Chapter Twenty-Three:

I never found a shooting star and theres holes in my jeans
I didnt win the lottery or build a time machine
I never had much at all but I still got everything to lose
Cause I dont want anything 
But you

            It had been seven days, nineteen hours, eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds since they had made it official. Ever since that moment, curled up on the floor of Kurts bathroom, Blaine had been stuck on his mind like glue; glorious, curly-haired, hazel-eyed, bowtie-d glue.

There was something almost comical about the way theyd fallen back into their easy routine. The holiday break was over far too soon, forcing Kurt to return to school and work at Vogue and in no time, his schedule skyrocketed back into the busy regularity it had been before the Blaine fiasco. Although his workload allowed for little to no free time, Kurt was happier than hed been since he could remember. Kurt and Blaines texting became obsessive. Kurt texted him when he woke up, when he took the subway to work, when he got to work, during his breaks or when Isabelle wasnt looking, when he went out to lunch, when he got back from lunch, when Isabelle lectured him for not having enough ideas, when Brianna from the C block brought coffee, when he took the subway to school, when his teacher turned his back, when he got home, and every moment in between.

They called each other every night at exactly eight oclock. Sometimes they talked about their days while other times they reconciled their past or simply didnt speak at all. Kurt loved being in a relationship and he loved being loved, but most of all, he loved Blaine.

Kurt took a deep breath, staring at the chipped paint on Rachels apartment door and toying with a loose string on the teddy bear hed purchased after work. He had been a terrible friend-no, hed been the worst best friend in the history of best friends and it was time for him to change that.

            He rapped twice before taking a step back and patiently waiting. Rachel opened the door a moment later, grimacing once she saw who had knocked. "Wait, please," Kurt begged as she began to turn away. "Just give me five minutes and Ill be out of your hair."

            She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and stomping dramatically into the living room. Rachel plopped onto the couch, drew her pajama-clad knees beneath her chin and fixated Kurt with a pair of hard, ruthless brown eyes.

            Kurt shifted uncomfortably and held up the stuffed animal as a peace offering. "I bought this for you. Its Barbra the apology bear." He smiled, only to receive a frown from Rachel. "Look, Rach, I am really, really sorry, okay? Ive been a self-centered, oblivious, horrible prick to you and Santana and...pretty much everyone and Im sorry."

            Rachel cleared her throat, giving Kurt the once-over before nodding curtly. "You have been a jerk lately," she noted. "But I forgive you. God knows Ive had my bitch moments in the past."

            Kurt collapsed onto the cushion next to her, grinning with relief and passing the bear over. "I missed you, you know. Its practically impossible to live in New York City without a best friend like you."

            "You have no idea how awful it is walking down the street without a man like yourself to protect me from the vicious and boob-hungry homeless people that roam the streets like vicious tigers," Rachel said, scrunching her nose dramatically.

            Kurt made a muscle with his right arm. "Oh, yes, this pound of flab wouldve done a lot to protect you."

            Rachel shoved him good-naturedly, giggling. "Shut up, thats more muscle than Ill ever have."

            "Okay, I know youve been dying to tell me all about Christian. So spill."

            Rachel lit up like a light bulb, moving her hands animatedly as she spoke in a high-pitched tone. Kurt really had missed her opinionated rambling and the way she lost herself in conversations. Even if Rachel grew unbearable sometimes, she was still the only person he could come to when he needed a pick me up.

            When she finished talking about the "sensuality" of Christians haircut, Kurt stopped her before she could begin discussing the perfect shape of his cuticles. "Wheres Santana? At the diner?" he asked. "I have Katy Perry the apology kitty to give to her."

            Rachel chewed her bottom lip, avoiding Kurts gaze. "Um...She kind of quit her job at the diner."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Do you know the RENT-inspired strip club off of thirty-fourth and Remingway?" she remarked quietly. "Well, Santana kind of got a job there."

            If there was one thing Santana loved more than bitching out middle-aged mothers on Facebook, it was earning forty dollars an hour just for dancing around the stage in a sexy nurse costume and teasing balding and probably married men that tucked dollar bills into the hem of her too-short skirt.

            Being a stripper-or rather, exotic dancer-wasnt the most dignifying job, Santana knew, but it paid well and money was something she needed more than her dignity, not that shed ever really cared about it in the first place. At least she wasnt like the girls that came after two in the morning, dressed only in disposable gold panties, and dragged the half-drunk men into the backrooms for a little extra something-something, who came out half an hour later four hundred dollars richer with mascara streaking down pink-tinted cheeks and smeared lipstick.

            She worked a simple shift from nine to two, performing two choreographed songs-Peacock by Katy Perry and Bootylicious by Beyonce-and then returned home with a fat paycheck and a six pack of on the house beers. It was a hundred times better than the diner and surprisingly filled with less creepy men.

            It was two nights in that things started to take a turn for the worst. Shed finished Peacock, returning to the dressing rooms in a thick sheet of sweat and sticky glitter. "Oh, my god, Santana baby, that was incredible," cooed Leona, a blonde whod been the first to introduce herself to Santana.

            She shrugged off the skintight blue elastic of her dress and slipped into one of the complementary robes. "Do you think so? I missed the note during the bridge-some asshole grabbed my butt and caught me off guard.

            Leona examined her reflection in the mirror and bent to apply more gossamer lip gloss. "Those dicks always grope at the wrong times. If any one of them touches my ass without forking over dough, you better believe Id slap that son of a bitch right into the Milky Way," she quipped without so much as blinking.

            Oh, yes, she was Santanas type of girl. "Line up, line up, the next number is on in two!" called the stage manager, a wiry, greasy-haired forty-year-old that slept with whoever was willing. Santana had refused to so much as step near him without something covering the entire length of her body.

            Santana stood up, tossing her hair over her shoulder and grabbed the packet of makeup remover wipes. "God, I need a drink."

            "Frank works the bar at this time of night," said Leona, grabbing Santanas wrist and eliciting a tingling sensation that crept up her arm. "I can get us a couple free shots. Some energy boosters before our next performance."

            Santana followed her through the back entrance and claimed a couple stools at the bar. She watched with climbing jealousy as Leona flirted with Frank, exposing just the right amount of cleavage to get her way. Sure enough, he forked over four green Jell-O shots.

            Santana knocked one back and turned towards the stage, savoring the burn of the drink as it smoldered down her throat. The club was crowded with men featuring a variety of different ages, and even women who watched curiously behind tall martinis. Lights flashed and fog machines released curling streams of perfumed smoke that enhanced the performers twirling around grimy poles. She was in Coyote Ugly for sure.

            Leona swallowed her second shot and smacked the glass back down triumphantly. "There we go. Now Im really feeling good!" she exclaimed, whooping for emphasis.

            Santana hid her amused smirk behind her hand. "How long have you worked here?" she inquired casually. Shed viewed a couple of Leonas debuts and that girl really knew her way around the platform.

            "Oh, just a few years. I moved here when I was...sixteen, I think? I lived with my dad. He was a total dick so as soon as I turned eighteen, I got the fuck out of there and found a job at this shitty little café that paid eight bucks an hour. And then, lo and behold, Ronald recruited me on the streets when I had nowhere to live and Ive been working here ever since. Five years, to be exact," Leona explained.

            "Didnt you ever want to...I dont know, go to college?" Santana wanted to know.

            Leona shook her head nonchalantly. "Not really. Im happy here. I like what I do. I know a lot of people hate on us for having such risqué jobs, but I dont give a damn. Dignitys not something that anybody else can take from me. My opinion is the only one that matters."

            "Damn right." Santana admired her attitude, ducking as she felt a blush creep into her cheeks. Itd been god knows how long since shed been truly attracted to another person and the warmth she felt in her stomach was foreign.

            "Ladies and gentlemen, put your drinks on the table and your money in the air for the one, the only-Firefighter Dave!" An eruption of cheers rocketed through the club like thunder as a half-naked firefighter burst through the curtain.

            His body was well-toned, supporting a defined set of abs beneath suspenders. The red plastic shorts outlined the curve of his ass and the large bulge of his crotch, his face shadowed beneath a corny hat.

            "Goddamn, Firefighter Dave is one fine piece of man. If I swung that way, Id totally hit that," Santana announced.

            Leona laughed. "David? Oh, no, hes gay as they come. And not the nicest person, either. He never flirts with anyone, not even the sexy policemen, and just sulks in the corner. Hes good at getting the money though." Santana observed as Dave rolled his body like it was sculpted out of clay.

            "Nice eye candy, though."

            "Karofskys sweet to look at and bitter to taste."

            Santana froze. "I-I-what did you say?" she croaked, positive that Leona hadnt just uttered the once name in which Santana was sure shed never have to hear again.

            Leona cocked her head, clearly confused. "I said David Karofksy is sweet to look at and bitter to taste. If I were you, I wouldnt tango with that fellow."

            Santana gulped down the shot with a shake of her head. "Oh, I already tangoed with him," she assured her. "Karofsky and I know each other well."