#thread.001

la was weird; a clusterfuck of conflicting emotions being back...home. the city lights and noise buzzed out the fret congesting her brain; the partying and nose candy completely cleaned it from her system for a few days. then she crashed, and it was back to business. 

when she woke up hungover and her insides caked with regret, she spent most of her day huddled in her hotel room getting to business she should have the first day. it was always a rollercoaster ride going over the paperwork. highs and lows of of the numbers; a high of paying all her business bills, then the low of having nothing left for herself. by the end she needed a distraction; immediately, her mind traveled to ryder. all of monday she had teased him with the idea while she ran errands, schmoozed with somebodies that were means in her eyes, and dodged collectors. By Tuesday evening she was at his door. 

Santana chuckled to herself. the cause? Finn’s crooked smile and flushed cheeks flashing into her mind. Which would have agitated her (his stupid face, generating a smile) but she was about to see him at the festival; which was a viable reason to be thinking about him. she reminded herself of this, but still, cynicism won out and she wrestled it down to a smirk- don’t get too excited, let alone show it.

Santana wasn’t just taking the time to dress her best because she was going to be in the presence of Big Money when she entered the Motto Residence, but who lied within the lavish landscape, Sugar, was the real motive. She had money, and was hot. Santana had reserved her images of socialites to be, pigs wrapped in couture and baked at 450-pasty degrees. But Sugar was different. Her high cheek bones, and delicate features were easy to take your breath away, while her eyes could leap across a room and gut you without her moving an inch- the thought turned Santana on alone.  

She wanted to look rich, but available. Her bikini top that had the famous gold Louis Vuitton symbols scattered across the brown background. It was a size too small so her cleavage was plenty, and her jean shorts followed suit on the theme of ‘plenty’. They were tight and short, rising high on her waist, but still leaving plenty of room to show off her narrow waist, and flat stomach. 

The music in the Frat House was abruptly cut-off for a brief moment, then replaced with 'Birthday Bitch' by Trap Beckham. It was probably the third time that night it had played because of Chad and Santana’s battle for playlist privileges, but the crowd didn’t mind. The applause when the song came on then the hustle to fill the empty spots on the dance floor proved her point once again - her playlist was superior to Chad’s. This was the third time that he had tried to veer away from her playlist. Santana didn’t know him much; she swiped right once and had left him on read ever since. 

He just chuckled at her, like he was impressed, which meant he assumed she would be with whatever line he tried. “Look, I’ll leave the music alone and you come upstairs with me.”  As Santana had guessed, she wasn’t impressed, and it wasn’t her ‘psychic’ powers that had predicted that. “I carry a knife,” she casually yelled over the base of the music while she reached over and took his JUUL on top of the ‘DJ’ table. She walked away from his ‘hey!’; his voice, that instance, and the JUUL she took (despite not smoking) were already out of mind. She was buzzing a little, the cookie was kicking in, and she spotted Jake in the kitchen. As she neared him hovered over the counter pouring himself a drink, she started singing, ‘baby gap...’ 

Santana trailed off, continuing to nod her head to what was suppose to be a funny little song to follow baby gap, but.... “Man,” she sighed, sliding onto the counter, “I got nothing.” She looked down shamefully. “Pour me something,” she said, handing him her cup with a limp arm.