for you i'll strip my secrets bare (just promise me you'll still be there)

chapter two

RACHEL

The flight to New York was sad and quiet, and though my fathers tried to draw me out, I found that I couldn't bring myself to say anything about what was going on. Perhaps it was out of some kind of foolish respect for Santana's privacy, or perhaps it was because I wanted to be the one to solve the mystery; but whatever the reason, I remained silent about my dilemma, shrinking into myself, getting lost in my thoughts.

It wasn't the first time, of course, that I'd ever gotten caught up in thoughts about Santana. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and very talented. She was also mercurial, volatile, and not always entirely in control of her emotions, which she kept bottled up so tightly that she would inevitably explode, either in tears or in anger. She was her own best friend and her own worst enemy, yin and yang in one complex, mysterious, and darkly attractive package. To tell the truth, she had completely fascinated and intrigued me since the very first time I saw her. Being in her presence was being in the presence of a bright spark, an ember that could instantly become an inferno at any given moment. Her darkness was frightening, but her light - when she let it shine - was brighter, more captivating, than anything I'd ever seen.

To put it another way: yes, I had feelings for her. So did more than a few of the girls in our school, and many of the guys. She was one of those unattainable girls, the type who could have anyone she wanted - and I was certain that I wasn't someone she would ever want. No, she wanted Brittany, who was tall, blonde and gorgeous, blessed with physical gifts that I could never dream of possessing. There was no way I would ever be able to compete with a girl like Brittany, so when she and Santana finally got together, it didn't come as a surprise to anyone. The only surprise was that it took them as long as it did.

I was truly happy for them, although I'll admit that I harbored some jealousy towards Brittany. Short, unsatisfying relationships with the likes of fellow Glee Club members Finn Hudson and Noah "Puck" Puckerman had helped me to realize the truth of my own sexuality; they were nice enough, sweet and attentive, but honestly, I never felt very much of anything whenever I engaged in activities of the intimate variety with either of them. And then, even as I nursed my secret longing for Santana, I became involved in my first relationship with another girl.

No one knew about it, of course, because Kitty Wilde – another short, sexy cheerleader (think I have a type?), as pale as Santana was dark - and I dated in secret, at her insistence. It was actually quite nice for the most part; we had an easy chemistry and were very compatible physically. She was my first, and it was a wonderful, beautiful, completely satisfying experience. Sadly, things went sour when I told her I wanted us to come out and be a real couple. She demurred, stating that she wasn't really sure of what she wanted, that maybe she'd just been experimenting, merely satisfying a Sapphic curiosity, and that was the end of that. A week or so later, she began dating Artie Abrams – yet another fellow Glee Clubber - and once again I was cast in the role of happy, supportive friend, while my heart crumbled.

Again.

So I masked my true feelings, hiding the hurt and disappointment and continued desire for the girl I really wanted but couldn't have, and threw myself into the things I knew would never disappoint me – school work, Glee performances, and my secret passion for songwriting. I say "secret" because I felt that revealing it to others would do nothing but open me up to the kind of scorn and derision I had already experienced quite enough in my short but socially difficult high school career. It was one thing to be a singer, to interpret another's words through melody and phrasing; but quite another to be the songwriter, to create the words and music and then interpret on top of it all. However, it is axiomatic that songwriting is all about experience, and I imagined that others would simply scoff and sneer and say, What the hell does Rachel Berry know about life? She probably just writes about headbands and the joys of the vegan lifestyle.

The truth of it, of course, was far more complex and painful; but it wasn't as if my peers were all that open to understanding it. After all, my songwriting passion had grown out of my passion for a certain dark-eyed, raven-haired, singing, dancing cheerleader, and wouldn't that make for interesting conversation in the cafeteria and the hallways?

No, it had to remain secret. For my survival and my sanity.

And now it appeared that something was dangerously amiss with Santana. The apprehension gnawed at my insides. I couldn't sleep or eat on the plane. I hated the looks of worried concern on my fathers' faces as they tried to puzzle out what was wrong with me, so I assured them that I was just nervous about the visit to NYADA, that everything was just fine and there was no reason for alarm. But I resolved to do everything I could to find out more about what was happening with Santana as soon as we were settled in New York. There was no way my conscience would allow me to do otherwise.

SANTANA

Those were hard days, I'm not gonna lie. That whole thing about "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"? It was seriously put to the test, and then some. I'd gone from having a family and a support system of friends who really cared about me to being completely, totally alone, and to say it was scary would be a major understatement. The mask of untouchable invulnerability I'd worn in high school was the only weapon I knew to use out in the big, bad world, and I could only hope it would be a fraction as effective there as it had been in the hallways of McKinley High.

Affecting my best tough girl attitude, I walked into the doors of the seedy little club and instantly had to fight back the urge to pinch my nose closed. I'd never been anywhere so nasty in my life. It was dark and dirty and it smelled like the loss of all the hope in the world. Which, I guess, made me feel like I'd fit right in.

The owner, a walking stereotype right out of a bad sitcom version of an adult movie, lurched out of his office a few minutes after the bartender told him he had a potential employee waiting to ask about the job. I figured it would be waitressing, assistant bartendering, that kind of easy shit, where you could make a lot of tips off a wink and a smile and maybe some dirty words thrown around here and there.

Mr. Comb-over (not his real name, but I refuse to give him the dignity of a real name here) looked me up and down and I felt my skin crawl under his leering gaze. His eyes were cold and dull and beady, and there was something not altogether human in them.

"How old are you, honey?" His voice was as thin and reedy as his body. I swear, the guy looked like he'd eaten maybe once in the last three months. The pasty skin of his forehead shone with a thin sheen of sweat. He stuck his hand out for me to shake, and somehow I fought down the impulse to cringe when I took it in mine and felt how clammy it was.

Old enough to know better than to tell you my real age, you creep.

"Just turned eighteen a few weeks ago, sir," I said, smiling as pleasantly as I could in the midst of this black velvet poster vision of hell.

"You got ID?"

"Of course. Here you go," I replied sweetly, producing the requested (and completely fake) ID from my purse. "Rosario Cruz. Just graduated high school, and now I'm out to seek my fortune in the world."

He raised a sweaty eyebrow. "Oh, really? Here?" He didn't bother to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Didn't have the grades for college? Maybe you partied too much, and studied too little? That's what usually happens with girls like you."

"I just spent my whole life in school. Don't really feel like jumping right back into it now. Maybe in a year or so. I just want to experience life a little bit before then."

"So why work here? Couldn't get an office job?"

"I can make more money in a week here than I can getting coffee and fetching some asshole's dry cleaning in a boring 9 to 5 office. Besides, other females tend to get jealous of all this." I smirked, gesturing to my body, encased as it was in a low cut top and dangerously short skirt. The smirk and the gesture said what my mouth didn't: Yeah, I'm hot and I know it.

"You got a point there, kid. You're a smart one. Isn't she a smart one, Dex?" he chuckled, addressing the bartender, who just nodded as he poured another one for the drunk slumped over the bar.

He smiled a greasy smile at me, and it took everything I had to not look away. Just stand here and smile back, I told myself.

"Smart and beautiful. That's how I like my girls," he said, then turned around and bellowed into the place's dim, smoky interior. "Jennie! Come out here, babe. I got someone I want you to meet. She's gonna be working with you, as of now."

A tall redhead emerged after a few seconds from the shadowy depths. She wore a tight black dress and the highest heels I'd ever seen. Her steps were a little wobbly, and I couldn't tell if it was because of the shoes, or because she was maybe a little drunk. Or maybe it was both.

"Hey, boss," she said, sounding bored and tired. She looked me up and down with a smile that was as obviously fake as her boobs, which were all out of proportion to the rest of her skinny body. "Who's this?"

"This is Rosario," he answered, pointing at me with his thumb. "She's the newest addition to our stable of world-class entertainers. Take her in the back, show her the ropes, where everything is, tell her the rules and so on. I've got business to take care of."

Wait, what? 'Entertainers?' What the fuck does that mean?

"Okay. No problem," Jennie's face took on a more sober expression. I have to admit, she took her job seriously. "You come with me and I'll get you all set up."

"And with that, ladies, my work here is done," Mr. Comb-over said, and then he limped back into his office, closing the door behind him with a solid thunk.

I'd been trying to keep my expression carefully neutral despite the emotions churning inside me, but my curiosity over the boss' limp somehow showed through, because Jennie whispered lowly in my ear: "Car accident. Last year. Bad. Really messed up his back and knees. He doesn't like to talk about it, so don't ask."

"Um, okay. Good to know," I say, unable to think of a better reply.

Jennie took my hand, tugged me forward. My feet didn't really want to move, but she was stronger than her wiry frame would suggest. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go in the back, and I'll tell you everything you need to know to be successful here. There aren't many rules, but what there are, you need to follow. Boss doesn't ask for much more than that. Keep clean, show up on time, be nice to the customers, and you should be okay."

I blinked at her in disbelief then, though she didn't notice, probably already thinking of her next drink. Be okay? I thought, as I caught sight of the raised stages at the back of the room, the hot multi-colored lights above them, and the shiny silver poles in the center of each one.

Not fucking likely.