Fic; Tear My Stillhouse Down (AU preview)
Title: Tear My Stillhouse Down
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: M
Summary: AU (1920s) The batty old previous generation could bitch all they'd like, rant and rave about how this new music inspired the youth to flash their garters and dry hump each other in a frenzy. But this was jazz.
Spoilers: None
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The Prolog
(One Year Ago)
She hadn't been to a jazz club before, not until now. And it was fucking amazing. Yeah, she could blend in here, amongst the drunk horny men, grinning bartenders, and preformers. This dark lit atmosphere suited her, with all it's glitz and glam. Gambling and drinking were all illegal. But here, nobody gave a fuck. Any occupant of this place had to be as crooked as the person sitting next to them. And Santana really liked that.
Taking a seat on an open barstool her eyes found their way to the stage. She'd be there some day, if she were lucky. If Harry could get her there.
"Don't worry babes, I've been talkin' bout ya' to everyone. They're eatin' it up."
That's what he told her, but in the back of her mind she was really starting to doubt that. It had been six long months since she even showed her voice to Harry. And seven since they've met. And not one audition. But it takes time, according to Harry. Tough to break into show business. (Tough, Santana could do...but patience? That was a whole other story.)
Ordering her drink, she sat back sipping at it, waiting for Harry to come back for her. She didn't know how long his negotiating would take. But, she figured that talking about a possible audition and contract with her could take some time. (If that's what he was talking about at all with whoever he came to meet at this place.)
Pursing her lips, her attention returned to the stage as the floor lit up and the low excited hum of the crowd began to pick up. A man dressed rather fine in a suit made an introduction speaking of a troupe. A three person act. The names drawn out as each preformer stepped up onto the stage platform. All three dressed in shorter than short beaded dresses, with matching head bands. Santana could have sworn the feathers they wore on top measured to about the size of their heads. Nevermind the chunky beads draped around their necks.
For the life of her, she couldn't seem to care for two of the three. The brunets....whatever their names were. But the blonde dancer...with the pools of blue stood taller than the others and Santana just knew. She'd remember her. Even as she recieved a wink an a flash of a black garter.
Brittany Pierce.
That was the blond's name. Santana couldn't seem to look away for the entire show. She couldn't exactly explain this...attraction. (Not that it was an actual attraction...it was just...like some gravitational pull.)
It wasn't until Harry's fat little fingers engulfed her shoulder and shook her that Santana even realized she was still sitting at the bustling haven for crooks. His lips nipped at her neck, covering her in slobber. If this was affection she was going to get ill. (The things she did in desperation, for the love of fame.)
"Baby." She cooed, with narrowed eyed, pulling herself from his affections. "You done?"
She watched his face pinch up in disaproval. He didn't like his advances to be ignored. Like any man would, he lunged for her alochol, swirling it around in the glass and finishing it off. "You shouldn't be drinkin' shit like this." He grunted out completely ignoring her question.
"You done, H?" She whined slightly, lacing her fingers through the belt loops of his dress pants and tugging on him gently. "Did you tell your friend about me?"
A greasy smile crossed his plump face as he gave an enthusiastic nod, nearing her lips again. He smelled of cigars and cheap rum. "Course I did, kid. 'Course I did."
She didn't stay to watch the rest of the show. It didn't matter anyways. Clubs like these were to small for her anyways. She was going to be on a real stage. She was going to be a star.
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Chapter One:
Laying down on the carpeted floor, Santana Lopez let herself drift off. Her eyes focused on the blotchy white cieling above her head. (A rather bland thing to be looking at, but it held her interest all the same.)
The sound of piano and trumpet's swirled around in her head, playing on a dusty old record player not far off in the corner of the room. So this was the new music that had seized the country. And sure, it swept like wildfire, filled up the rooms of every modern youngster's abode. The batty old previous generation could bitch all they'd like, rant and rave about how this new music inspired the youth to flash their garters and dry hump each other in a frenzy.
But this was jazz. And Santana Lopez could live in the hot moment it provided. It was an escape, a celebration.Tapping her fingers on the carpet, following the beat, she began to tap her foot. Yeah, she lived for the sort of life style jazz provided. (She hadn't lived much of a life up until now, really.) So it was about time she let loose, really acted in the moment.
"I like this guy." Santana commented out loud to herself, pursing her lips. Now looking down at the album being held in her left hand. "Joel King Oliver. Fancy that shit."
She lifted herself into a sitting position, patting around her for a bit until she found a flat round cap, plopping it ontop her head. It was missing something. It was missing flair. If she wanted to be hot just like those flappers she watched at happening clubs, she would need a feather. A big honking red feather to dangle from her typical black cap.
"I'm gonna' be like them some day." She began again reaching out to her left. "I tell ya' I'm gonna' be a fuckin' star."
Her fingers tightened themselves around a silver object as she lifted herself off the floor and finally turned around on her heels. She now came face to face with a bewildered man tied nude to the large queen sized bed in the middle of the room.
"Dontcha' think Harry? I mean, you're wife might disagree, but really...." Santana laughed and waved the pistol around widly, as if the whole situation was rather humorous. "She doesn't have a say in anythin' anymore."
This of course was where good old cheating Harry wiggled around, struggling to get his porky little wrists out of a decently tied knot. He'd make her into something. That's what he told Santana. He'd get her right up on stage. She'd be headlining in no time he had told her. Lying piece of shit that Harry was, and Santana Lopez, power hungry and blinded by the sequins in her eyes fell right for it.
There wasn't a stage where her high heels and short dress were welcome. Because Harry wasn't a manager. He was a produce worker at some average run-of-the-mill grocery store. A two-cent a day nobody. Just like her, only with no looks and a ring on his finger. A slob who just happened to lie his way into bed.
Only this kind of thing really got on Santana's nerves. She didn't hate lying, she did it all the time. (She was pro at it, even.) It's the convincing her part. She didn't like to be pumped up so that she'd expect all her dreams come true. She'd sucked off, and what did she get in return?
An angry wife with rage in her eyes. Worse than the convincing part, is that Santana Lopez despised being the other woman.
That's why Harry had to go.
Pointing a gun directly at his face, Santana gave a sympathetic smile. It really had to happen. It wasn't her fault she was pushed to the edge. Certainly not. As she pulled the trigger and with a loud bang, watched fat Harry's body do one last jiggle before becoming lifeless. Fucking good for nothing. The latina snarled in her head as she turned to make her exit, stepping over the limp body of Harry's jealous wife on the way. (It wasn't like Santana was completely selfish. She stopped to make the sign of the cross. Out of respect.) Carefully she paced her steps, sure not to step on liquid. She'd never forgive herself if she stained these new high heels with blood.
Swinging the door to the room open, Santana found herself surrounded by several uniformed cops. Dropping the gun by her feet and raising her hands up in the air, she gave out a defeated sigh.
"Shit. You're already here."