(Author's note: Thanks to Mynt Mint for cowriting the first chapter with me, and for story ideas! I've never attempted writing Sam before, so it should be interesting. The title comes from the song Rain King by Counting Crows. Enjoy! -amy)

And I said mama, mama, mama, why am I so alone
I can't go outside
I'm scared I might not make it home
I'm alive, I'm alive
But I'm sinking in
If there's anyone at home at your place, darling
Why don't you invite me in?

- Counting Crows, "Rain King"

There were definite advantages to being suspended. Well, if you were Noah Puckerman. Being suspended meant you didn't have to deal with school shit, like getting up in the morning or getting dressed. Being suspended meant you didn't have homework – or, at least, you could ignore the homework that Finn brought over to your house, like you were his fucking good deed of the day. As if the two of them had even been boy scouts since fourth grade.

Being suspended also meant you could volunteer to do crazy shit, like drive down to Kentucky to find Sam Evans to help your fucking Glee club win sectionals. Puck was totally down with doing crazy shit. When all you could think about was confusing stuff, like your daughter's crazy (though, yeah, hot) adoptive mother, getting out of town might be a good thing.

And then when your best friend said things like, "Hey, I'll drive with you," if you were Noah Puckerman, you could just say, "Fuck that, Hudson; I'm going solo." Because Hudson couldn't afford to miss a couple days of Spanish, even if he was pretty tight with the teacher – not if he wanted to graduate.

Puck didn't want to talk about the fact that he wasn't graduating. It didn't matter. Graduating was for pussies, anyway. No matter how good he was at math, not doing homework and not showing up to class for four years was going to fuck with your grades. Who the fuck needed a high school diploma, anyway? Not Noah fucking Puckerman.

Having this kind of shit to dwell on made the four hour drive down to Louisville completely annoying. Because he couldn't just relax and put the windows down and enjoy being free from fucking Lima for a few days. Because he couldn't turn off his brain for even four hours, even though he wasn't even in school. Because he couldn't get certain things out of his fucking head. Certain obnoxious douchebag things. Certain fucking gay things.

That's right, he thought, stomping on the accelerator. Wouldn't the rest of McKinley be thrilled to fucking death to learn that the biggest manwhore to ever pass through the doors of McKinley is a fucking faggot. It's not like he woke up one day and had a sudden craving for dick. It had been an increasing fixation - a guilty pleasure that had been growing for years, taking root in his dreams and sprouting up into his everyday life, until it had matured into a full-fledged attribute. It didn't even bother him anymore to think of himself as gay – closeted, yeah, but it was cool. Not that he planned to come out anytime soon. No reason to. A history of doing the nasty with a lot of women (with a baby to prove it) meant that no one was going to confront him about any suspicions. And as long as he kept his browser history on the low, nothing would be too suss.

There was plenty to keep Puck's mind busy until long after he crossed the Ohio border to reach Louisville, the new hometown of Sam Evans. But it wasn't until he hit downtown that he realized it wasn't a home address, but a business address. And the type of business it probably was became increasingly more apparent. He crept through districts that got seedier and more low-brow as he went.

A bar. Puck shook his head in amusement. And Finn, in his ignorant glory, had apparently failed to realize what kind of bar it really was. Judging by their snickers when Finn had announced it in Glee Club, Blaine and Kurt had figured out what it was. And they had reason to – because it was a gay bar and a strip club, all in one. What Trouty Mouth was doing working in one of those, Puck didn't know. And what the fuck was he doing, putting information like that on his fucking Facebook page? Only God knew. But for some reason, it made Puck feel a little giddy. He rolled his eyes at himself as he parked in the lot at Backstretch, noting the flashing rainbow lights advertising the club to onlookers.

The doors opened onto a thumping, brain-scrambling beat, along with the smells of sweat, alcohol and cologne – and an additional scent that Puck couldn't quite identify, but it was definitely in the realm of awesome. He followed his nose inside.

The club wasn't as large as the straight ones Puck had been sneaking into since he'd turned sixteen and acquired a fake id, but Puck guessed it was good enough for a gay bar. There was a stage, a dance floor, a pool table and some comfortable couches: all the mandatory furniture a club needed. Directly across from the door was the bar, with an impressive display of drinks lined up on mirrored shelves, labels facing out, each one with a different color and alcohol percentage. Puck walked up to the bartender, who was polishing shot glasses.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked, flashing a grin.

He was cute enough that Puck had to make an effort to stop himself from making a smartass comment about make me one with everything, including you. His main focus had to be finding Sam.

"I'll have a Coke," Puck replied, "And I'm looking for someone. Sam Evans – do you know where he is?"

"Sam?" The bartender chuckled, raising a playful eyebrow. "You have good taste. Third door to your left."

"...Thanks?" Puck was genuinely confused by the response he was given, but he headed for the door anyway. Clearly his brain had been addled by the sights and sounds of the club, because it wasn't until he opened the door and saw what lay beyond that he realized exactly what the fuck was going on.

Holy shit, he thought, taking it in. Evans – you're in over your fucking head.

Sam, buzzing with success at another satisfied customer, stretched his legs all the way to his toes. The couch wasn't quite long enough for him, but it'd do for a rest before the next one. Counting the cash he'd earned, he grinned. Private dances were definitely the easiest way to make money.

Sam wasn't exactly proud of his job, but he didn't mind reaping the benefits. And the benefits were plenty thanks to his assets. Namely, four: abs, ass, hair, and lips. Accentuate those with a skimpy pair of boxer briefs and it was a cash cow. He was a little ashamed of his current occupation, but then again the experience of it all did give him a little rush. The dancing, the stripping: the exposure. Plus, it was kind of a confidence booster – people throwing money because you look good and they want you to dance was like a compliment... kind of?

Sam grinned again, finishing his counting and staring down. One hundred and fifty, and I'm still only down to my boxers. At least he could fill his bank in secrecy. His parents thought he was employed at a conventional workplace, and no one from school or Glee Club knew about what he was up to.

Then the door opened quietly, and Sam popped his head up, concealing his money in his palm - and froze in utter shock.

"Well, well, well." It was Puck, grinning as though he had found buried treasure. His eyes burned holes into Sam.

Sam would have spoken to justify his current appearance – standing in boxer briefs, slightly sweaty from the stripping – but this was worse than the time he had spilled lemonade on his mint condition of Marvel Heroes Comics. He stared furiously at the floor, cheeks burning.

"What the fuck, Evans?" Puck said, wrinkling his brow. "Since when are you stripper material?"

"Since when are you hanging out in gay clubs?" Sam shot back.

"Since the fucking Glee club sent me south to find you." Puck didn't sound angry. He sounded amused. "Dude. Can't you think of a better way to make money than expose yourself to random guys?"

"Oh, like you're one to talk, pool cleaner and MILF banger extraordinaire?" Sam glared at Puck, then sighed. Finn or Kurt would have been just fine, but of course they had to send the hot badass to – wait, what? He paused, confused. "Why does Glee need to find me?"

Puck rolled his eyes. "Because, thanks to the infinite wisdom of Mr. Schue, several of the choicest bits of New Directions have been sliced off to form the fucking TroubleTones. We're a little short on members, and we need you to fill in the gaps." He eyed Sam in an unflattering leer. "To be honest, I'd prefer you to Floppy-Haired Bass Dude."

"I'm sure," Sam said, avoiding making eye contact. "At least I have moves."

Puck shrugged, entirely nonchalant. "So, are you coming?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to clear his thoughts. On one hand, the offer was incredibly tempting. He really wanted to go back to McKinley – the second Puck made the offer, he felt a pang of desire for it in his gut. It had been one of the only places he had ever felt like he could be himself, leaving all the pretend Sams at home. On the other hand, no matter what he wanted, he couldn't leave his family. They were having a tough enough time as it was. He was needed, not just to make money, but as pseudo-caregiver to his siblings. Even though his family could benefit from having one less mouth to feed. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few… or the one.

"Dude," Sam heard, and glanced up from his thoughts to see Puck staring at him with an intense expression. "You really have to think about this?"

"I make a lot of money," he started, but Puck approached with one hand held up, shaking his head. Sam regarded the hand as though it might burn him, but Puck stopped short of touching his bare chest.

"Evans. Give me a fucking break. You're better than this." Puck's hand gestured at Sam's boxers, which weren't doing a fantastic job of hiding what this was. Sam flushed angrily.

"You going to find me another job where I can clear four hundred in one night?" He pointed at the door. "Those guys aren't bothering me. They just want to look. So yeah, I let them look. I've got something to look at."

Puck's lips pressed together as he regarded Sam. "So? You really don't care who sees you? It's just about the fucking money?"

Sam glared a challenge, hoping it looked convincing. "Yeah, it is."

Puck dug into his pocket and came up with a sizeable handful of cash. Then he was stalking right toward Sam, backing him up against the wall. He took the money and shoved it into Sam, right against his abs. Sam couldn't help it; he gasped. Puck's eyes were icy, but his touch burned Sam's skin.

"This should cover your take for the night," Puck said quietly. "Can we get out of here now? It's creeping me out."

Sam stared down at Puck's hand against his stomach, then back up at Puck's stony expression. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Puck's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "You telling me you can't just take this without dancing for it?" He backed up two steps and gestured at Sam's nearly naked body. "All right. Come on, dance. Let's see what you got."

"Fuck you," Sam said in a harsh whisper.

"No, I'm serious." Puck sure didn't look like he was joking. He looked like he meant some kind of business – the kind of business Sam had actually seen rather a lot of in the past few weeks. The kind that meant Sam's moves were translating into some movement in his spectator's pants. But – this wasn't Puck's thing. Was it?

"You want me to dance for you?" Sam said, and licked his lips uncertainly. Puck watched him do it – he really did. He watched Sam's tongue very closely. Sam almost wanted to do it again just to see if he would keep watching, but he didn't.

"You're so fucking sure this is worth it?" Puck gave a short laugh. "I want you to show me why these guys shove money down your shorts. Show me what you do. Then you can leave with a clean conscience." His eyes glittered. "Come on. Give me what you give those guys out there."

"You don't know what you're asking for," said Sam. He didn't know what to do with his hands; they seemed extraneous, as though he hadn't had them all along and now they were in the way. Finally he put them on his hips. Then he figured he looked like a bitchy queen, trying to make a point, and he dropped them back to his side with a frustrated sigh. "Seriously, Puck, you have no idea what I do."

"Oh, yeah, I think I know exactly what you fucking do," Puck snapped. "And if it really doesn't matter who you give it to, then come on. Give it to me. Show me how much it doesn't matter to you."

"Fine," Sam shouted, and he was gratified to see Puck step back. He wasn't entirely made of stone, even if he didn't really care. Even if this was just a fucking joke to him. He put out a hand and pressed play on the CD player, the one they used when they were rehearsing – as much as Sam or any of his coworkers did any kind of rehearsal. "I'll give you a dance. Get comfortable, Puckerman."

He took a few steps toward Puck, who sat down slowly in the chair by the door, looking a little uneasy. "You're serious."

"You bet your ass I'm serious," Sam said, as the music began. He twisted and writhed, as though this were just another dance, as though Puck were just another one of the many guys who passed through the club on any given night. As though he weren't looking at him like he was… like Puck wanted to…

Sam moved in, close enough for Puck to put out a hand and touch him. "Here's what they get," Sam said, feeling the heat building inside. Maybe it was just shame, but it sure felt good. He rotated his hips, giving Puck the show he knew got guys hot. The guys who liked looking at guys, anyway.

Puck's eyes were riveted to Sam's navel. He had the most perplexed expression on his face, Sam almost wanted to laugh. "You surprised, Puck?" he said. "This not what you bargained for?"

"I've seen it, Evans." Puck's jaw tightened stubbornly. He wasn't going to give in. He wasn't going to tell Sam to stop. "Whatever you've got to dish out, believe me, I've seen it."

"You've never seen this," Sam said, running his hands down his thighs, outlining this with his hands before closing in on Puck. This was the point at which he usually had to instruct his clients to keep their hands to themselves, but Puck's hands were clenched on the arms of the chair, not going anywhere. Sam put his hands behind his head and gave it his best grind. A noise came out of Puck's mouth that sounded like a steam train.

"I've got one, too, remember?" he said, but his tone was hoarse. Sam was close enough now to see that Puck did have one, and that it was crowding his ripped jeans like nobody's business. Noah Puckerman has a hard-on for me, he thought, in disbelief.

He lowered himself onto Puck's lap, grinding into his chest. Puck flinched away from Sam's frankly dirty moves, but Sam had done enough of this now to know exactly what the guys wanted, exactly what would get them off quickly, so he could move on to his next client.

But this is your last one, Sam realized, and he knew he was going to say yes. The money didn't matter. He wanted to go home.

"I'm giving it to you, Puck," Sam said. Puck took an angry breath. Sam grinned in triumph, bucking his hips against Puck's pecs. He remembered Puck's nipple ring, and put out a hand to see if he could find it –

"Dude," Puck said, almost in a panic, and Sam stopped. He stood up slowly and backed away, watching Puck's horrified, confused expression.

"You said you wanted it," Sam explained, as calmly as he could. "You said –"

"I know what I fucking said," Puck replied through clenched teeth. "Fucking A."

He liked it, Sam realized, and it made him flush with satisfaction. He liked that he'd gotten under Puck's skin. He shrugged, turning away, wondering if Puck was looking at his ass.

Then Puck was right there, standing behind him, hands on Sam's shoulders, spinning him around to glare at him, inches from his face. Sam took a surprised breath and jerked back.

"What the hell was that for?" Puck hissed, leaning in, like he wanted – like he was going to –

"You're not supposed to touch me," Sam blurted, blinking.

Puck glanced down, and yeah, he was hard, and truth be told, he wasn't the only one. Sam could feel the heated air between them, brushing his skin like a caress. Puck took another step in, his knee moving right between Sam's legs, like they were on the dance floor together and he was going to grind with him.

"What makes you so sure I want to touch you?" he whispered.

Sam backed up another step, but there wasn't much room left behind him, and it wasn't enough to clear Puck's personal space. "You – you are touching me."

"Oh, believe me, Evans," Puck breathed, bringing his face right up against Sam's neck. Sam heard himself whimper. "If I were touching you, you'd know it."

Sam's brain wasn't thinking all that clearly at that moment, but he was pretty sure he could feel the pressure of Puck's leg against the inside of his thigh, and he thought that was Puck's hand on the small of his back, pulling their hips together with spectacular friction. He was absolutely sure he wasn't supposed to let any of his customers touch his ass like that.

"Puck," he said, his voice coming out in a squeak. "What are you doing?"

"Come on," Puck purred. Sam could feel his breath, hot and moist, on his cheek. "You can't tell me you've never done this before. You're way too good at this."

Sam felt his brow wrinkle in incredulity. "I've never done this for money," he said, and gave an involuntary groan in response to Puck, grinding right up against his -

Then Puck stepped away, as quickly as he'd closed with him, and stared right into Sam's eyes. Puck's eyes were a surprising shade of brown, with a dash of green.

"I'm fucking glad to hear that," he said, very clearly, and tapped Sam on the shoulder with two fingers. "And you're not doing it for money now, either."

Sam looked down at his hand, which was still holding the wad of cash Puck had shoved at him five minutes earlier. It felt like hours had passed since then. With deliberate movements, Sam pulled the hem of his boxers out just far enough to wedge the money inside. Puck watched him do it, his eyes bulging as Sam's fingers slipped into his shorts. He exhaled, then glared at Sam.

"Not fair," he muttered cryptically. Then he cleared his throat. "Fine. You feel better now, you worked for your take? So are you coming back with me or not?"

Sam felt his breathing returning to normal. It wasn't so different from the high he got from stripping – except he didn't usually have the guy he danced for waiting around to take him home. The idea made him inexplicably light-headed.

"Let me talk to my parents about it first," he said.

Puck looked at him oddly, muttering something that sound like "pussy." "Hurry up, then, and maybe we can make the Ohio border before midnight." He turned for the door.

Sam stared at him. "I can't just leave - I'm working! What if I get fired?"

"You don't need this job," Puck said. "Seriously. Come on, Evans, get the lead out. I'm not leaving without you."

Sam was suddenly seized by a strange sense of panic, as though Puck really were going to take off without him – and the bitter disappointment he felt at that thought was even stranger. He dashed around the room, collecting all his things, slipping on his tank top and jeans, slipped on his too-big shoes with the socks pushed into the toes, and followed Puck's vanishing figure out of the back room. He tried to ignore his boss' confused, angry look as he sprinted past him and caught up with Puck, slowing down to a walk.

Puck gave him a grudging smile. "That was quick."

"They usually are," Sam quipped.

Puck unlocked the passenger door and opened it for Sam to climb inside. "Don't tell me you walk to work in your stripper clothes."

"No, dumbass. I carpool." He made a pile of his stuff on the floor of Puck's truck and propped his foot on the dashboard, tying his shoe. "Besides, no one actually knows I work here."

"'No one' apparently can't read a Facebook page," Puck muttered into the steering wheel. He gunned the accelerator and carelessly shot out of the Backstretch parking lot, the ferocious speed causing Sam to cling to the edge of the seat in a death grip.

"Left! Right! Straight!" Sam cried. "For god's sake - do you know a thing called the speed limit?" With every turn, the truck gave an obligatory swerve. It was only minutes later that they halted abruptly in front of the Evans household, Puck churning the handbrake back in pride.

"Bet that was record time," he said with satisfaction, unbuckling his seatbelt. Sam, on the other hand, was on the verge of hyperventilation. He was pretty sure he was an unpleasant shade of green. He regarded Puck with a sinking stomach. This is going to be one hell of a ride home.