Author's Note: Ninth addition to the Don't Blink series. Set after The Taste I'm Touching and before Under Every Scar.
It's a little Pezberry, because Santana is an overprotective friend, and Rachel is easily influenced. Feedback is love.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.
Shake It Up I Like It Dirty
Alright sir, sure I'll have another one it's early
Three olives, shake it up, I like it dirty
Tequila for my friend it makes her flirty
~Bad Influence, P!nk
There's something about a really nice ass in really tight denim that just does it for her, especially when it's attached to a pair of killer legs. No lie—Santana Lopez is a fucking connoisseur of the female form. Tits, asses, hips, legs, faces, arms, wrists, ankles, lips—she can (and does) appreciate every single thing, individually and as part of the whole. She may even have a scoring system in place in her little black book that would put Rachel Berry's PowerPoint skills to shame, not that she'll admit to it out loud.
She's currently occupying a barstool in her new favorite bar in Alphabet City, admiring the view laid out in front of her as her favorite bartender bends down to retrieve a bottle of rum for her Mojito. That luscious backside sways back and forth, stretching the dark blue fabric taut, and Santana traces the perfect curves with hungry eyes. The body straightens and turns, and she's rewarded with an equally nice view of perky breasts in a low-cut halter, and the expanse of creamy skin that surrounds them.
Teresa gives Santana a once over, rolls her stunningly blue eyes in exasperation, and sets the bottle on the bar before gathering up the other ingredients. Santana grins and crosses her arms on the bar, watching Teresa work. She's not one of those fancy types that flip the bottles or juggle the shakers, but there is a certain sensuality to her mixology that's hypnotizing all the same.
Santana has been trying to get this woman's phone number for two months now with no luck. She'd only managed to get her name after one of the waitresses had let it slip. It's not serious business, or anything—more like a game she's enjoying while she savors the best damn Mojito in Manhattan. Hell, she isn't even one hundred percent certain that Teresa even swings on her side of the fence, but the woman hasn't outright told her she's playing with the wrong equipment, so she'll keep taking her shots.
Long, perfectly manicured fingers (complete with very short nails, thank you very much) slide a glass in front of her, and Santana breaks out her best seductive smile. "Muchas gracias, mi hermosa."
"Sorry, don't speak Spanish," she retorts dryly.
"I can teach you," Santana purrs.
A dark brow quirks up, and Teresa leans down, giving Santana an unobstructed view of her cleavage. "Yeah?" she drawls, leaning even further across the bar.
"Yeah," Santana echoes, forcing her eyes to stay above Teresa's neck, and focusing on her mouth instead.
"Why don't you start by teaching me how to say not interested?" she says with a smirk before she pushes off the bar and glides over to wait on a guy in a three-piece suit.
Santana chuckles to herself and takes a sip of her drink. She's not even mad. It's just after one o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and she should probably feel self-conscious about getting her drink on so early in the day, but it's her last summer break before she finishes her fundamentals, and submerges completely into her major clinical year. She deserves a little chemical relaxation—and she also needs the extra fortification for her date.
Her date, who is atypically late, but it's okay because time is of no essence to Santana today. The job she picked up transcribing medical records—her papi insisted that she take some financial responsibility—allows her to set her own hours and work from home, so she can afford to have some fun every now and then. Not that this particular meeting will be the kind of fun that she usually prefers, but it's got the potential for hilarity if she can push the right buttons. Mostly, she's just peeved that Quinn's been avoiding her for the last week in favor of spending every minute with…
"Berry," she mutters, shaking her head in amusement when she catches sight of Rachel, dressed in an always-too-short sleeveless dress, tentatively glancing around the bar like she's afraid someone will accost her. Granted, the place isn't as high end as she's probably used to, but it's not exactly a dive. Sighing, Santana swivels on her stool and waves her over, stifling her laughter when Rachel clutches her purse tight to her chest, and weaves through the occupied tables between the door and the bar as quickly as possible.
"I'm so sorry I'm late," she says distractedly, warily eying the empty barstool next to Santana.
"No worries. I kept myself occupied," she smiles, gesturing for her to sit before absently flicking her gaze back to Teresa, surprised to find her actually looking back with interest. Santana's grin widens. She's vaguely aware of Rachel discretely wiping off the stool with a napkin from the bar before she finally hops up onto it.
"I must confess, I'm uncertain why you asked me to meet you here of all places. There are a number of nicer establishments uptown," Rachel points out in her superior tone. Santana just rolls her eyes at the familiar ramble as she watches Teresa approach them. "In fact…"
"Excuse me," Teresa cuts in with a smile, capturing Rachel's attention, "can I get you something to drink?"
"Oh…um," Rachel nervously licks her lower lip, glancing over at Santana, "what's that?" she asks, pointing to her drink.
Santana opens her mouth to respond, but Teresa smoothly answers, "The best Mojito in Manhattan."
Santana hears an odd little purr in the woman's voice, and her eyes narrow suspiciously. "She'll have a Sangria," she answers flatly.
"Santana, I can order my own drink," Rachel admonishes with a frown. Santana arches a brow, and Rachel huffs, turning back to Teresa with a friendly smile. "I'll have a Sangria, thank you."
Teresa laughs lightly, "Also the best in Manhattan," she says with a wink, "White, Red or Rose wine?"
Rachel tilts her head thoughtfully, "What do you recommend?"
Teresa rakes her eyes over Rachel, her lips curling flirtatiously. Santana feels her hackles rise. The hell? "You look like a rose kind of girl," Teresa decides, and Rachel nods her agreement.
Once Teresa saunters over to the little refrigerator behind the bar to grab the chilled wine and fruit mixture, Rachel glances back at Santana with a knowing smirk. "So that's why you picked this place," she muses lowly.
Santana feels the tips of her ears heat, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Rachel opens her mouth to say something else, but Teresa is back in front of them, sliding the glass neatly in front of Rachel. "One Sangria, on the house, for the best Maria I've ever seen."
Santana frowns, but Rachel's smiles delightedly, "Why, thank you. Although I believe that Carol Lawrence will always be heralded as the best, as she originated the role, but then you've obviously never seen her, so I will happily accept your compliment," Rachel taps the side of her glass with a blunt fingernail, "and the drink."
"You're very welcome. Just give a shout if you need anything else. My name is Teresa."
Santana's fingers tighten around the stem of her glass at how fast Rachel managed to get a name.
"It's lovely to meet you, Teresa. My name is Rachel Berry," she says cordially, holding out her hand in greeting.
"I know," Teresa grins, taking Rachel's hand and barely shaking it, but noticeably running her fingertips across Rachel's palm as she lets go.
Teresa saunters away with an extra sway in her hips. Rachel doesn't seem to take notice, instead turning to Santana with a smile. "She seems very nice."
"Unbelievable," Santana grumbles with a scowl. "I've been trying to get Teresa's attention for months, and you just sit your annoyingly over-talented ass down, flash a smile, and she's all over you."
Rachel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then she laughs. "Please, she isn't interested in me in that way, Santana. She's merely a fan of Broadway."
Santana gapes at her, "Wow, Berry, your gaydar really sucks."
"It does not!" Rachel protests, "I have a very good gaydar, thank you very much."
"And yet Quinn flew right under it for years," Santana snarks. Rachel had been completely oblivious to all the little signs, and when Quinn finally did come out to her, she was still fucking oblivious to Quinn's feelings for her.
Rachel has the grace to blush and duck her head. "Okay, I admit that I may not have picked up on certain clues in that regard, but I know that my gaydar works just fine on men."
Santana can't hold back her laughter, and she leans forward on the bar to keep herself from tipping back off the stool. "Are you serious?" she finally manages, catching her breath. "You dated a gay guy for three months."
"Well, yes, but in my defense, Steven was very much in the closet, and an exceptional actor to boot," Rachel defends, her face perfectly straight—something that never could have been said for poor Steven.
Santana scoffs, "Please, the one time I met the man, he spent the entire night eye-fucking Kurt while you were sitting right next to him in a dress that left nothing to the imagination. No heterosexual man does that."
Rachel's tan complexion turns crimson in embarrassment. "Maybe I thought he was metrosexual," she mutters.
"Or maybe you have terrible taste in men," Santana counters, taking a sip of her drink.
"That's not true," Rachel argues, attempting to glare at her, but Santana has faced down far more intimidating people in her life. Hell, four years of torturous cheerleading bootcamps reigned over by one Sue Sylvester makes a person immune to pretty much anything.
Setting her drink back down, she turns sideways and props an elbow on the bar, holding her hand out with fingers spread so she can tick off the examples of Rachel's less than stellar dating history. "Jesse St. Jackass, Finnept, Douchey Dan the Rebound Man, Gay Steven, Cheater Charlie, Adam the Homophobic Asshole, Peter the Great, and the string of three date flings whose names I can't be bothered to remember."
Rachel stares at her in silence, and then draws in a deep breath. "You know, the fact that you can so easily recite a list of my exes is, frankly, a little bit frightening."
Santana rolls her eyes, "Yeah, well, I'm the one who had to listen to Quinn bitch about all of them, so…whatever," she shrugs, picking up her drink. "Fact is, you dated a lot of dicks," she says with an amused snicker into her glass at her unintentional double entendre. Yeah, she might be a little buzzed already.
"Pete was the only halfway decent one," Santana grudgingly admits, knowing that he was actually more than decent. He could have potentially been the long haul guy, even if he and Rachel had about as much romantic chemistry as a piece of wood and a jar of peanut butter. "But he fucking dumped you so he could flit off to London, and screw around with English tarts."
Rachel's hand tightens around her glass, and her back stiffens, "He went to London for a role, and it was a mutual breakup."
"Sure it was," she scoffs. "Anyway, I could care less about Petey. The point is that Quinn is a definite step up for you."
Predictably, Rachel's face transforms from mild annoyance to nauseating delight in the blink of an eye. She and Quinn deserve one another with their disgusting, matching dreamy smiles and moony eyes.
"I won't argue with that," Rachel breathes with a faraway expression, and Santana doesn't even want to know where her mind is at right now. Okay, that's a lie. She kind of does want to know. There's an odd sort of glow to Rachel. Add that to Quinn falling off the radar for the last few days, and Santana would bet money that her best friend finally punched Berry's lesbian V-Card.
Santana knows better than to expect Quinn to spill any of the details. She's still woefully repressed when it comes to sex, or at least, talking about sex. Unless she's drunk off her ass—then she can get a little loose lipped, but even the alcohol-induced rambling is pretty tame by Santana's standards. She has a feeling that Rachel might be a little more interesting, if past experiences with the drunken diva hold true. Maybe she'll find out today.
Rachel is still smiling as she picks up her drink and lifts it to her lips. Her eyes flutter closed and she hums in appreciation. "That is good," she murmurs in appreciation before taking another sip.
"Don't go crazy there, half-pint," Santana quips dryly. "We don't want you getting hammered before your show tonight."
Rachel's eyebrow quirks up in a poor imitation of Quinn's trademark habit. "Then you really shouldn't have invited me to a bar. However, you will be relieved to know that I have a very competent understudy in the unlikely event that I would overindulge."
Santana is genuinely surprised at the statement. "I thought that the U-word was banned from your vocabulary."
Rachel shrugs, "I've recently been enlightened to the," her lips curl into a secretive smile, "benefits of having someone available to step in should I find myself...unexpectedly indisposed."
Well, if that's not code for marathon sex, she doesn't know what is. Santana smirks and opens her mouth to deliver an inappropriate comment, but Teresa is suddenly standing in front of them again, wearing a flirty smile.
"How's your drink?" she asks Rachel.
"Exceptional. You were obviously not exaggerating your drink mixing prowess," she compliments in apparent ignorance of the way Teresa is eying her up like a piece of candy.
Teresa leans across the bar, elbows pressed together on the glossy surface in a way that enhances her already impressive breasts. "I never exaggerate my…prowess," she echoes, the last word dropping into a huskier tone. "Can I interest you in anything else? We have an impressive menu…and one or two delicious offerings that aren't on the menu at all," she purrs suggestively, deliberately running her tongue across her lips. "I can promise you won't be disappointed."
Santana actually hears Rachel's breath hitch. Her mouth opens, but nothing remotely word-like falls out. Santana thinks she might have heard a squeak, and she quietly snickers, deciding to rescue the poor baby-lesbian by tapping her mostly empty glass, "I'll take another drink."
Teresa sighs in resignation, straightening off the bar, "If you decide that you want…something a little more substantial," she tips her head in Santana's direction without breaking eye contact with Rachel, "just let me know."
Okay, yeah, Santana might be getting just a little bit offended now. Teresa turns her back on them to get her drink, and Santana grumbles under her breath, "Puta."
Rachel takes a giant gulp of her Sangria, swallows heavily, and leans closer to Santana, whispering, "You may be correct about Teresa's intentions."
"You think?" she deadpans, raising an eyebrow.
Teresa turns back to the bar and slides another glass in front of Santana with an amused expression, then winks at Rachel before she saunters away with an extra sway in her hips. Santana isn't sure which one of them Teresa is really playing with now—maybe both of them.
Rachel stares after her with a thoughtful look on her face. "Hmm, I've never really been hit on by another woman before—well, excepting Quinn, of course, but that hardly counts as it was after we'd already established a romantic relationship."
Santana barks out a laugh, "Again…absolutely no gaydar, Berry. I've seen women eye you up long before Teresa over there."
"It's kind of flattering," Rachel breathes out with a shy grin, and a genuine sense of disbelief evident on her face, even now that she's experiencing success on Broadway and the fans that come along with that. Santana is painfully reminded of all the times that she, and most of the other students (and half the faculty) at McKinley, had insulted Rachel's appearance, or her personality, or generally made her feel undesirable. She feels like shit every time she thinks about it. She'd never even meant half of the vicious things that used to spill out of her mouth—well, the appearance things anyway. Rachel's selfish attitude and frequent bouts of crazy really had deserved a little criticism back then.
Santana is still amazed that Rachel forgave her for all of that. She doesn't think she would have been so forgiving if the roles had been reversed, but Rachel was willing to let it all go and extend her hand in friendship. She ducks her head, and stares into her drink with a frown, "Just don't encourage her," she mutters, trying to cover her lingering guilt with gruffness.
Misunderstanding her sudden mood, Rachel reaches over and places a warm hand over her wrist. "Don't worry, I'm not at all interested in your bartender."
Santana rolls her eyes at the very idea that she'd ever be worried about Rachel Berry seducing any woman away from her—that would be like a donkey beating out a thoroughbred for the Triple Crown—but instead of pointing that out, she just says, "Yeah, I know. Quinn's your only exception."
She expects a nod, and a big, Rachel Berry grin, but instead she watches Rachel chew on her lower lip with a pensive frown. She withdraws her hand, and her eyes guiltily dart away from Santana. "I…I don't know that she is my exception."
For about five seconds, Santana just stares at her, and then the words register and she barks an incredulous, "What?" Her back stiffens, and her stomach curls unpleasantly. If Rachel fucking Berry is already having second thoughts about Quinn, Santana will damn well certainly be digging out her razorblades. She leans closer to Rachel, keeping her voice low, but dangerous. "Listen up, Berry, if you fucking break Quinn's heart so you can go off and fuck around with guys again..."
Rachel's eyes widen, and she frantically shakes her head. "No," she cuts Santana's threat short. "I'm not…that isn't…I didn't mean," she huffs in frustration, but she meets Santana's angry gaze without hesitation. "I'm in love with Quinn, and being…intimate with her is," her cheeks tint pink, and her eyelids flutter, "It's so…indescribably amazing. And erotic, and…"
"Okay, I get the picture," Santana interrupts, holding up a hand, suddenly reminded that listening to Rachel talk about sex in her Rachel-way has always been more than a little off-putting. She obviously isn't regretting anything with Quinn, and that's all Santana really needs to know to be able to relax again. Except…
"Wait," a slow grin forms over her lips as she thinks about what Rachel just said, and the way she reacted to Teresa, "You're hot for Quinn, but she isn't your exception," Santana clarifies, laughing when Rachel bites into her lip again. "Are you trying to say that you're a little more sapphically inclined than I initially gave you credit for?"
"Possibly," Rachel admits, shrugging as she trails a fingertip along the rim of her glass. "You know, being raised by two gay men, I always prided myself on being open, but I'm beginning to realize that I may have ignored certain proclivities in favor of a," she pauses, her mouth twisting into a rueful smile, "more traditional lifestyle."
Santana nods in understanding, "Ah, gay panic. Been there, done that." She'd slept her way through half the football and hockey teams in high school in an effort to prove that she could enjoy sex with guys as much as she did with Brittany. It was obviously an utter fail.
Rachel shakes her head, "It wasn't that, exactly. I'm genuinely attracted to men, and I enjoyed sex with them for the most part, but I never craved it the way I do with Quinn," she admits unselfconsciously. "In retrospect, I can't deny that I've always been attracted to her. I just always… sublimated it." Rachel's eyes grow soft, and she sighs, "She's so beautiful, and graceful, and intelligent, and I've admired her from the moment that I first saw her, but it was so easy to dismiss all of that as purely aesthetic appreciation, tempered with a healthy dose of envy."
"When what you've actually wanted all this time was to get in her pants," Santana supplies with a knowing smirk.
Rachel rolls her eyes, and nods her head in reluctant agreement. "To put it crassly—yes."
All these years, and all those damn lingering looks, and the frustrating sexual tension, and Quinn's pathetic lovesick behavior, and Santana wouldn't have had to suffer through any of it if Rachel had bothered to examine her motives for obsessing over Quinn a little sooner.
"And now you're considering the possibility that the other women whose aesthetics you've appreciated over the years might have made your lady parts tingle, too, but you ignored it the way you tried to do with Quinn because you'd already decided that your life plan should include a man."
Rachel stares at her silently for a moment. "Succinctly put," she finally says, her tone colored with mild surprise that Santana seems to understand what she's been thinking since she'd hooked up with Quinn.
"What? Do you think I didn't go through all this same shit in high school?" Santana asks her, closing her eyes against the memory of her younger, stupider, bitchier self.
"I swore for years that Brittany was my only exception until she forced me to admit that she wasn't. I mean, yeah, I had sex with guys, and occasionally I even enjoyed it, but it was never anywhere near as good as it was with Britts. I figured it was, you know, better because we loved each other," she rushes out with a shrug, hoping that Rachel will let her play it off like that distinction doesn't still matter as much as they both know it does, "but that didn't change the fact that I checked out other girls all the damn time, and fantasized about having sex with them. Once I stopped denying that, everything just made so much more sense to me, you know? Like a fucking rainbow lit up the sky."
Santana laughs at that, even though it had been anything but funny when she was seventeen. Now she can appreciate what Brittany had done for her, and how her accepting nature had made it so much easier for Santana to admit to all of her fantasies and desires—some of which had even occasionally included the woman sitting next to her.
"I…I haven't exactly done that," Rachel confesses, "the fantasizing. I've just realized that I," she runs her tongue over her lower lip, grinning, "I really do love everything about the female form. Especially Quinn's."
Santana laughs, "She does have a pretty fine form." Rachel's smile slips away, and she stares at Santana. "What?" she asks, still laughing, "I have eyes!"
"Do you fantasize about her?" she asks with a scowl.
Well, damn. Little Berry is a little jealous. How abso-freaking-lutely adorable. Santana could enlighten her with the many, very dirty fantasies that she used to entertain before it started to feel slightly incestuous, but instead she just shrugs and says, "Not anymore."
"Santana!" Rachel growls, slapping her palm on the bar, undoubtedly to compensate for her inability to stomp her foot.
"Oh, come on, like it's even a surprise. Quinn is hot. I'm hot. We'd have been hot together," and that's just telling it like it is, "but I haven't thought about her like that since high school. She's like my sister now. You on the other hand," she trails off with a wink and a grin, because pushing Rachel's buttons amuses her. Always has.
"Be serious," Rachel chastises with narrowed eyes.
"Who says I'm not serious? I mean, damn, Berry," she leans back a little and purposely dances her eyes over Rachel's tight little body, running her tongue over her teeth in appreciation, "if I'd thought for a minute that you could have gone gay for anyone but Quinn, I'd have had you in my bed years ago."
It's not even a lie. As irritating as Rachel can be, there's just something about her, especially when she sings, that makes you want whatever she has. Santana can admit that she used to have a thing for her back in high school. She wasn't in love with her or anything, she'd just wanted to have sex with her once—maybe two or three times—just to get the urge out of her system.
Rachel stares back at her, and the annoyed expression slowly melts into grudging affection, until she's grinning again, and shaking her head. "Don't be so sure of yourself, Santana. I wouldn't have been so easy," she promises, picking up her glass and taking another drink.
Santana smiles nostalgically, "Yeah, I know. I'd have never done that to Quinn anyway." At least, not once senior year had rolled around and Santana had figured out just how deeply Quinn cared about Rachel. Before that—well, who knows what might have happened if she'd been out and proud sooner, and if Rachel had been just a little more self-aware—or a little less obsessed with Finn Hudson.
Rachel's big puppy eyes go all soft and shiny. "You've been a really good friend to her. To me, too."
Santana cringes at that damn, heart-tugging, Bambi expression, "Don't go getting all emo with me, Berry. That's not how I roll," she warns, shuddering at the thought of excessive hugs, and spontaneous invitations for spa days. "I'm the friend you talk to about sex, not feelings. So, you know, feel free to share any bedroom acrobatics, and I'll be more than happy to judge you for them," she teases with a grin.
"I don't think Quinn would approve," Rachel drawls, "otherwise, I'd do it just to pay you back for the things that Jessica told me about you."
"Mmm…Jessica," Santana hums in appreciation, her body heating pleasantly from nothing more than a few very nice memories. The way that woman's body can bend...
"Stop grinning like that," Rachel admonishes with a crinkled nose. "It's disturbing. I still can't believe you slept with her after one date."
"After every date," Santana corrects, not bothering to wipe the smirk off her face, "And why not? We're both adults." Santana isn't ashamed of having a healthy sexual appetite, and Jessica Foster is a delectable feast.
"Do you have any idea how awkward it's going to be for me if you break her heart?" Rachel asks with a frown.
Santana shakes her head in exasperation, and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, because some things never change. Rachel still thinks of how everything will affect Rachel first, but Santana is long past the point of taking offense. It's just Rachel's way, and once the initial burst of self-interest passes, there really isn't anything that Rachel Berry won't do for the people that she cares most about. Santana knows she's pretty damn lucky to be one of those people, so she just grins at Rachel and raises a brow, "Please, you have met the woman." Jessica is one of Rachel's castmates, so Rachel should know how she operates better than anyone. "She doesn't want to be tied down anymore than I do. There are no hearts involved in our arrangement Just lots and lots of orgasms."
Very satisfying orgasms, so Santana isn't in any particular hurry to end the fling that she's having with Jessica, but she's under no illusion that their no-strings affair will ever turn into anything more. Rachel seems to know it, too, if the trace of concern in her eyes is any indication.
"Is that really enough for you?"
Santana shrugs, "For the moment." She takes another drink, contemplating her life right now, and the crazy, exhausting, difficult schedule she'll have for the next four or five years if she's going to become a successful doctor. She'd have to be a masochist to want to add a serious relationship into the mix.
"Honestly, Berry," she says when she feels Rachel's heavy gaze still on her, "I'm not looking to get all domesticated like you and Q. Jess and I are having fun, and when it's not fun anymore, we'll go our separate ways with a whole lot of good memories, and zero tears shed."
Rachel sighs, "Well, obviously that kind of relationship isn't something I'd be capable of engaging in, but if it works for you..."
"It does," Santana confirms, "and it lets me ogle hot bartenders with absolutely no guilt, unlike yourself."
Rachel's eyes widen in horror, "I am not," she starts, voice a little shrill before she lowers it, "I wasn't ogling her," she whispers harshly.
Santana chuckles, "Appreciating her aesthetics, then." Rachel's cheeks turn scarlet. She averts her eyes, silently lifting her glass to her lips, and Santana knows she's right. "Purely for the sake of curiosity," she purrs, "Did you ever…appreciate my aesthetics?"
Rachel's blush deepens, and she mumbles into her glass, "Maybe."
"Oh, I so could have gotten you into bed," Santana laughingly crows, pointing at her.
"In your dreams," Rachel scoffs, but her lips are twitching.
"Don't even lie. You wanted some Latin flava," Santana jokes, running a hand over her curves. "God, it's so obvious now. You wanted me so much that you made me put your senior picture in my locker."
Rachel laughs, dropping her mostly empty glass onto the bar. "That was a gesture of friendship," she says in mock ire.
Santana snorts into her drink, "It was clearly a cry for help. You wanted me to steal you away from Finnsensitive and introduce you to the joys of lesbian sex. Hell, the joy of any sex, since little Finny," she pinches her thumb and forefinger together in demonstration, "was a total fail in that department."
"That's not nice, Santana" Rachel says through her laughter. "Finn wasn't that bad."
"He wasn't that good, either."
"Well, no," Rachel admits with a shrug, "but he was my first."
"So you didn't know any better. Now you do."
Rachel leans closer, dark eyes dancing with humor, "I so do," she breathes out.
Oh yeah, that's a definite score for Quinn. Santana raises her glass in a silent salute, and Rachel reaches for hers, but before she can, Teresa is sliding a refill into her hand. Rachel's head whips around, and her lips part in surprise. Santana just shakes her head at Rachel's utter lack of game.
"Also on the house," Teresa says with a wink.
"Th-thank you, Teresa."
"Anytime, Rachel Berry," she flirts, pointedly tapping her fingernail against the napkin under the glass before she floats away.
Rachel glances down, lifting the glass and picking up the napkin with a blush, and then she holds it up for Santana to see.
"Un-fucking-believable," she growls, eying the neatly penned digits across the paper. How in the hell did Rachel freaking Berry just score Teresa's phone number without even trying? The woman obviously has no taste—preferring kosher to spicy salsa.
Some of Rachel's surprise slips away, and her mouth curves into a grin as she carefully lays the napkin down on the bar, and picks up her brand new drink. "Don't be hating," she says, offering a grateful little smile, and toast in Teresa's direction.
"Okay, don't ever say that again," Santana tells her with a raised finger, too amused to be truly annoyed. "Also, you really need to stop ogling Teresa's…aesthetics."
That has Rachel's head turning fast, "I'm not."
"So are," Santana points out.
Rachel nibbles guiltily on her lower lip, and her eyes fill with worry. "Don't tell Quinn," she begs, as if a little visual admiration of a beautiful woman is really going to be a deal breaker for Quinn.
Santana hisses out an amused breath, "Are you kidding? Baby-gay Berry scores a phone number from the hot bartender that I've been after for months. You think I'm advertising that to anyone? Ever?"
A slow grin curls up the corners of Rachel's mouth, "On second thought, it may be worth sparking Quinn's jealousy just to get bragging rights on that."
"Look at you, trying to be funny," she drawls with a roll of her eyes. Rachel laughs and sips on her drink, her eyes already looking a little fuzzy. She's still such a lightweight. Santana sighs, slapping some money on the bar for Teresa before sliding off her stool. "Come on, tiny, lets grab a table, and I'll buy you some food to soak up that alcohol. Quinn'll be pissed if I send you home shit-faced."
Rachel scowls at her, "I'm perfectly sober, thank you very much." Her dismount from the barstool isn't nearly as graceful as Santana's, and she stumbles forward slightly. Santana instinctively reaches out a hand to steady her, smirking.
"The stool is too high," Rachel defends weakly, and Santana laughs.
"The floor is too high for you."
"You're barely an inch taller than I am," Rachel grumbles, grabbing her drink.
"An inch can make all the difference," Santana reminds her wickedly. "Now sit your fine ass down over there," she points to a nearby table, "and maybe we can manage to get the waitress's phone number, too."
Rachel turns to her with an arched eyebrow, "Am I your wing woman now?"
"Well, Quinn sure as hell isn't anymore," Santana huffs, still a little miffed that her Friday night activities have been heavily curtailed now that Quinn is blissfully off the market. "You're not nearly as charming, but you're semi-famous, and apparently some bitches go for that." She casts a furtive glance over at Teresa.
Rachel flashes a wide, toothy smile, "Which waitress do you want?" she asks excitedly.
Santana laughs at her enthusiasm, and shakes her head, "Just sit down, Berry."
Rachel happily does just that, waving at the nearest waitress—a pretty, petite blonde, who smiles at her and holds up a finger to indicate she'll be right over. Santana clicks her tongue, wondering if Rachel is actually planning to try to score another phone number. Knowing her, she'll probably approach it like an acting exercise.
Today is proving to be far more entertaining than Santana originally anticipated. She figured she'd be bored out of her mind listening to Rachel prattle on about her fabulous life, just so she could try to get a read on how things were really going with Quinn. Yeah, so she might be a bit overprotective of her bestie. Turns out she has nothing much to worry about. She grins to herself when she thinks about all the fun she'll have in the future. It's just not in her nature to pass up a golden opportunity to tease her friends mercilessly, and Santana has a feeling that Rachel is going to provide a lot more ammunition before the day is done.
She takes a step toward the table, and then pauses. She only debates with herself for a moment before she snatches up the napkin from the bar and stuffs it into her purse. Rachel sure as hell isn't going to use that phone number, but Santana can't see just leaving it lying around. It's not like she's planning to call Teresa, but relaying the story to Quinn will be so much more hilarious with visual proof. And if Quinn decides to check this place out sometime in the near future, and go all territorial on a certain flirty, starstruck bartender, Santana will be standing right beside her. Just like always.
Santana Lopez takes care of her own, and for better or worse, Quinn—and now Rachel—are very much her own. Watching Rachel smile up at the waitress before gesturing over to Santana, she knows she wouldn't have it any other way.