I had to split this up between two chapters, so the next chapter will continue straight on from where this leaves off. Thanks for the interest in this story everyone. I love that you guys are loving the ride as much as I am :) And to the reviewer who mentioned wanting to get acquainted with Sam's seven inches? Hilarious. I laughed like an absolute loon! As far as Blake's understanding of the dynamics of his family, he knows Sam is not perfect. But he harbors more resentment towards Quinn, for reasons that should be revealed a little later on :)
KurtHummelIsGarbage, Blake is ruthless. He learned from the best. Poor Rachel indeed :)
It is said that human beings are wired to spot difference. Nothing truer can be said of those that live on Magenta Lane, and it is especially true when it comes to each other.
Everybody picked up on Mercedes Jones' subtle weight loss, following her not so well known decision to undergo liposuction.
Everybody noticed when Noah, 'Puck,' Puckerman boarded his attic window, and added that second lock to his front door.
And everybody exchanged theories that one week, last year, when Brittany Lopez-Pierce stopped wearing her wedding ring.
Yes. It would seem that few are more qualified to spot difference than those that live on Magenta Lane... which was why it was so ironic that nobody had noticed the man parked in the black Mercedes-Benz at the end of the street...
Rachel isn't entirely sure what she's gotten herself into.
When she had given her surprise birthday bash the green light, she hadn't known that neighbors, in addition to the women who had organized the whole thing, would also be attending.
She couldn't have been more mistaken.
To a quiet musical backdrop of upbeat eighties classics, chit-chatting guests are heavily dispersed throughout Shelby's artsy lounge. They're well-dressed guests at least, with perfectly coiffed hair, poised temperaments, and a polite way of selling their steady intoxication as mere merriment. But they're everywhere nonetheless - some admiring Shelby's expensive paintings, whilst others take concealed jabs at one another over generous slices of birthday cake.
Rachel's no stranger to an air kiss, nor a handshake, but she's been introduced to so many of her neighbors' husbands that their faces have all begun to blur - a frenzied whirlwind of chiseled jawlines, perfect teeth, and strong engaging eyes.
She's dreading the moment that she's expected to recall a name. And if she has to hear, 'happy birthday,' one more time, she'll -
"Happy birthday, Rachel," an aloof voice sounds from behind.
The starlet turns away from Sugar's husband's rather embarrassing Prince Charles impression, and looks to the owner of the soft utterance.
Her polite grin dims the moment her eyes fall into Quinn's. "Oh," she mutters. "... Well thank you, Quinn."
"Really," - a dark chuckle - "you shouldn't look so pleased to see me. I might start to develop an inflated sense of myself."
And there's that haughty sarcasm that Rachel's come to expect from the immaculate woman.
Only now, it's without jest.
She shakes her head. "Oh no, it's not that I'm not pleased to see you. It's just that after our last encounter -"
"You apologized and I accepted. It's done," Quinn quite forcefully interrupts, all whilst returning the friendly waves and smiles of passing neighbors.
It's then that Rachel seizes the opportunity to study the intriguing woman - to dissect that polished smile. The sensual rouge lips that, with such little effort, accommodate it. Quite clearly it's muscle memory, second nature, Rachel concludes - a deeply ingrained art form that Quinn employs to massage the walls of social interaction, and have people believe that everything is perfect when it's not. And sure, that has its uses. But in her thirty-seven years, Rachel's learned: smiles that exist where they're not supposed to only keep pain in. Not out.
"You're right," she agrees once that quietly expectant hazel gaze returns to her. "I apologized. You accepted. It's done."
Quinn blinks at her once, but says no more about it. She bows her head to unclasp her python-skin purse, pulling from it a small black gift bag that's adorned with dozens of gold stars, which she then extends to the starlet. "Again, happy birthday."
Rachel slowly eases into a grin, nodding a couple of times as she accepts that Quinn Fabray most likely Googled her. "Major brownie points for the gold stars," she giggles, girlish.
"You might enjoy them, but I had a difficult time convincing the man at the store that I wasn't purchasing such a gift bag for a six year old. He kept trying to get me to confess to young children that I don't have," Quinn tells her, frowning at the memory. "But I then explained to him that metaphors are very important. He was so confused that he stopped talking... which was wonderful."
"They're so so important," Rachel murmurs reverently, accepting the bag with a delicate clasp. "Seriously Quinn, you really didn't have to purchase me a gift. But it's truly sweet that you did. Thank you. Wow - everybody's so thoughtful here," she breathes, awed as she takes in the full body of work that these strangers have put together for her. The expertly presented food. The delicious birthday cake. The banners, balloons, and alcohol - not to forget the handful of other presents that she'd been forced to transfer upstairs once more guests had begun to funnel in. "I'm, um... not really sure how to handle this level of generosity."
Quinn waves her off with a prim flick of the wrist. "All in a day's work. Besides," she begins, graceful as she steps aside to allow Kitty access to the kitchen, "I'm not really sure that it can be considered true altruism when I also have a favor to ask of you."
"A favor?"
"I'm currently helping the Mayor put together a fundraising event," Quinn explains. "One of the acts recently dropped out, and when you perform - well, you leave nothing to be desired. You'd be perfect. What do you say?"
Rachel doesn't say anything. But she does take Quinn's gift to her ear and gently shake... a motion that she keeps up for such length of time that by the fifteenth second it can't be considered anything else but comical.
Uncertain at first, Quinn's cheekbones slowly ride up, at their fullest when she lets go of a fluttering melodic chuckle. She has no idea what Rachel's angle is, but it doesn't matter. The randomness alone is enough to tickle her. She notes the silly little party hat that's perched atop the starlet's head - no doubt Brittany's doing - and feels a dangerous warmth bloom in her chest.
It takes her a moment, but she composes herself and clears her throat. Though her smirk lingers. "I don't mean to interrupt your fun there. But I think we were just having a conversation, Rachel."
The gentle shaking ceases, the gift returning to thigh level, and Quinn waits. She waits, expecting to see glints of humor in Rachel's eyes.
But they never show up.
"Is there a problem?" she asks, tone so cool that you'd be forgiven for thinking her indifferent.
"Oh, I was just trying to work out what's in the box."
Quinn's eyebrow eases up.
"To see whether or not it's adequate enough payment for my musical services."
"Rachel -"
"You see, Quinn, I'm used to being well-compensated for my talents. So if you only purchased me a gift so that I'd perform at this fundraiser, I'd like to make sure that the exchange is fair." Rachel tags a cloying little smile on the end, and Quinn receives the message loud and clear - that Rachel won't be bought or bribed under any circumstances.
"Oh, we really like you," Kitty purrs, clapping her hands and laughing from where she's stood eavesdropping behind the kitchen counter. "You can definitely stay. Anybody who gives Quinn a hard time stays."
"I'm not giving her a hard time," Rachel clarifies, never allowing her gaze to veer away from Quinn's. "Quite simply, I was establishing a boundary. I don't like to be manipulated or bought off under the guise of thoughtful gestures. Now I don't know what kind of social circles you're used to navigating. But if you want something from me, you ask. Understood?"
"... Perfectly," Quinn husks, much too absorbed in her fantasy of pinning Rachel to a bed and fucking her until she's twitching to pay her drunk catty neighbor any mind. "And I thoroughly respect your conviction. It's... refreshing." To the point of arousal, actually. "But the gift isn't a bribe. I want you to have it because it's your birthday."
Rachel squints, still dubious, to which Quinn releases an amused chortle.
"It isn't a bribe, Rachel."
"Well it very much seems that way to me."
"You have my word that it isn't," Quinn assures her, subtle in the unleashing of that classic Quinn Fabray smile. That disarming charm that, by day, politely assists with the clean-up of spilled beverages, but leaves you breathless and spilling from the core by night.
It hits Rachel like a car hits a tree, jolting her into thinking of her current stint of involuntary celibacy. She hasn't been touched by another in two months, and that smile - well, it makes her want to think about all that she's missing.
Which she doesn't appreciate when she's in the middle of a boundary set.
She folds her arms.
"Look, if anything the gift was intended to be... more of a lubricant."
"One thing to know about me, Quinn, is that I'm allergic to lubricant. Especially the social kind, where I'm the toy that's being greased up."
Kitty breaks into a fit of giggles. "Why isn't this," she snorts, gesturing a limp hand towards the two women, "a TV show?"
Noah Puckerman suddenly emerges, loosely slipping his muscular arms around Rachel's shoulders from behind. "Somebody say lubricant?" he asks. "'Cause this sounds like a convo I need to be a part of."
Quinn rolls her eyes.
"Mind my party hat, Noah," Rachel warns Puck - one of the few names she can remember, thanks to his unlikely mohawk. "It's doing a wonderful job of picking up the slack whenever my birthday smile falters."
"Rachel," Quinn stresses, in order to regain the star's attention, which she does with ease, "no tricks or... lubricant; would you like to perform at the aforementioned fundraiser?"
Rachel doesn't even have to think about it. "I'd love to."
"Brilliant."
Gently swaying his hips to the music, Noah sends a suave wink Quinn's way. "Now that that's decided, how about a dance, gorgeous?"
Kitty's the one to roll her eyes at that, because Quinn is no more gorgeous than she is - and she doesn't have a husband! She's free, single, and ready to mingle. But Noah never seems to take that into consideration.
"Oh for God's sake! She's married, Puck! Let it go!" she huffs, just as Quinn parts her lips to rebuff the uncouth man's advances. As she always does. "And you're supposed to be Sam's friend, you God damn snake!"
"You sound a little upset there, Kitty," Quinn points out, voice slick with nice-nasty cheer.
"Now, now, ladies. It's my party, and I'm the only one who's allowed -"
"Where's Sam this evening?" Kitty challenges, stumbling out from behind the counter clasping her shot of Appleton Estate Rum. "Don't see you out with him much anymore. Trouble in paradise?"
Quinn's syrup-honey eyes take on a malicious sparkle. "I don't understand why you're so concerned about my husband. Shouldn't you be putting that energy into finding a husband of your own?"
"Oh," Kitty chuckles, "I could have your husband like that." She snaps her fingers.
"Says who? The spirits you've been drinking all evening?"
"You know what? Sam didn't need alcohol when he tried to kiss me at Fraser's Christmas party last December."
"Kitty," Quinn sighs, bored, "you can fantasize about being with my husband and having my life as much as you want. But just - could you try to keep your obsession with me behind closed doors? You know, like you used to before Darla moved here and began using you as a mouthpiece to say all the things she isn't brave enough to?"
"You're in for such a rude awakening!" Kitty snarls.
That strikes Quinn's core - the vitriolic certainty behind it. But whether there's truth to Kitty's claim or not - and she will get the truth - Quinn knows she has no option but to laugh her drunk adversary off.
So she does just that.
"Sweetheart, the only rude awakening you need to be worried about is the headache you're going to have to deal with when you wake up tomorrow morning. Be sure to have your husband leave water and Asprin at your bedside. Oh that's right..." Quinn tuts, jutting her bottom lip out in feigned pity. "You're thirty-two and spend your nights cozying up to glasses of wine instead of a man. I'd despise me too."
Rachel shoots a worried glance over her shoulder at Noah, who proves to be no help at all as he just shrugs and continues to watch the show.
It's then that she decides she's not nearly as intoxicated as she should be. "Noah, could you get me a couple shots of something strong please?"
"What - now? It's just getting good."
Rachel watches Kitty and Quinn verbally tear chunks out of one another, and nods at the handsome man. "Yes, now. It's my party, and I have the right to order my guests around if I want to. You can either assist in my imminent inebriation, or you can go home."
Without another word, Noah makes to jet off on his assigned task - but then pulls back to tell Rachel's ear, "you know, you'd make a really great dominatrix. I dominate some of the wealthiest folk in Premont Falls, so I know what it takes. And you have it."
"You know what, Noah? Make that three shots instead of two," Rachel amends.
"Be right back."
He strolls by the sofa area, where Brittany's twirling Santana around to the music. She pulls her in close and cradles her jaw with both hands, leaning in for a kiss that's slow, tasteful, and a promise of things to come.
"Mmm," Santana hums as their lips part too soon. She runs her tongue out over her own, savoring the taste of the woman that she loves. "B, you gotta stop kissing me like that if you wanna stay for the rest of the party."
"I can't help it; my wife's so hot."
"Well, I guess there are worse problems to have."
Jenny, who's sat next to her husband on the leather suite, winces at the couple. "Do you guys have to be so disgustingly happily married all the time? It only further jades those of us who don't have what you do."
"Hey!" her husband, Joe, objects.
"Shut up and eat your cake."
Santana laughs, looking to her wife. "These poor heterosexual marriages."
"Actually, baby, there are no statistics to show that heterosexual marriages are any less financially stable than homosexual ones. I checked," Brittany informs her, before happily trotting off halfway across the room to retrieve her drink from a nearby table.
"And that's why my wife's smarter than all you guys," Santana tells the numerous puzzled expressions, "'cause she does her research."
Joslin turns her nose up, unable to resist her urge to shut the insufferable latina down: "Nobody's marriage is perfect. And I seem to remember that period of time, last year, when Brittany stopped wearing her wedding ring."
Santana pauses to think about what was just said to her. And then she smirks, because this hoe really doesn't want it with her. "First off, you broke down Martha Stewart, Britt didn't stop wearing my ring. One of the kids she teaches swiped it, thinking he could sell it to pay off his mom's medical bills. Secondly, you're wrong, 'cause my marriage is perfect. And thirdly, I'm this close to wring-ing your neck - and I don't see anybody around that's gonna jump in to save your ass."
Joe Higgins takes that as his cue to peer off somewhere else, figuring that if he avoids eye contact perhaps Joslin won't expect him, as the only man within earshot, to step in.
"Always knew you had no low hangers, but this is ridiculous," Jenny whispers at him.
"Balls or no balls, you wouldn't want to take Santana on either," he hisses back. "Besides, my mother bought me this shirt. I don't want it torn."
"That's what I thought; nothing to say," Santana settles it, forcing Joslin to stand there half hiding behind her wine glass… which isn't nearly as big as she wishes. "I think I'll go find my beautiful wife and continue to be disgustingly happy now," Santana gloats, her gaze darting about the busy lounge for a hint of the soft blonde hair that she loves to smell first thing in the morning.
She ends up spotting Brittany over by the open kitchen area, stood amongst Rachel and Quinn. And Kitty, who - from what she can make out - appears to be so fucked up that she's actually trying to take Quinn on...
"Well what the jolly fuck is going on over here?" Santana asks once she's at her wife's side.
"Nothing," Quinn says, so calm it's downright mocking. She looks Kitty up and down and adds, "absolutely nothing."
"Get screwed, Quinn!"
"Hey!" Rachel steps in before Santana can pop Kitty in the mouth. "Kitty, you need to leave! Now!"
"Oh calm your tits; I'm leaving. I just – I just need a minute."
"How about twenty seconds?" Santana growls.
Brittany frowns as Kitty downs the shot in her hand and drops the glass down on the counter with a hefty clunk. "Okay, come on," she says, holding her hands out, ready to catch the intoxicated woman if need be, "me and San are gonna take you home before you throw up."
"Please do!" Rachel encourages, huffing.
She glimpses the room for any sign of Noah. More specifically, those shots she requested.
He's nowhere to be seen at first, but then she notices him chatting up a very attractive woman over by the aquarium that's built into the wall. "If you want something done," she grumbles.
As both Brittany and Santana guide Kitty to the front door, Quinn turns to Rachel. She draws in a breath and steadily releases it, primping her side bang as a means of restoring her couth. "I'm sorry to've behaved like that. I should've ignored her. "
Rachel scoops her party hat off of her head, done with all pretense of cheer. "Yes. You should've."
"I should've."
"Remind me never to get into an argument with you. If Kitty has any self-esteem left, it'll be by the grace of God."
"I am God. That's why she despises me."
Rachel glares.
"Okay. I see it's too soon to try to humor my way back into your good graces."
"Yes."
Quinn gives a subtle nod, suppressing a smirk. "Fair enough."
"You're in the proverbial dog house with me at the moment, Quinn. It's better suited to you if you just stop talking altogether."
The corners of Quinn's eyes droop sensuously as she subjects Rachel to a look so searing and intense that the starlet forgets her surroundings. The music, the people, the chit-chatter. The scent of alcohol and finger snacks. It all goes away, until it's just her and Quinn.
Suddenly unsure of all sorts of things, like whether or not her make-up, hair, and clothes are up to par, Rachel asks, "what?"
"So now I'm allowed to speak?"
"Stop it," Rachel tells her.
Quinn smirks. "I'm not doing a thing."
"Just to let you know: your charm is futile when it comes to me."
"Well," Quinn husks, watching Rachel through long pretty eyelashes, "I can always turn it up. Just for you."
Rachel swallows, certain that if she speaks she'll stumble over her words. She's also certain that Quinn is covertly flirting with her. About as certain as she is that Quinn is attracted to women. But she isn't sure that she wants to flirt back, because Quinn is married, and Rachel doesn't want to be her mother.
The two of them maintain eye contact, neither of them uttering a word...
"Oh my God, who's that?" Sugar suddenly whispers, close-by.
Both Quinn and Rachel blink themselves out of their bubble, and follow Sugar's line of vision towards the man in the tuxedo, who's stood on the welcome mat, holding the biggest bouquet of deep red luscious roses that any of them have ever seen.
"Oh my God," Rachel murmurs, and it is in that moment that Joshua's steely blue eyes connect with hers.
He smiles like the wolf that she knows he is, and chimes, "Happy birthday, beautiful."
Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you thought.