“Jesus H., are they still going at it?” Tina asks, jumping out of the passenger seat of her boyfriend’s car before it even comes to a complete stop. “It’s been about two hours!”

“They’re always going at it. Where have you been?” Santana steps out of her Camaro and rounds to the passenger side to open the door for her girlfriend. “I don’t think they can even breathe unless they do it mouth-to-mouth.”

“Well, if you ask me, that’s just tacky.” Tina watches the blue Mustang rock steadily beside a static black one, the fogged windows streaked with condensation so that the onlookers gathering can just barely make out the two boys inside, oblivious to their stares and snickers.

“Uh, right,” Santana says with a dramatic eye roll. “Ring, ring. Hello pot? It’s me kettle. By the way, you’re black.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that, from what I’ve heard, the city of Lima is still trying to shake down your boyfriend for about a thousand dollars to fix that pothole the two of you have worn into the asphalt with all of your constant bumping and grinding.”

Tina doesn’t dispute the accusation, just arcs her face away, in time to miss a hand smack the glass, accompanied by a long, drawn out moan.

Santana, walking hand in hand with Brittany, makes her way over to the car and knocks on the window.

Tap-tap-tap. “Hey! Hey, guys!”

“What!?” the cracked voice of Kurt Hummel responds.

“Did you two even come here to race? Or just to fuck?”

“We raced,” Blaine says. “Now we’re fucking. It’s a … oo, yeah, like that … logical progression if you think about it.”

“Well, you might wanna consider moving this show somewhere private. You know, with a bed? You’re kinda attracting an audience.”

The Mustang stops rocking. Blaine’s hand swipes down the glass, clearing a spot so he can see outside. Through the blurry hole, swiftly fogging back over with every breath Blaine and Kurt take, Santana can make out the sweaty heads and shoulders of both boys, but little else.

“Are we really?” Blaine asks.

“Really what?”

“Attracting an audience?”

“Or are you just being facetious?” Kurt chimes in.

“Why don’t you guys roll down the window and find out?”

The hole fogs over again, but the Mustang doesn’t move. Underneath the whistles and catcalls of peeping toms eager to get the show started again, Santana hears Kurt and Blaine deliberating. Eventually, the window does open, prompting cheers from the surrounding racers, but only a sliver, and a baseball cap slips out.

“Here,” Blaine says, passing the hat out to Santana and closing the window again.

Santana flips the cap over and looks at the writing on the crown – Hummel Tires and Lube.

“Uh, what do you want me to do with this? Cuz I’m not wearing it if that’s what you’re thinking. Hummel can plug his own dammed business.”

“No,” Kurt says with an indignant tut. “Pass it around.”

Santana looks at the black cap with its gold lettering and sneers. “What for?”

“This ain’t no free show,” Blaine says. “If these people wanna see this car rock, they have to pay for the privilege.”

Santana scoffs, looking at the hat, and the Mustang, with disgust. “Are you two serious?”

“Yup,” Kurt concurs. “Tickets to New York don’t pay for themselves.”