A/N: Here you go. A short chapter. Just a filler, really. More introductions. Stuff happens after this. Enjoy and review. :)

He felt like shit. Honestly.

Blaine sighed and hastily dropped his pen in front of him, abandoning the shitty paperwork for one second. He felt like he couldn't breathe, even though his tie had been loosened already. Tired hazel eyes glanced around the room—plush leather seats, a glass coffee table, a sleek black bookcase—it felt as if the place was good for viewing, something out of a magazine. He glanced down at his desk, 'important' papers scattered around, folders, memos—goddamit, he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating.

"Shit. I need a goddamned fucking drink."

The mini-fridge was just a few steps beside him. Before he could make any move though, his phone rang.

"Mr. Anderson", his secretary's shrill voice drawled in, "there's a phone call for you on Line 3. It's Mr. Harley."

Line 3? It must probably be business work. "Alright", he rubbed his temple, "put him through."

After a few seconds, a short beep, and then a sound as if the line connected to another one. Blaine impatiently drummed his fingers on the table, wanting this conversation to already end.

'Hello?'

His eyebrows shot up. "David?" He understood Wes calling him on the business line for personal reasons. After all, his friend was just an ass like that. But David? Out of the three of them, it was very safe to say that David was the one who kept balance all the time. "What's wrong?" Maybe he read things too quickly? Maybe David had a case concerning one of their employees or something?

'Hi, Blaine. Yeah, about that. Sorry if I called here. I would've called you on your personal one if only I had my cellphone', he could clearly hear David's annoyed huff on the other line.

Brows furrowed, he licked his lips before speaking. "What? What happened to your phone? Were you mugged? Are you okay?"

'It's not that complicated Blainey, relax', David chuckled, 'I wasn't mugged. More like my phone was kidnapped.'

He let out a snort. "Wes?" That name alone would've solved a billion and one problems involving lots of world issues. "And let me guess, he stole your phone because you probably blackmailed him with the video of what happened last Friday. Very mature, David. You were probably begging for this to happen." Blaine snorted as he picked up the file he set aside a few minutes ago. "And this is Wes we're talking about."

'I—It's—Well, it's hardly my fault! He was just being shitty with hangover throughout the whole week, Blaine. And he's acting like I'm his babysitter or something!' The Eurasian chuckled dryly as he closed his eyes and rubbed them with his hand. 'Anyways, Wes told me that he'll give me back my phone under one condition. See? He even faxed me the 'contract', the little bitch. And here's what it says: 'I, Wesley Steinway, would give back David Harley's Blackberry under the condition that', and I quote word per word, 'he convinces Blaine Anderson to attend Burlesque Lounge every Friday to perv on their gay performer. Yes, Blaine Anderson, we know.' So there.'

As soon as Blaine heard the name 'Burlesque Lounge' everything else was tuned out. Instead he indulged himself in brief flashbacks of what it was like for him. The pink and yellow neon lights, the carpeted hallway, the pantomime-esque front man, the Cheerios, and the mysterious blue-eyed performer that left him intoxicated and high-strung and needy. He shook his head, realizing that such idle chats won't get him nowhere near to finishing his work. "I'm sorry David, I really want to help you get back your phone, but it's just that...You know about the Warbler records collaboration, and another hospital opening in SoHo, plus I need to get scaffolding permits ready for the new hotel we're planning to put up in—"

'It's just a yes or no answer, Blaine.'

"No", Blaine sighed, "I'm really sorry David. I'm just swamped with shit this week."

'Yeah, I understand. I'll pass the message to Wes.' David sighed. 'I better go now. I apologize for disturbing you while you're slowly overworking yourself to death, Blaine. I better call in your sexy—secretary to check on you from time to time. Make sure you don't kill yourself.'

He felt the edges of his lips curl into a smile. "I'd appreciate that mate. Well then, you two have some fun now."

Blaine Anderson found himself in front of the entryway, feeling deja vu wash over him as he stared at the sign. With a sigh, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and proceeded to jog down the stairs, finding himself a bit restless. Maybe it has something to do with the excitement coiling in his stomach about seeing a certain singer? Blaine shook his head once again and confidently strode to the window.

"Good evening sir", Artie (as he remembered) didn't seem to recognize him, "that'll be twenty dollars, please." The guy smiled at him as he fumbled around for a bit. Finally, Blaine managed to produce a crisp new thousand dollar bill. "Uh, don't you have any change for this, my good sir?" Artie chuckled good-naturedly. Because really, who would be walking around wearing seemingly normal clothes whilst carrying huge wads of cash? That seemed highly suspicious.

The curly haired businessman blushed a bit, checking his pockets for any stray changes. Suddenly remembering that he paid the cab on his way here, he grabbed a thick bundle of cash from his back pocket. With a grin, he produced a hundred dollar bill. "Sorry about that." Blaine noted to carry a smaller amount next time...If there was a next time.

Blaine figured that the rest of the staff of this place was highly trained that they shouldn't ask questions or pokes their noses in the business of their rather...shady customers. Seeing as how Artie's eyes flickered with curiosity for the briefest moment before fixing it back to its amused dull bluish gray ones. With a shrug, he gave him his change and grinned, gesturing to the entryway beside him. "Welcome to the Burlesque Lounge."

Flashing the guy a grateful smile, Blaine entered the small crowded club. And instantly, the bright neon lights, the intoxicating scents, and the melody of drawled murmurs and soft jazz music filled his ears—his body seemingly sparked with fire at the sensations.

Awkwardly scanning the crowd for familiar places, he chose to sit by the bar this time. It may be directly placed right beside the stage, but the front and the opposite part of it were both crowded with its usual occupants already. Blaine figured it was the safest place to sit. With a sigh, he sat in one of the stools and immediately recognized the bartender. It was the guy with the Mohawk—the one his lovely Kurt winked at.

"What'll it be?" He asked. His voice low and gruff.

"Some Tequila, please", he rubbed his temple tiredly as he threw some folded bills on the counter. "And a Martini. Extra dry, extra dirty, and put an olive, will you?"

Backstage was hectic. It was a constant flurry of motions. Some girls were seated in front of their mirrors, preparing themselves for the next number. Others were retouching their smudging make-up. Others were changing into their costume, right then and there. It didn't matter to them that other people might see them in their underwear, that they might see them naked, exposed, and vulnerable. They were all used to it. Males were prohibited from entering backstage anyway, unless they were called for something. Only two known men were exempted from the rule: one, the costume designer, and the other, a performer. It was maybe because both of them were only men biologically. But in other aspects, they weren't.

"Where is she? Where is she?" a strawberry blonde haired girl muttered, securing the fake jewelry unto her neck.

"We're up in a few minutes and she's not here yet!"

Another one scoffed, a Latina with a rather promiscuous figure. "Figures", she filed her nails absentmindedly, "the little bitch always does thinks that the show's going to wait for her skinny little ass."

"Santana!" a brunette intervened. "Back-lashing her won't help you know. John? John—dammit, where did he—? Oh John, help me with my costume. The corset won't let me breathe right."

"Maybe it's time for you to cut down those 'all-you-can-eat' events and start wolfing down rabbit food", Santana smirked, making the tall blonde next to her laugh.

"Oh fuck off."

"Will do", Santana purred, "once Brittany and I get a room." The rest of the girls groaned in annoyance.

"Girls, girls, let's watch our lovely little mouths, okay?" a bald man, wearing eyeglasses, around his forties, wearing a slim fitting black shirt and some casual jeans pointedly stared at Santana, who merely shrugged. He moved behind the brunette and pulled the strings harshly, making the girl gasp. "Just do what I tell you each and every time Monica. Hold your breath."

The strawberry blonde haired performer peeked in between the curtains. "John!" She hissed. "The intermission number's nearing to a finish and Miss I'm-always-late isn't here yet!"

John sighed and muttered something under his breath. "Oh dear god", he glanced around, "Where's Quinn?" A beautiful petite blonde girl stepped forward. She was already in costume: a sexy two-piece black lingerie and a rather elaborate fake necklace on her neck. Her hair was curled. She had smoky eyes, pinkish cheeks, and red lips.

She was ready.

"Quinn, honey. Forget being back-up for tonight. You go in and take Rachel's place. Back-ups will still be the same. Paula, you take Quinn's place in the second vocals. Now go, go." He finished lacing up the corset and gave her ass a little slap, making her squeal delightedly.

The lights on the stage dimmed. And the audience was suddenly clapping and riled up. Blaine set down his drink, curious and at the same time, hopeful about the next performance. At the same time, he spotted Wes and David sitting down the same place where they sat last week. Blaine messed up his gel-free hair all the more and pushed up his eyeglasses. He downed his shot fast, burning his throat. The bartender gave him a funny look.

A jazzy yet familiar tune filled Blaine's ears, although he couldn't really place where he heard it first. And then there were two spotlights focusing on a slender figure, gracefully sliding down the beaded curtains. She landed down with a perfect half split, showing off her flexibility.

"A kiss on the hand may be quite continental", the blonde stood up, clad in a sexy two piece lingerie, some fishnet stockings and high heels, and lots of jewelries—sparkly earrings, and a beautiful fake necklace. She did a high kick and twirled around. "But diamonds are a girl's best friend", she winked at the audience as she bended down low, touching her leg with her hand climbing upwards while the other was placed behind her back. Other dancers, who were languidly sitting on the sidelines, joined her and swayed their hips seductively.

A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental

On your humble flat, or help you feed your pussycat

As she sang the last line, she turned her back, wiggled her ass twice, and looked back. Throwing another fake-innocent glance at the crowd, and the brunette next to her slapped her ass, making her pop up her foot daintily. It was really adorable, and Blaine couldn't help but grin. He noticed that the bartender momentarily stopped concocting mixes as he watched the petite girl dance across the stage with a small smile on his face. "I'm actually surprised at how talented these performers are!" Blaine shouted over the music. The bartender stared at him with a bewildered expression.

"I thought this was one of those regular strip clubs", he continued, not really sure why he initiated a conversation, "scantily clad women and pole dancing and all that."

Suddenly the bartender grabbed him by the collar roughly, dragging him half-bent over the counter, some of his drink wasted on his clothes now. Blaine's heart jumped to his mouth, fearful for what might happen next. He glanced at the guy's huge biceps. "This ain't a strip club, kid", he said to him with a warning look in his eye.

The bartender gazed past by his shoulder, seemingly, another person caught unto what he was doing. Because the next second, he was released. "If you want a whorehouse, you go to the Cat Scratch Club down the street", he snorted before he left him, off to serve drinks and do his job that night.

With shaking hands, Blaine gripped his glass tightly. There were a lot of things going on in his mind after what happened. But the only thought that he could clearly make out of his messed up head was that the bartender actually used a reference from Rent against him. He frowned.

"Tiffany's", the blonde snatched the necklace from the tall blonde girl, the one holding her by the arm as she bended backwards lowly. She grinned at her spectators as she strutted and then one of the girl's supported her as she did a little leg pivot in the air. Afterwards, she knelt down the floor and crawled her way to a familiar Latina, Santana (was it?), and ripped off the necklace from her. "Cartier." Then the five girls were in a V-shaped formation, gracefully walking and swaying their hips to the beat as the blonde bit her lip naughtily and whirled the necklace that she got with one hand.

"Black", she removed her own necklace, "Star", the strawberry blonde girl removed the jeweled bow on her neck.

"Ross Cole", she threw her jewels in the air. "Talk to me, Harry Zilder, tell me all about it!" She growled a bit as she messed up her hair. And then all the girls turned their backs, walking towards the beaded curtain, before they all looked over and raised their hands over the beaded curtain, sliding down, grinding their hips as they lift their selves up.

"Your star has arrived!" A high-pitched voice excitedly bounced towards the spot where he was silently smoking, watching his girls perform flawlessly. The girl was short, her height lacking in inches compared to most of the average girls working in the club. She had big expressive eyes, a Jewish nose, and plump lips. It was a well-recognized face. After all, she was the star of Burlesque Lounge, the main attraction.

John gave her a once-over. Seeing that she was already in costume, he continued his smoking. "You're late. You're late", he said in a singsong voice, "for a very important date." The costume designer sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty. "Quinn went on for you." He could already see the annoyance creep into her features as she peeked from the curtains and there she was. Looking so glamorous, and wonderful, and stealing her spotlight—wasn't it enough that she was already turning heads because of her beauty? Her lips curled into a bitter frown.

"Why is that bitch in there performing my number?" She turned her wrath towards him.

He shrugged. "You weren't here. And she was there."

"Ugh", she groaned, "I told you. Jesse St. James wanted me to sit next to him over the earlier numbers. It's Jesse St. James. You know how it is between me and him." She grabbed her tiara and placed it on her head. She made sure that her necklace was on, and then she turned to Dave, one of the technicians. "Give me my spot." And then she put on her faux fur coat.

The guy nodded and went on to fix the spotlight.

"Rachel", John started as he watched the girl fix her hair before walking towards the curtain. "Rachel, Rachel. What are you doing? Get back here—Rachel."

The curtains revealed the fierce Jewish girl. And at the sight of her, the audience avidly clapped. Blaine easily identified her as the girl on the poster that was placed outside. She was Rachel, the one David was bragging about her vocal prowess. The Eurasian put down his drink and ardently placed his attention on her. Seeing that there definitely was a lack of Kurt tonight, he reckoned that at the very least, he was entertained.

"I've heard of affairs that are strictly platonic", Rachel carelessly threw her fur coat towards the blonde girl, who seemed a bit irritated at the act. "But diamonds are a girl's best friend", she imitated a kitten adorably scratching. But then the blonde girl decided to do the same, and it ended up looking as if they imitated a cat fight, which, to Blaine's amusement, he considered was something that could plausibly happen. It was evident how competitive this Rachel was.

And I think affairs that you must keep liaisonic

Are better bets if little pets get big baggettes

Rachel sweetly touched the tip of the girl's nose. And then she bumped her hip against Rachel's a bit too hard, seeing that the shorter stumbled to her side. She kept her footing though, saving an awkward fall for herself.

"Time rolls on"

"And youth is gone", the blonde stepped in front of her. The shorter, with a defiant pout, brushed her away and pushed her to her back to outshine her. Everybody knew what was happening on stage. There was a bit of evident conflict, but none of them knew if it was scripted or not. Either way, it just added more dazzle to the entire thing.

But Blaine overhead the scary bartender with the Asian one. Blaine remembered that the tall Asian one had been part of Kurt's performance. He was the one who served him the shot at the end of his number. "What the hell is Rachel up there man?" Mohawk guy stopped Asian guy by the arm.

Asian guy shrugged. "I don't know dude. I think Rachel came in late, and seeing that Quinn took her place...Well, you know how she gets."

"This would go very well backstage" Mohawk guy sighed. "Now get your ass out of here and serve this shit. Expect that we're to be needed after this number. Where's Sam? He should take over here."

That was the blonde's name! Quinn. She was part of the Cheerios. But what was it about Rachel being late? And about her Quinn taking her place? And what exactly would happen backstage? More than usual, Blaine's curiosity was piqued by these questions. For the first time in his life, he was finally interested about something. Although that particular something of his was in a rather impolite manner. But he was just so interested in this place, even though it was only his second time visiting...

"But diamonds", Rachel belted out in a high voice, "are a—"

"Girl's best", Quinn interrupted, earning a not-so-subtle glare from the other.

"Friend", they belted out together, their hands gesturing to each other, fake smiles plastered on their faces. The music ended and the audience loved it. Some were whistling, and some were giving them standing ovations. Blaine felt himself grin widely at their mind-blowing performance, ignoring some of the awkwardness aside. He watched Quinn and Rachel hold each other by the waist and bow in synch. And then Rachel pushed Quinn to the back of the curtains, earning an indignant surprised gasp from her. She raced out to the front, savoring the claps and the praises and she clearly loved being the center of the attention.

Blaine felt his phone was vibrating in his pocket. Frowning, he slipped out of the cabaret quietly. Disappointment filled his veins. Well, at least he got to unwind. And Wes and David didn't see him.

That was something, right?

"You—you blonde jealous bitch! How dare you steal my show?" Rachel yelled as she shoved Quinn angrily. The blonde glared at her before she was helped to her feet by none other than Santana. Other performers and dancers warily glanced back and forth. This wasn't at all new to them. But lately, their little squabbles turned to full arguments. And lately, they've been hoping that it wouldn't turn into those nasty bitch fights with the scratching and the profanity yelling. They knew what Santana was like when she was angry.

There was another intermission on stage, and afterwards, it was Rachel's final solo for the night.

Unfortunately, that meant that they had enough time for this.

"Hold up Shorty", Santana coolly intervened. Preparing herself for the imagined scenarios that she knew that was inevitably going to happen. "You better lay off Quinn. Don't you dare push her around like that. And how dare you call her a jealous bitch? Well, she is a blonde bitch", Santana shrugged, "but she's our bitch, not yours. Fuck off, Rachel."

Rachel scoffed. "Of course you're going around protecting her, she's your Queen Bee and you're her little sluts of—"

Santana began to scream in her native language as she lunge forward the startled girl. "Slut? Fuck you, you deranged little bitch. Keep on dreaming Berry. At least some of us are actually getting some. When are you going to get laid? By the time you're fifty and you're all dried up? Not that anyone would still be interested in you."

The Jewish girl rolled her eyes and flipped her hair. "Unlike any of you whores, I actually have a big dream for myself. And unlike you, I actually have Jesse St. James. He's going to help me land a role in Broadway someday. I'm going to be famous, and you're all still going to be stuck here."

"Why you little piece of—" Santana tried to attack the shorter again. Good thing Brittany, the tall blonde, was there to intervene and calm Santana down.

"If you're so lucky, then why the hell are you still here?" Quinn asked coldly. "Shouldn't you be with St. James right now, auditioning or rehearsing scripts? If you have such dreams, then why are you still here, stuck with the rest of us?"

Rachel faltered for a moment there. And then she crossed her arms with a huff. "He's—he's still busy with other things at the moment. He told me that before I should be big on Broadway, then I should've been the star of Burlesque Lounge. Because he said that all stars start small. They shine the brightest later on, when all things are dark and there seems to be no hope."

"Jesse's gay, Berry", Santana rolled her eyes. "He prefers dicks over vaginas. Much less than actually considering yours."

"You consider all guys who are unwilling to sleep with you as queers", Rachel shot back haughtily. "You're just hurt because he turned down your invitation to sleep with him because he's with me."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "You don't even know if he's playing with—"

"And this coming from a girl who sleeps around? That's what the Cheerios are for, right? You're the girls who sleep around with every guy available. I'll bet that I'll ask all the guys in our staff and when I mention either of your names, or Brittany's, they're going to—"

The sound of a slap resonated over the soft commotion of the spectators enjoying the show from the stage. Everybody who was backstage was now eerily quiet, most of them with shocked expressions and dropped jaws, while others scuttled away, finding someone with authority to stop this mess.

Rachel stood still, the sting of the pain spreading numbness throughout her body, hurting her ego.

Brittany with her outstretched hand let it hang by her side loosely, unaware of the reactions she caused. After all, Brittany was known for being the sweet, if not a bit airheaded, member of the Cheerios. She never spoke ill of any one. Her one liner was her trademark, causing amusement and puzzlement at the same time. She was known as Quinn's blonde sister and Santana's kryptonite. She was a great dancer and one hell of a singer.

So her actually slapping Rachel Berry...

...That was totally unexpected.

"Stop saying bad things about us", she whispered as she calmly stroke Santana's hair. Quinn didn't know what to say. Santana was at a total loss either. The rest could only hold their breath at Rachel's unpredictable response.

The cheek that was affected by such a harsh action was beginning to redden. With tearful eyes, Rachel could only manage to shoot the trio a baleful glance before picking up her things, throwing her coat on, and then storming out the back door that would make any diva proud. As she left, it was the moment that John was brought in. He looked as if he was totally exhausted by all the drama that happened during that same day.

"What? What happened?" He sighed. "Where's Rachel? She's up in three minutes."

When none of them answered, John groaned. "Really girls? Couldn't you keep this for another soap opera or something?"

None of them noticed a tall figure enter another door. It was the one leading to the tiny office of the whole place.

The man glanced around shiftily before closing it with an inaudible click.

A/N: Ugh. Just wanted to introduce these guys to you. Next chapter would be better. And I know, lots of unanswered questions. Especially since Kurt is not there. :/ What do you think? Tell me. :P

Drop me a line loves!

(And I'll make Kurt appear in the next chapter—maybe.)

I had fun writing Rachel as a total bitch though. And don't be surprised why Brittany acts like that. They have reasons. And yeah. Review.

SONG: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend (Swing Cat Remix)