Santana squeezed her eyes shut, her eyes stung but she refused to let any tears fall, to show any weakness.

Her father spoke after a long silence. “Your grandmother is right, Santana. It’s wrong, it’s disgusting. I don’t think it’s too late though to-“

“To what?” Santana interrupted

“To fix it” Her mother intervened, trying to be sympathetic.

“There’s nothing to fix.” She whispered, her eyes flickering between her parents. “I’m trying to tell you, this is who I am. I haven’t changed, I’m still me.”

“Please don’t. Santana, don’t do this to us.”

“Do what? You’re acting like I decided this just to spite you. I didn’t, it has nothing to do with you.”

“But it has everything to do with us” Santana’s father was furious now. “How can I see my colleagues now? How can we see the family, our friends? With you being how you are? I can’t Santana. If you’re not willing to try, then neither am I. I need you out of my house by the end of the week.”

He turned and stalked out of the room without a second glance, her mother soon followed.

Finally alone she allowed herself to fold into a ball and rock herself, her arms wrapped around her body the way her mother used to cradle her when she was young. Any comfort that it used to give her was lost now, she felt nothing other than completely, despairingly alone.

Having little more than $20 in her savings, and a father who refused to fund her anymore, Santana found herself in a pile of garbage bags that had been filled will all her necessary items, tossed unceremoniously out onto the street. The crisp wind bit her that much harder without four walls to find refuge in.

Tate Bailey was a boy who lived nearby to Santana, though his family was well off enough for him to live elsewhere, he chose to remain in Lima Heights Adjacent. His father had inherited a small business fairly early in life that thrived, so he and Tate’s mother and sister had moved to Westerville. Tate lived alone. He was the kind of person who could be seen lurking around in alleys, his hood pulled over his eyes with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His brown hair had a constant amount of grease that made it look only slightly unclean, but coupled with the purple bags underneath his eyes and his thin frame, he looked worn. He kept mostly to himself with the odd interaction with shady personalities and schoolchildren from various areas, and socio-economic backgrounds.

In recent years Tate had acquired a friend, quite unusual if you knew Tate, who stuck close to him for most days and afternoons. He was quiet and aloof, well-kept obviously, though his unruly dark hair and the bruises splattered sporadically around his body made him seem untrustworthy.

As Santana sat in the cold, on a particularly grey day, they walked past her on the opposite side of the street. Tate’s minion looked to her, his hazel eyes met hers for an instant before he ducked back underneath his hood. From her patch of pavement, she noticed him whisper into Tate’s ear. Tate nodded once and slowly turned his course to meet her. They stood before her, their shadows looming across the buildings and her face, she squinted up at them before scowling and shuffling in her spot to face away from them.

“In a pickle are we, Satan?” Tate chuckled.

“Fuck off, Bailey. Why don’t you and Frodo go back to the Shire?”

Tate laughed. “I like this one.” He spoke to the shorter, dark-haired boy who gave a slight smile and nodded.

“I can help you, if you’d like.” Tate continued to Santana.

She urged to spit in his face, tell him that she didn’t need his help and add in some snarky comment just for kicks, but she didn’t. Though she hated asking for help, she wasn’t an idiot; she knew she needed it.

“What? Just like that?”

“We’ll work out terms later. I say you can come to our apartment for the night and we’ll sort everything out in the morning. If you decide to come back here tomorrow, no hard feelings. Sound reasonable?”

Tate’s smug face made her want to vomit. “Yeah. I guess. You two aren’t gonna have sex or anything are you?”

“No!” Tate laughed as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “Blaine’s not really my type.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

“Blaine, get her… bags.”

‘Blaine’ as Santana had learned his name was hoisted up the filled garbage bags one by one and flung them over his shoulder. Before moving back to Tate’s side he leaned into her ear as subtly as he could and whispered: “Say no.”

If she knew Blaine at all she might have taken that seriously, but as it was she simply scoffed and moved to follow Tate who was now walking in the direction that he and Blaine had seemed to be headed earlier.

The ‘apartment’, if you could call it that, was more like a warehouse space. It was large and dusty, the walls were hardly painted, most had chipped paint with a lot of exposed concrete. The main area had simply a large couch and a table pushed off to the side and a kitchen area around the back wall. There was one bedroom to the left and a bathroom door beside it. To the right was another bedroom and a sealed door with a separate padlock. It was cold inside, and there was a slight dust smell, but there were heaters situated around, and Santana was sure she would get used to the musk eventually. She wasn’t really in a position to complain, no matter how much she wanted to.

“You will be rooming with Blaine this evening.” Tate said, and noting Santana’s mildly disgusted expression, added “There are two beds, don’t worry.”

“If you’re hungry, I’m sure there’s some food in the fridge that Blaine can get you, feel free to help yourself to anything that’s here. Blaine will show you were the plates and cups and et cetera are. My room is to the right. You are not to enter either of the rooms on this side. Clear? If there is some desperate reason to wake me, tell Blaine. He knows what to do. Goodnight, Santana. I will see you in the morning, I hope.”

Tate and Blaine nodded at one another before Tate moved into the bedroom and shut the door rather forcefully. Santana could hear locks clicking from the other room.

“Okay.” Blaine said moving over to the kitchen, noticeably more at ease even with Tate just a door away. “Cups are in the cupboard to the right of the fridge. Plates are beneath that. There is a microwave and toaster in the pull-out drawer on the left. Uh, yeah. Dishwasher, please rinse everything before putting it in. There’s a washing machine just off from the bathroom if you need it. Anything else?”

“What do I do with my stuff?” Santana said, trying her best to sound collected and in control.

“Just dump them in the corner, or by the door maybe. Anything you need to bring into the bedroom, you can. There’s just not a whole heap of space. “

The bedroom was small with two beds that were really only mattresses on spring frames. Each had a pillow and a cover, but that was it.

“Charming.” Santana said, sitting down on the bed that was obviously less lived-in.

“It’s better than being on the street.”

“That’s true. So, Blaine, are you going to tell me your life story?”

“No, probably not. Not now anyway.”

“D’ya wanna hear mine?”

“Probably just as much as you want to tell it.” Blaine said, rather bluntly.

“You’re a boring one, aren’t you? Gah, I wonder if it’s too late to change roommates.”

Blaine laughed a little. “I’m hoping it’s only for one night.”

“Now that was just plain rude.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Santana, you don’t really want to stay. I don’t know what the terms will be for you, but they aren’t nice. They aren’t reasonable, and they might sound good for now, but in a while, you’ll hate that you ever said yes.”

“Morbid. So what’re your terms?”

“I can’t say. I probably shouldn’t have said as much as I just did. I won’t be there when he presents his offer, but please say no.”

“Look, no offense or anything shrimp, but I’m a big girl. I can pick for myself. Just cause you fucked yourself up doesn’t mean that we’re all that stupid. I don’t even know you, shut up.”

“Okay.”

In the morning the sun shone through the two windows in the room, illuminating every dust particle that floated around the room. Blaine was already up, Santana could hear him softly clinking pans and cutlery from the kitchen. She emerged just as he placed two plates of bacon, eggs, toast, sausage and hash browns on the table. He smiled at her politely. Tate was already seated, he thanked Blaine and then told him he was dismissed until 11:30.

“Sit.” He smiled.

“Is this mine?” Santana said, her mouth watering at the sight.

“Sure is. Dig in.”

She did.

“Santana, I hope you understand, I’m busy. I’d rather get through this as soon as possible, so if you don’t mind I will read the terms now?”

“Go for it.”

“Thank you. Ok:

Upon signing this agreement I hereby consent to the following conditions:

1.     I will reside under the guidance of Tate Bailey whilst this contract holds, meaning:

a.     I will require his consent for any; medical procedures, body modifications, travel, purchases spent with the collective fund, major decisions.

b.     I will reside in one of Mr. Bailey’s residences, unless written permission is given to state otherwise.

2.     For each month that I am under the care of Mr. Bailey, a year will be added to my contract time, excluding the year that will be instated upon signature.

3.     Take part in Mr. Bailey’s personal business matters when required, without complaint.

You have the rights at any time to:

1.     Lodge a formal complaint to Mr. Bailey or one of his associates which will be reviewed fairly amongst a board

2.     Terminate or extend the contract once the set period is complete

3.     Use any of your own finances and belongings as you please unless this breaks one of the rules stated above.

4.     Apply to move between residences or change the clauses under which your involvement in Mr. Bailey’s businesses is based.

I understand that breaking one or more of these rules will result in one of a wide array of punishments, as Mr. Bailey sees fit.

That’s it, and then you sign it and date it, and I sign it and date it. Each month you need my care still you will need to sign another contract, a different one though. Of course you’ll be able to get a job and/or go to school if you wish. Unless that clashes with a business plan. Anything you want to know?”

“Yeah…What’s the business?”

“A hire service.”

“Oh, ‘kay. So I sign here?”

Tate nodded and handed her a pen.

The sound of the pen dragged across the paper echoed in her ears, along with the faint whisper of a familiar voice, “say no.”

“Thank you, Santana. It’ll be a pleasure, I’m sure.”