What would you do. What would you do if the most flawless girl in the entire universe has...well, that. If the most beautiful girl on this or any other planet is at your mercy, an arm's length away. What if only now do you get why she's never dated anyone, of course there's been the odd rumor from fans, speculations from tabloids and flirty tweets on the internet to some random celebrity. But there's never been a confirmed relationship. Now I get it. My brain automatically tells me that it's not normal. And yet I couldn't care less. I've spent countless nights just dreaming and fantasizing about Santana. My brain stops working when she talks to me. My heart stops when she kisses me. I'm spellbound when she touches me, anywhere.
I want her. It is borderline insane how much I want her. So I let my feet carry me towards the couch, where Santana's looking like a deer caught in the headlights. It's funny how I thought I've seen her every expression, know every little quirks she has, both consciously and subconsciously, but this is the first I've seen of a genuine surprised look, unscripted, unrehearsed, real. It's breathtaking. So I lean forward, and do the only thing there is to do. Kiss her.
And I melt.
I am as good as dead and gone. Delirious. Infatuated. Enraptured to the point that every single cell in my body is yearning after her touch. It sounds insanely nuts, I know. But God, there's just no other way to describe it.
After the initial shock, when she finally kisses me back, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world. The room is silent but for our breathless whimpers. I feel her smile into the kiss and the ecstasy from mere moments ago seem like a faraway, distant memory compared to this.
When she pulls back, I freeze, my hands instinctively grabs her tighter. I don't want to stop kissing her. Not now, not ever.
"Forget air, I'll breathe you instead." Is the only thing she whispers between our lips, and I don't think I can grin any wider or feel any happier than I do now, before she leans back in and kisses me again. I stand corrected.
The things that happen next are all a huge blur of un-type-out-able happenings.
I know what you're thinking, what you're wondering. The questions you all desperately want the answers to but are afraid to ask.
Do I wake up alone? Clinging onto the memories of what happened in this very room last night? With nothing more than the scent of her perfume to take with me back to reality?
Yes and no.
For one thing she's definitely here. In the flesh, fully clothed (much to my dismay though I don't voice this out loud, as she doesn't seem to be aware that I'm conscious) but then I also notice the look on her face. Now I'm not a mind reader or anything, nor do I consider myself an outstanding judge of characters, but her hurry to gather my clothes and the amount of swear words coming out of her mouth would suggest that she's anxious to see me out of here. Not exactly the best way you wanna wake up after sleeping with someone.
"Good morning," I say groggily, rubbing my eyes. She looks up and tosses my clothes right at me. Ouch (both literally and figuratively). Guess whatever spell I had her under last night has worn off. Too soon. Too soon!
"Yeah, sorry, you need to leave." Would it be weird if I said she's cute when she's like this? "I'm sorry?"
Oops, shouldn't have said that out loud. "Nothing," I clear my throat quickly.
"Listen Brittany, I've got a press conference in 20 minutes. Derek here will show you out, ok?"
Right on cue, the tall muscly guy from last night comes into the room. Certified mood killer, that guy. Then a realization hits me like a brick wall. What if that really was his job? To "handle" Santana's...well...deal with girls like me after she's done. No, I shrug it off, because that's ridiculous. So ridiculous it turns out to be the truth? No, just plain that-could-not-be-further-away-from-the-truth ridiculous. Surely.
I nod dumbly and as quickly as she came into my life, Santana leaves, leaving nothing behind but a lingering scent and vivid, vivid memories (at least, I think they're memories and not delusions my hazy mind came up with to cover up the horrible reality of last ni- nope, they're memories). Well, that and a tall, stocky black guy with an unwavering stare even though I do need to get up and get dressed, preferably without him watching me. I am a woman with dignity, even after sleeping with an international RnB star and signing a contract to keep her penis hidden from the rest of the world and then being literally left behind in her bed. BUT DIGNIFIED WOMAN I AM. Finally, Derek seems to get the hint (either that or he's a legit mind reader) and turns around, giving me some privacy. I quickly gather last night's clothing and put them back on. They still distinctly smell like Santana (God help me, I'm never washing these).
"M'am," he speaks up all of a sudden, "It looks like you won't be able to leave out the front door. I've been notified that Miss Lopez is currently tending to some guests and would prefer they have no knowledge of you."
Very bluntly said, Derek, I reply in my head. What is this guy, former CIA, FBI, James Bond agent? Who talks like that.
"Sure, I understand. So which way do I go?"
Derek clears his throat before answering in his monotone tough guy voice, "The window, m'am."
Like I said, I've got nothing if not my dignity.
Luckily, I am a trained dancer so it's no problem climbing out of a window onto the road, where a sleek, black Mercedes Benz awaits me.
Derek and I say our goodbyes, and if I must say so myself, I think we've gotten rather acquainted in the couple of times we've seen each other. He's seen me sort of naked, all over his boss, lying down on a bed, naked under the sheets after having spent the night with his boss, and finally, me climbing out of the window of said room. And I've seen him take off his sunglasses.
I climb into the car and tell the driver (who, as expected, is in full chauffeur uniform, complete with the hat) my address.
All in all, I'd say that went pretty well. Y'know, considering the thing which apparently I'm no longer allowed to talk about.
When I get home, Emily seems to have left for work. Ah yes, work. Good thing I took the liberty of owning my own studio and therefore am my own boss, I have rather flexible hours. So I don't have to be in til after I take a hot bath and just take a deep breath to process the last 24 hours. Also the fact that I'm turning 19 today. Seems so trivial after everything.
It's amazing, isn't it. How insanely quickly your life can change. This time yesterday, I hadn't known about Santana's...condition, I hadn't kissed her, I hadn't even seen her live in concert. My God, that was my first ever Santana Lopez concert. If that's what happened at the first concert...It was really worth the admission price. I smile to myself. I'd had sex with Santana Lopez. Hah! How many people in this or any other universe could say that? Not many, I can tell you that. Well done, Brittany. Just, well done.
I relax for a little while longer then get out and dry myself off, get dressed. Real life is waiting. And so is my phone. Probably Mike calling. I reach for it and it is indeed Mike Chang. How annoying.
"Yes, Mike, I'll probably be in a little later ok? Not feeling very well at the moment." I sigh into the phone, faking a cough for good measure. Lord Tubbington (bless him, do rest in peace) once told me that Asians are really good at knowing when you're lying so you have to be extra sneaky to get away with it. He said it in code.
"Alright, Brittany. Just calling to make sure you haven't died or anything. I saw the concert on tv last night. Is Emily super jealous?"
I think he's attempting to make a joke referencing to the kiss last night. If only he knew...
"Yeah," I laugh along with him. "Super jealous. Alright, gotta go lie down, b-"
Someone once told me that if you don't want to talk to somebody on the phone, just hang up mid-sentence, they'll never suspect a thing. One of the most valuable pieces of advice I've ever gotten. Thank you yomamasofat91x, wherever you are. Although I suspect that's not your real name, so I hope you're not a sex predator.
Just as I'm about to go and make myself some breakfast. I hear my doorbell ring. Normally I wouldn't answer because it could be the landlord asking about the marijuana I'm currently growing in the backyard (it's medicinal for Lord Tubbington Jr, but the vet couldn't prescribe it for him) but today, I let my curiosity get the better of me and actually go open the door.
It's clearly Santana under that wig and sunglasses and cap.
"I'm firing my makeup team," she announces to no one and strolls into my house.
"How did you know where I lived?" I question aloud.
"I'm Santana Lopez," she says like it's the most obvious answer, while wandering around the living room, examining objects the putting them back to the original place. Occasionally, she'd chuckle or smile at things, like she can't quite grasp the concept of people actually using these ancient and ordinary items to get things done when you could easily zap up the end result for only twice or thrice the cost of making it.
I don't know whether to chase her out (how would I?) or just treat her like I would a guest, so I settle for somewhere in the middle and just stand there with my mouth slightly agape like a fish, hands not knowing where to go.
After a few more minutes of this, Santana decides she's bored with inspecting my house and turns back to me. "Right then, let's go."
She lowers her glass, like she can't believe I'm asking such an obvious question. "Because I'm Santana Lopez."