to love her.
Or, you know, not give her an inch and let her climb all over you. That's precisely where Brittany comes into the picture.
"You're bat shit crazy Quinn." Brittany says at the same time she feels her face heating up in a flush and she's not entirely sure what's responsible for it. "No way in hell am I anything near smitten about San."
Quinn just laughs a little more. Brittany crosses her arms over her chest and frowns, oblivious as to why her so called friend is being so damn cumbersome and infuriatingly frustrating.
"I've never seen you go on and on about any of the other girls you bring around here. You called her 'San' just now Brittany. Half the time you don't even remember girl's names, let alone what they were wearing before it ends up on your floor. But you remember ever detail of everyday that Santana is involved in. There's something else there and you know it."
"Yeah it's called fed up with her know it all attitude and fancy shmancy looks." Brittany bites right back.
"Do you think maybe its something else altogether?" Quinn interrupts Brittany's current ramble about the way Santana's hair manages to always look so damn perfectly wind blown as it grazes her shoulders or she tucks it bashfully behind her ear. Brittany looks at her friend in confusion.
"How so?"
"I just mean, maybe you're projecting or something?"
Brittany's eyes narrow at her friend's words, knowing Quinn is about to get all philosophical babble or she's going to flat out whack her upside the head. It's either or at this point.
"You're going to have to elaborate Ms. Yale University. Us desert folk don't speak your language." Brittany says in mock accent. Quinn regards her with a frown of contempt.
"What I mean, and like I've already said, Brittany, is that you've never had a problem with any women being around the shop. Usually you'd welcome that kind of thing with wide open arms and an even more open bed," Brittany chuckles at this, she's not going to deny that, "But now Santana comes around and you're getting really whiny and territorial about everything. It reminds me of…when we were younger…you know?"
Quinn's words immediately halt any sort of happy thoughts Brittany may have been having, and bring forth those less than happy ones because she knows precisely what Quinn is referring to.
"This isn't about my parents Quinn." Brittany says firm and without waver. It's her takes no shit and means business voice, and is not to be trifled with. Unless of course you want to get beat down.
"This is about the fact that I haven't gotten laid in two weeks and I'm jonesing for something fine." Brittany then says with a lopsided smirk. Quinn recognizes how it doesn't quite reach blue eyes.
The other woman studies Brittany for a few long seconds, determining the particular mood that her friend is in. Looks like making inappropriate jokes to mask her issues of abandonment and insecurities of never being good enough is in the cards tonight. Quinn knows exactly how to let Brittany deal with her shit.
With a good-humored roll of her eyes, Quinn plops down on the spot on the couch previously vacated by Brittany. She reaches out to the coffee table and picks up the Maxim magazine that was also vacated. With a curious shrug she starts flipping through the pages, not entirely interested but not put off by the pictures she sees either.
She doesn't see the way Brittany has been staring at her in disbelief for the last few seconds. It takes a verbal scoff from Brittany for Quinn to acknowledge her again.
"The sooner you admit you've got it bad for her, the sooner we can get through this Brittany." The hazel-eyed blonde says from her perch on the couch, her eyes not once leaving the pages of the magazine she's now entrapped by. Brittany doesn't have time to listen to this babble anymore. With another outward scoff, she turns from her friend and stomps, quite literally, to her front door.
"Eyes on the prize Pierce!" Quinn calls to her just as Brittany slams her front door behind her own exiting back.
################
Although the trip from Brittany's condo to her shop is only about fifteen yards away, give or take a few, she still manages to make the trip and express every known expletive in the book. Somehow, cussing about everything under the sun just makes her feel better about some things.
She just can't believe how insanely wrong Quinn is about…everything. No way in hell is she the least bit infatuated or lovesick over Santana. Sure the woman's attractive and Brittany wouldn't say no to a round, or two (or three), between the sheets with her. But actual pursuance is just crazy talk.
Brittany's so distracted by her non thoughts on Santana that when she enters her shop she doesn't immediately notice the other presence that is taking up space next to Hunter's Mustang. When she does notice, Brittany is quick to speak up to the intruder.
"What the fuck is going on here?" She can be very crass when the situation calls for it. Brittany brandishes a baseball bat from the corner of her shop as she watches the figure she just addressed lift their head from ducking in the engine compartment of the Mustang and turning to face her.
Brittany's a bit surprised to find that ogre of a man Finn standing before her.
"You?" She's surprised to say the least. "Why the hell do I keep finding you in places you shouldn't be?"
There's a reason Brittany didn't trust this guy before, and now her spidey senses are going mucho crazy. Finn wears the same look of utter denseness on his face as he had before while an extra large hand scratches at his head. Brittany's taken back for a brief second by how oddly Finn resembles a Gorilla in that moment.
"I just thought, well, this car is pretty stellar and I wanted to see what the whole thing looked like. Hector and Santana don't let many other people do the behind the scenes work with the cars very often." Finn tells Brittany whose eyebrow doesn't descend from its suspiciously raised place of intrigue.
"I'd say there's probably good reason for that. I don't let anyone in here either, not unless you've earned my trust and made some kind of impression on me, and you sir have done neither so I'd suggest you get the hell out before I show you I can in fact use this bat. I don't care what my brother's told you and the rest of Santana's crew, but I don't tend to follow his rules."
It takes little more than a stern look from Brittany and the slight elevation of her bat for Finn to blink his big slow eyes and shuffle out of the garage, making it a point to walk the farthest away from the bat wielding girl as possible.
When Finn is gone and Brittany feels at ease again in her own shop she tugs her plain white t-shirt up and over her head and tosses it in the corner, leaving her body wrapped in a loose fitting black tank top and grease smudged jeans. The perfect shop clothes if you ask her. She flicks her stereo on and slides the creeper over to the front end of the Mustang.
As the sounds of Amy Winehouse fill up the area of her shop, Brittany slides her body under the car using the creeper and goes about ensuring all the proper bits and pieces are in order so she'll be in prime racing condition for the race set to happen in just a couple hours.
For some reason, she finds it harder than usual to completely faze out the image of a particular set of chocolate brown eyes and pouty red lips, which for some reason unknown to Brittany seem more and more clear to her the longer she works under the car.
################
"We don't really have to do this you know."
It's around midnight and Santana has traveled from wherever she's staying to meet Brittany outside the Pierce shop. Brittany side glances the woman, curious as to why she's suddenly making it a point to mention she's okay if there's not a race.
That just doesn't seem right to Brittany.
"You scared wittle girl?" Brittany's manner is laced with nothing but contempt and dissatisfaction. She doesn't want to win a race by defaulting to forfeit, that's the weak man's victory.
"No I'm not actually. I'm trying to be the rational one here. It's pretty stupid to be doing this in the first place. Supervised racing down a lighted and sectioned strip of road makes sense, this just seems suicidal." Santana tries to reason, but Brittany only heard the word stupid…and she hates that word. You might as well be calling her chicken, and no one calls Brittany chicken.
"Look you'd better suck it up and race or go back home to your papi and mami in Miami and cry to them about your issues. I don't give a shit either way."
Something about the way Santana's face hardens at her words has Brittany regretting them, though she's unsure as to why.
"Fine. Have it your way, but just remember that I thought this was a bad idea."
Brittany chooses not to acknowledge Santana. Instead she climbs into the Mustang and turns the ignition, revving the engine and brining the car to life. She watches, with careful eyes, as Santana climbs into her own car and starts her up. Brittany leads the way to the race area a second later.
#################
They're lined up side by side, cars revving one after the other in a situation that mirrors the one in which they originally first glanced upon each other. Brittany's far more confident this time around as she turns her attention from Santana, who is racing helmetless this time around, and admires the stretch of vacant street in front of her.
"I'm changing the race. Half a mile long now instead. You game?" Brittany inquires as she glances back towards Santana. The woman's features pull tight showing a look similar to one who's been betrayed, but she pulls her lips into a thin line and gives a curt nod.
"Fine." Santana replies and draws her eyes away from Brittany who smirks in victory.
As far as she's concerned, Brittany knows how Santana races now, and she knows the woman doesn't have any other tricks up her sleeve so she has this race in the bag. Brittany also knows this particular track and what's in store for them about three-quarters of the way down. She turns her head back towards the profile of Santana. Her breath catches in her throat momentarily until she remembers who it is she's looking at.
Gripping the steering wheel just a little tighter, Brittany grits her teeth. Damn Quinn and her mind games though, getting into her head and filling it with a bunch of nonsense. Brittany notices the way Santana's eyelashes flutter against her cheek as she blinks, and Brittany doesn't know quite how to describe it, but freaking adorable comes to mind. Before she has the chance to turn her attention away, Santana glances back towards Brittany and their eyes lock. Brittany can tell by the way Santana's eyes grow a little bigger she's slightly surprised to realize Brittany's looking at her, but the way her lips twitch almost imperceptibly tells Brittany she's more than happy about that.
Blue eyes stare just long enough to glimpse the faintest of a deep pink shade, blending smoothly with that caramel skin, appear on the very center of Santana's left cheekbone. It makes Brittany grin smugly and focus back on the road. Oh yeah, she's still got it. This race is cake. Sweet delicious cake served up on a gold plated platter.
She finds herself turning her eyes back to the road and listening for the signal of start of race. Her iPod's plugged into the car's speaker set to count down to a specific song that will let her and Santana know to step on the gas.
When staccato beats begin to drop three seconds later, Brittany slams her foot down on the gas pedal as her left foot eases off the clutch and she launches the Mustang into a tire squealing start. She's very aware of the fact that Santana's Nissan ignites into action beside her and it brings Brittany right back to that first race. Only this time, she's got a little something stashed away that Santana doesn't know about.
As the cars speed down the street inching back and forth for the lead, resembling a pinball machine that can't make up its mind, Brittany takes a moment to glance over at the racer staying in line with her. She's taken back by the way Santana looks so mesmerizing as she's concentrating on the race. Both of her hands are on the wheel expect when she shifts, which Brittany can't help but notice she does that smoothly and flawlessly as well, her lips are pulled into a straight look of concentration, her eyes are open and searching but relaxed. Brittany has to shake herself out of her stupor to refocus on the race.
She holds her breath as they coast over the original quarter mile line, and swears silently as she glimpses the front fender of Santana's Nissan just barely cross it an inch before Hunter's Mustang. It's the first time the entire race that she starts to panic just a little. There is a very real possibility that she's miscalculated and Santana may win.
Its Santana who looks her way first as the slight obstacle Brittany was already aware of comes into view just before the actual half-mile finish line. Brittany spares a glance to brown eyes and gathers a hint of fear in them. She suddenly feels guilty about not warning Santana about the abrupt turn that they both are about three seconds away from coming up on.
She's about to call out something when Santana's car lurches forward just a little with some added coaxing from the tan skinned woman. Brittany's got the inside lane when they hit the curve and is able to watch the way Santana nudges the car into a perfect turn as both cars drift around the sharp corner. As they are straightening up, Brittany notices Santana spare one more look in her direction before she hears the distinct sound of a NOS igniting and she watches the orange car burst forward as two identical flames spill from the dual exhaust pipes.
Brittany kind of has to smile and admire Santana's skill.
She doesn't really have time for that though because the finish line is within sight and she's got one more move to execute.
"Alright Luella, let's give Santana one more trick she won't be expecting." Brittany murmurs to the car just before she reaches to the left of her steering column and flicks a switch she installed only a few days ago. She can hear the muscle cars engine roar as the nitrous oxide releases oxygen and mixes with the fuel in the combustion chamber to spark that added boost. The Mustang is launched full power ahead.
Seconds creep by as if time has stopped. Brittany inches closer and closer towards that finish line, coming more and more in line with Santana racing beside her. At that last second, the Mustang nudges just far enough ahead as the two of them pass the neon green line faded against the asphalt. It's not definitive but Brittany's pretty damn sure she's the victor. All of a sudden, there's something about that that just doesn't feel as satisfying as she thought it would.
Brittany's about to ease off the accelerator when all hell suddenly breaks loose. For a moment, she's cruising down the stretch of street in front of her and the next she knows, there's a loud crack and pop coming from the engine compartment. Fire and smoke explode from the front end of the Mustang and the steering wheel in Brittany's hand jerks erratically.
One second Brittany might have won the biggest race in her life, and the next second she's losing control of it all.
I was torn between letting either of them win because theres good reasons and bad reasons for both. But really, just because one girl loses the race, does that really mean she's lost?