Serving unattractive New Yorkers coffee was not Santana's idea of a dream job when she was in pigtails and dancing around her bedroom to Missy Elliot (yeah, she worked it, even at six). She's not unfamiliar with hating things, and this job she despises even on the good days when she doesn't have to make 130 degree hot chocolate for bratty city ankle-biters. But, it has its perks.

One: people of all colors, jeans sizes, and creeds hit on her. All. Day. Long. It does excellent things for her self esteem, and Santana didn't even think she needed it. And maybe the slice of tummy peeking out from underneath her work polo helps. She doesn't think too hard on it—she can't help it that she has an unbelievably long torso and the skin of a golden god. This is what she said to her harried-ass manager when he dared to complain about her exposed midriff:

"It's genetics, and the guys and gals up in this joint? They loves it."

He frowned and threatened her job, but Santana's positively sure he keeps her around because of pipe dreams that she'll one day invite him to a lezzified threesome. Dream on, cowboy, hell to the no, et cetera.

And two: the spectacle that is Quinn Fabray every goddamn day. Today, for example, Quinn walks into Santana's store and all the way to the counter without once looking up from her fancy phone. Santana braces her hands on the countertop.

"My favorite Wall Street megalomaniac," she greets. "Is that your official job title now? I really never know."

Quinn takes her time looking up from her screen and when she does, she smiles loftily.

"Hello, Santana. It's great to see you too. The grown-ups call me a financial associate, actually. You know what you should really do? Put your English degree away and make my latte," Quinn says, all in one big, bitchy breath.

Santana might be hurt if she were Rachel Berry, or in preschool. So yeah, big deal, she settles for a shitty paycheck and her padre foots her part-time degree just so that she can perform at dodgy jazz dives for creepy, middle-aged singles. At least she's following her dream. Santana's brow furrows. Disgusting. She sounds more like schnozzleBerry every day. She needs to stop reading the phony inspirational text messages that girl keeps sending her.

"Keep on thinking you're holier than me, Jesus camp," she says to Quinn as she reaches for a pitcher, "but let me remind you that your caffeine-fueled fate is in my hands."

Quinn stares her down with her unnerving dead eyes. "Amazing. I'm always impressed that you manage to be just as hostile at six in the morning, Santana."

The jab Santana's fine with. Flattered about, really. But being so rudely reminded of this ungodly hour? For that, Quinn gets one less shot of espresso in her precious latte. Three is outrageous, anyway, and Santana knows from experience (read, being around Quinn all keyed up and obnoxious at the end of the day) that Quinn tops up at least a few times at work. Santana's doing both of them a favor. She finishes adding in the foam and goes over to the back counter.

"Here, Bill Gates, get your fix on."

"Wrong industry," Quinn corrects and grabs her drink. She methodically unlids the cup and stirs in a massive amount of sugar.

Santana shrugs noncommittally. "Whatev. So, is it more of the same on the agenda today? More money conning, life ruining, spirit breaking…"

Quinn laughs suddenly and brightly, so incongruent to her general bitchiness that Santana can't help but stare appreciatively.

"Santana, I don't work for the mob."

Santana waves her hand. Quinn, the little vixen, totally would. "Don't pretend you weren't an absolute ball buster all through high school and college."

"Don't pretend you weren't" Quinn retorts. She takes a long sip of her drink and looks pleased.

Santana smirks. She goes over to refill creamers so that her brownnosing coworkers don't bitch her out again. Those biddies are just jealous she gets daily visits from this smokin' blonde.

"All over 'em," she says to said hottie, "just as long as I don't have to make actual physical contact."

Quinn's nose scrunches up. "Ugh."

"See, you understand me," Santana says, and that fills up her penis talk quota for the week, thanks.

Instead of responding, Quinn tucks her phone into her purse.

"As much as I enjoy our oddly palatable bonding, I have to run. But I need a tiny favor," she says, leaning over the counter all business-like. It feels to Santana like she's in a board room and Quinn is about to slit her throat, Shark Tank style. Frankly, it yanks her chain a little bit. Still, she isn't just plain easy:

"It's going to cost you," she retorts immediately.

"Obviously," Quinn rolls her eyes. Her voice drops a few decibels so that Santana has to move closer to hear, "we can discuss the terms later, but I need you to introduce me to Feinstein if he comes in at his usual time today."

Santana purses her lips. She dreaded this day, mainly because the man is a slimy piece of shit. Santana's convinced he eats children for breakfast. Once, she caught his rape eyes connecting with her luscious behind and nearly went all Lima Heights on his ass. The only reason she pretends to make pleasant with him is because he owns the store, and the building it's in, and probably the building next door to that. The thought of Quinn sucking up to the douchenozzle as per her usual makes Santana sick.

Quinn tugs her sleeve, once and hard.

"Watch yourself, Fabray," Santana glares, fixing her shirt collar.

"Listen, I know you think he's the antichrist," Quinn whispers, "but he's a bigwig and I need to start networking. If I secure a single portfolio for him, I make my bosses happy, and if I do that, I'm twenty steps closer to the promotion."

Vom. 'The Promotion' is the buzzword all up in their conversations, and probably Quinn's wet dreams (undoubtedly tepid-as-hell, when Auntie Tana isn't on her mind). Santana's fucking sick of hearing about it.

"Just an introduction, okay? No frills about it," Quinn presses, her expression hopeful. The lack of general self-respect Quinn has when it comes to her work is downright pathetic.

"Fine," Santana begrudges, "but only because if I have to see you actually beg, I may literally hurl. But get your ass over here before one. I have class uptown after. And please refrain from sucking his dick, metaphorical or otherwise. Remember, Q, what would Jesus do or whatever."

"Absolutely context-inappropriate advice, as usual, but thank you," Quinn grins and pulls away. "See you at lunch?" She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusts her blazer.

Santana hums. "Did I mention that you look dashingly handsome this morning?" she asks. "Like the President. Of my pants."

"Always the highlight of my day, Santana," Quinn intones.

Santana cocks her head and smiles sweetly. "Likewise."

Quinn is, of course, annoyingly punctual that afternoon. Santana is about to bounce early to avoid this inevitable clusterfuck when Quinn breezes in, just as she's pulling on her jacket.

"Christ, Fabray."

"Made it," Quinn breathes, as if she's anything but ten hours early. She raises an eyebrow at Santana's jacket. "Going somewhere? Were you going to bail on me?"

"No, it's cold up in here," Santana protests. "Brr," she adds half-assedly.

Quinn fixes her with a death glare worthy of a Dateline special. Santana prides herself on being generally unflappable, but Quinn is positively scary like this. In a sexy, flesh-eating undead sort of way. The fact that this does anything for Santana's libido is terrifying in itself. She shakes the thought from her head.

"Calm your nips," she says to Quinn and nods toward the entrance. "Your man just walked in."

Quinn turns around to see for herself and her expression immediately goes from murderous to fake-ass-bitch.

"Don't call him that," she hisses through her affected smile.

"You're right, you're right. You're way too self-involved to take ownership of another person," Santana says. She waves to Feinstein. He looks confused for a second and rightly so. On days when Santana is her normal self, thank you very much, she hardly offers a glance in his direction.

Feinstein comes over to the counter and takes a seat at a stool, flashing Santana with his wall of overly whitened teeth. "Lopez, nice surprise. Looking great as always," he says, glancing up and down her getup. She's in her uniform. Now granted, her tits look spectacular in any state of dress (or undress), but Feinstein's pushing it.

Santana doesn't understand how he can be so oily. Or how his face is so naturally obnoxious-he's a typical industry child, in his mid-thirties, born into his wealth and thinking he's the shit when all he has to show for it is too much hair gel and ill-fitting suit pants. Maybe he'd look decent under that dense fog of cologne and douche. Santana doesn't know and her lady parts certainly don't care.

She tries to pass her grimace off as a smile but probably only succeeds in looking like Finn Hudson.

"Hello, Mr. Feinstein, good to see you."

"Fix me a double shot, why don't you," Feinstein says. "You know how I like it."

Just because he's a jerk, Santana decides she'd rather not. Her threshold for bullshit is so low it's at zero.

"You know, I would, but I'm technically off the clock," she says pseudo-apologetically, pointing at her loosened hair. She catches Quinn staring at her with big eyes, as though she's wondering where Santana gets the nerve. Oh, Santana's got the nerve. She was born with it.

Feinstein frowns. He probably can't fathom the concept of no coming from a girl. Auntie Tana is forever a pioneer, imparting wisdom to all.

Before he can respond, though, another barista comes up and slips a mug in front of him, effectively and rudely ending Santana's life lesson of the day.

"Your usual, Mr. Feinstein. I noticed that you came in, so I went ahead and made it for you. I hope that's okay," the girl titters.

"Thanks, Laura, you're wonderful," Feinstein responds, all self-satisfied.

"So nice," Santana says indulgently to the little ass-kisser. Laura smiles nervously at both of them and skedaddles before Santana can say anything else. Smart girl.

Feinstein chuckles and stirs his coffee. "You are something else, Lopez."

Truth. It's probably the one thing he's ever been right about.

"I keeps it real," Santana shrugs. Speaking of which, she's ready to get this show on the road. She looks over at Quinn, who by now is positively pissing herself in anticipation, looking back and forth between the two of them. Right as Santana's about to speak, though, Feinstein pipes up again:

"Hey, you're a singer, aren't you?"

Santana's brow furrows. "Yeah, guess you could call me that."

Feinstein leans over the counter and his tie digs into his stubbly neck unattractively. "That's great," he says with about zero sincerity. "Where do you perform?"

"I have this gig down in Brooklyn some nights. Super glam," Santana says shortly. She's not interested in hashing out her less than fabulous life story with Trump, Jr. here, and doesn't know where he's going with this.

"Well, I'd like to have a listen sometime," he says, sipping his drink. "You know, I have a friend who has part ownership in some bars right here in Manhattan."

Oh, he's going straight for her pants. The man is shameless. Santana's about to say something that may end her job when Quinn opens her big mouth.

"She's amazing. You really should hear her sing," she pipes up, smiling. Meddlesome ho.

Feinstein chuckles and turns to Quinn. "Is that so?"

"Santana's the best singer I know, hands down," Quinn nods and actually lowers her hands as she says it, the dork. And Quinn may just be fronting for appearance's sake, but Santana can't help but preen a little. Best singer you know, huh, Fabray? She now has ammunition against both Quinn and Jewish Furby.

"Looks like you've got fans," Feinstein says to her. "Does your friend have a name?"

Santana would like to say no and get lost, thank you, but she's still high off the compliment, so she plays nice.

"This is Quinn Fabray-finance extraordinaire to the Wall Street stars. Quinn, Brad Feinstein," Santana points between them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Quinn says in the sugariest voice Santana's ever heard from her, sticking out her hand.

"The pleasure is mine," Feinstein returns the handshake. And he's looking very much attentively, and appreciatively, at Quinn.

Santana frowns. Hey, Fugstein, mitts off. She refuses to watch this phony love story unfold without throwing in some interference.

"I'd be careful, though," she adds. "Quinn's a bit of a shark. Has been since the day her mama made her."

Feinstein barks out a surprised laugh and looks back at Quinn. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Santana continues. "I speak from experience-this girl is only friendly for your money."

Quinn blinks and laughs nervously, her face paling. "She... she's just joking."

"No, I always appreciate a bit of honesty," Feinstein smiles.

"Like I said, keepin' it real," Santana says, and notices that Quinn's face has by now turned three different shades of white. It's more color on the girl than she's seen in a while, but it reminds her that Quinn is actually undead and may kill her.

She thinks it's probably smartest to peace out before she gets throttled by Zombie Barbie.

"Well, as much as I'd love to hang," Santana says, reaching for her purse. "I gots to go. Class soon and all-Milton won't learn itself."

Feinstein's face is parked somewhere between amused and befuddled, like he still hasn't caught on to the joke. "Enjoy...?"

Santana waves at them both and takes off.

She makes it all but halfway down the block before she gets stopped in her tracks and jerked back around roughly.

"Fucking ow!"

"What the hell, Santana!" Quinn tugs her arm again.

Santana wrenches herself away irritatedly. "Ow! Stop with the manhandling. Have you lost your damn mind?" she asks, rubbing her abused appendage.

"Have you?" Quinn yells. "How could you humiliate me like that?"

Quinn's crazy eyes are all glazed and big and it makes Santana feel this annoying combination of angry and uncomfortable, because she cannot with the lady tears.

"Like what?" she asks.

"She's friendly for your money? On what planet is that an acceptable thing to say about anyone?" Quinn throws her hands up and nearly puts out Santana's eye.

"Oh sweet lord, Q. Hit the brakes and quit being so telenovela up in here. I was just protecting you from that miserable scumbag of a man. So sue me."

Santana should probably retract that statement because Quinn is a bastard and may actually sue her.

But Quinn just gives a little disbelieving laugh and looks away. "I honestly can't believe how terrible of a human being you are, Santana," she says. "I asked you for one favor and you had to throw me under the bus. Have you ever considered that maybe you're the miserable scumbag I need protection from?"

Santana is slightly taken aback. Okay, that stung a little. Even her ice-cold bitch heart has its tepid spots.

"Whatever," she protests. "The guy is as twisted as your little panties are right now. He probably liked it."

"That doesn't make it okay!" Quinn shrieks.

Santana winces.

"And that stuff about his club owner friend?" Quinn keeps going. Santana swears she's going to have a massive headache by the end of today. "That could've been a real opportunity and you outright ignored it. You need to swallow that gigantic pride of yours if you ever want to succeed in this city."

Okay, Santana can handle the bitching and moaning, but she cannot and will not tolerate self-important advice. She grabs the front of Quinn's dress and tugs until they're almost nose to nose.

"Listen up, blondie," she says. "I would rather sweep Berry's Oscar basement lounge for the rest of my life than suck dick to get places the way you do."

Quinn laughs incredulously and shoves at Santana's arms. "You're unbelievable. Stop accusing me of that. And how do you even know that's what he meant? It sounded harmless to me."

"Oh please," Santana scoffs. "Were you even listening? Why the fuck else would he be nice to some lowly, asshole barista from nowhere, USA?"

"Santana," Quinn says, finally tugging herself free, her short hair starting to make an escape from its bobby pins. "When are you going to get it through your thick skull that we're in the real world now, and daddy's money can only get you so far. And just to make things clear, not everyone wants to have sex with you."

Quinn screams the last part, then screams "ugh!", then she stalks down the street away from Santana.