A/N: This is based on MorningMsMagpie's prompt: Older Rachel and still in school Quinn.

This isn't a suspense story, so no criminal underworld, etc. Rachel is simply an honest to goodness escort and this is a plain romance/drama story.

Since this is obviously an AU, I would like to caution the readers not to carry canon expectations if and when they decide to give this fic a try. Of course, this is a faberry fic, that much we can be sure of.

Also, unlike The Loving Kind, I may not be able to update like a maniac, but I will promise once a week at the minimum.

Do share your thoughts and comments like before :)

"How much for an hour?"

"Quinn, I know that most people don't understand the difference, but I'm an escort, not a prostitute."

"I know the difference. I'm asking for your rate."

Rachel took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "1,500 dollars. For two hours. That's the minimum and without tip."

The pink-haired girl rummaged her jean pocket then put up her hand with dollar bills. "I've got two thousand. So I get two hours?"

"Quinn", the brunette chuckled sardonically, "I don't know where you got that money, and besides, I don't take minors for—"

"I'm not a minor"

"You're seventeen."

"Not anymore."

Rachel stared at the young girl in front of her. "It's…it's your birthday?"

"Yeah", Quinn mumbled with her eyes firmly locked on the brunette's. "My parents gave me the money. So I can celebrate however I want to", she smiled and shook her head. "And this is how I want to celebrate it."

Frowning, Rachel stared at the wad of money gripped by Quinn. "You should be celebrating it with your parents and friends."

"Don't you get it?", the pseudo-punk girl exclaimed in frustration. "My parents don't care. My parents are participating in a wife-swapping event because that's what they do."

Rachel's eyes softened at the young girl in front of her. "That's…that's…"

"That's what?"

The brunette shook her head and sighed. "Nothing"

"I've lived in Las Vegas all my life, Rachel. How long have you been here?"

"Three"

"Long enough for you to realize everyone's a freak here. Freak is normal. No one even bothers to take a second glance at me because, guess what? This?", Quinn points at her heavily dyed hair. "This is nothing."

"What about Santana?"

"What about her?"

"Why aren't you with her?"

"Because I told her I'm having dinner with you", Quinn mumbled and for the first time broke eye contact.

"Quinn…", Rachel sighed again. "I can't"

"When can you?", Quinn looked up and gazed at the woman expectantly. "I'll wait. You go by appointment, huh? So when? Do I have to call up that dude you call Puck?"

"Quinn, no. You don't understand. I'm not taking you in as a customer. I refuse to."

"Why?", the younger girl asked in a broken voice. "I can pay."

"And I have the right to choose whom I want to transact with. Just because you can pay, doesn't mean I'll accept a deal."

"You'd rather go with perverted Japanese businessmen than with me?"

When Rachel offered no answer, Quinn stuffed her money inside her pocket and slowly turned away.

"Quinn, please don't leave."

"Why?"

"We'll celebrate your birthday. You told Santana you're having dinner with me? Then, let's have dinner. My treat. "

Quinn opened her mouth to say something but got distracted by a buzzing sound coming from a cellphone. She glanced to her right and saw Rachel's phone lit up on the table.

Rachel aped Quinn's actions and stared at her phone before turning to look back at the young girl. "Don't mind that."

"Customer?"

"Forget about that. Let's go.", Rachel smiled. "Where do you want to eat?"

The pink-haired girl shook her head. "I don't want your pity", she whispered before running out of the brunette's apartment.

Rachel called out her name and tried to follow, but the young girl was fast. The brunette looked to her window and saw Quinn run inside her own apartment.

They were neighbors for about six months now in a posh apartment complex in Las Vegas. Rachel had established herself as a high-class escort around the Casino and hotel circles which meant she can pay the rent for a just few nights work. And because this was Las Vegas, it's in people's system not to care about their neighbor's business. Quinn was right, everyone's a freak here and everyone has a secret to keep. Rule of thumb to survive in locations like this is to not care where your neighbor goes at night, who they come home with and where they get the money to pay for a Benz. You want Pleasantville? It's not here.

Working for one man who considers her a business partner more than an employee, they started in her native New York since she was seventeen, then slowly built a good reputation and a deep network through referrals. Three years ago, they finally moved to the big leagues. Being an escort meant you have an expiration date. She's twenty-seven and the clock was ticking. She gave herself one last year before she officially ditches her stilettos and move to some place nicer—Barbados, Hawaii—wherever else. Maybe put up a small pub beside the beach and spend the remaining days of her life in an idyllic way. She didn't mind being alone. If for anything, she abhorred having company because she had long associated it with fake smiles and interests.

For someone who played with the big boys almost every night, Rachel had simple dreams.

Well, maybe not that simple.

She wanted to be a singer, and had the voice and over-all star quality, but knew her chances of success were slim to none. Raised by a hard-working Italian mother (by that we mean, she worked the streets every night) Rachel never cared much for her unknown Jewish millionaire father, Mr. Hiram Berry, as far as her birth certificate is concerned. At least she thinks her father was a Jewish millionaire. It was what her mom always recounted when drunk. Her late mother may have been a hooker, but she was a damn good mother. So Rachel may have exercised discretion, but never felt shame for what her mom had to do in order to keep them alive.

Her mom got promoted to pimp status when Rachel reached high school. The brunette's sexual awakening revolved around whores discussing men's penis sizes and the kinks they had to fulfill. Her mom never wanted her to be exposed to those things; but if you lived in the gutters of Jamaica, Queens, where else can you go? It was a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. So Shelby, that's Rachel's late mother, by the way, decided that at least in her whorehouse, she and the rest of her girls can watch over her baby.

Rachel didn't care and didn't know any better. Because her mom was the "boss", she was treated nicely by everyone. Even the police looked after her because they were earning from her mother's enterprise. Two things she loved the most in those years in her mother's brothel:

She never felt hunger unlike when her mom worked the streets.

And she was always surrounded by people who educated her in ways that would become useful later on in life.

Only the strong and wise survive. And by that logic, those hookers that worked for her mother were the strongest and wisest people she knew.

Camila Santiago. Rachel would always remember that name. Because she was the one who unwittingly inspired the brunette to reach her current career.

Women with bruises were familiar for the brunette. Hazards of work. But there was this one time when her mother asked her to visit Camila in her room because she was apparently sick and needed some company and comfort. There was that ugly feeling of being punched in the stomach when she was informed that Camila was indisposed. That wily prostitute was one of Rachel's favorites. She was young, cool, had spunk and always took time and talk to Rachel. She was the closest thing Rachel had to a sister. The young brunette knew instinctively (and braced herself) that it would be an ugly scene.

She could barely recognize Camila's face, and she was bed-ridden, but the older girl was still feisty as ever. "Shelby sent you?", she grinned with a cigarette stuck in her mouth. "Is that food? Oh dear god almighty. Your momma's an angel."

"Do you want me to heat it up?"

"Fuck, no need. I'm so hungry I don't care if it's frozen. Lemme at it.", Camila said as she grabbed the Tupperware and spoon from Rachel.

"Is there…is there anything else I can do?", the younger girl asked while watching in amazement how the hooker gobbled up the food.

Camila shook her head but motioned the other girl to sit with her, which Rachel dutifully did.

"You", the older girl pointed. "You're a good girl, Rachel."

The brunette smiled. "I try to be."

"Then you need to do whatever you can to get out of this cesspool."

Rachel looked scandalized. "But my mother's here. And so are you."

"Jesus, your mother's rooted here. She has nowhere else to go. We have nowhere else to go. But you. I've heard you sing. You're good."

"Thank you."

"Thank me nothing. What I'm saying is try not to end up like your momma. Or me. D'ya want your face slapped while being fucked? Now, some bitches might find that kink something that will wet their dirty pussies, but not me. You? You want that kind of shit?"

Rachel shook her head slowly.

"So, you need to get the fuck out of here. Maybe some hotshot producer will notice ya."

"Maybe."

Camila looked at her and sighed. "If you are gonna sell some fantasy, Rachel, make sure you get more in return. Whores get crap. But, man. It's too late for me. You? Whatever you do, make sure you leave this fucking place."

That was the last time she saw Camila.

The girl was found dead the next morning.

Cause of death: Suicide.

Rachel was the last person she probably had spoken to.

Rachel was fifteen that time. Camila just turned nineteen.

The brunette had never forgotten that moment and everything Camila said.

By the time Rachel turned seventeen, she had lost her mother to a rehearsed raid gone awry when a trigger-happy newbie from the police force failed to read the memo and started shooting as soon as the girls began to scramble away. Shelby tried to stop the officer.

But there was no time to grieve because she needed to survive.

Rachel was an orphan but she was smart. She had a natural intelligence that absorbed knowledge and information like a sponge.

She stopped going to school and started looking for a job. Camila's advice haunted her day and night. She won't be like her mother or any of the girls in the whorehouse.

She got in a nightclub as a singer. Despite being underage, it was easy for Rachel to find someone who could forge documents and ID's. And thanks to her prostitute guardians, she knew the proper way to make herself look older than her age. Every night she hoped that Camila's words were prophetic. Every night for three months, she hoped a hotshot producer would really spot her.

The person who spotted her wasn't what she expected, but would soon be instrumental to her journey.

Noah Puckerman, the bouncer.

He was enterprising, that Jewish boy. He worked three jobs and constantly discussed with Rachel business plans that both knew would never take off.

He liked Rachel right away and became her only source of security. For someone who might be mistaken for a criminal, Noah was nothing but a gentleman to her—except when he tries to proposition sex—and would always walk Rachel home at night.

He became her first, and perhaps, only normal relationship with a man. By that she also meant, her bodyguard/manager the moment he introduced her to the world of high-class escorting.

"Sup", the young man nodded as he walked across the stage while Rachel was rehearsing.

"Hey", the brunette grinned.

"Got a minute? I've got, ah," he paused then looked around, "business proposition for you."

Rachel scowled. "Noah, I've told you while I think you're good-looking, I'm not sleeping with you."

"Okay, one, I told you, call me Puck. Two, while I think you've got a fine ass, I've given up on you. I've got bigger fish to fry. And three, this is a legit money-making idea."

"Okay", Rachel nodded, "what do you want, then?"

Puck held Rachel's arm and gently tugged her. "Not here, let's go outside"

"So…what is it?", Rachel asked as soon as they got to the backstage alley.

"Ever heard of escorts?"

"Yes, of course."

Puck lolled his head several times. "Wanna try it out?"

"No."

"What? Do you have any idea how much those girls are paid?"

"I do."

"And?"

"And, no."

"It's not the same as prostitution, Rachel.", Puck said softly. He was vaguely aware of Rachel's background and he realized he might have hit a sore spot.

"I know that."

"So? What's stopping you?"

Rachel looked away and chewed her lip.

"What, you think you're gonna be a successful singer? Newsflash, Rachel. No one gets discovered singing in a sleazy nightclub at Harlem. And you've got bills to pay. You actually have a better chance of meeting some music mogul while escorting."

He was right.

"Assuming I would say yes, what's in it for you?"

Puck's face lightened up. "I'll be the one to negotiate. Do background investigations; make sure they're not scumbags and shit. I'll accompany you every time, so you'll be safe."

"So, basically, you'll be my pimp."

Puck scoffed. "Pimps control your money. We're business partners. And besides, escorts don't sell sex."

"Some do."

"But not us. I've been in your apartment, Rachel. You've got tons of books I don't even know shit about, and I finished high school. You're smart. You talk way better than most college girls I've slept with. You're a classy girl by anyone's standards. You're girlfriend material. That's what we're gonna sell."

"I'm not pretty enough."

"Says who?"

Rachel rolled her eyes then shook her head.

"Okay, fine. You're not Barbie. But who gives a fuck? Not everyone likes blonde, blue-eyed girls. Look", Puck gazed into Rachel's eyes to show how serious he was. "I've done my research, alright? Rich Japs and Koreans are everywhere. They come here to New York to invest and shit. You know what they like? They like classy, well-mannered girls who have big eyes and innocent smile. And they like to sing in karaoke bars. You're what they're looking for. They want American geishas, not Pamela Anderson."

"I can't even get past the fact that you said you've done your research."

Puck laughed. "Hey, you may be booksmart but I'm the businessman around here. I've asked around. I wouldn't have asked you without knowing what to do and how to go about it."

"How did you even arrive at this…business idea?"

"I slept with one last month", he shrugged. "She was one hell of a talker, and I almost ditched her mid-way because gaaah, she couldn't keep her mouth shut. But yeah, I endured the endless chatter because, ca-ching! She told me how much she earns, and man, I tell you, you're ten times prettier and more refined than her. If she can manage to get customers, I don't see how you can't. So, what do you say to that?"

"How do we split the money?"

"40-60"

"I get the 60 since they won't be paying you to keep them company. That will be me."

Noah's lips quirked upwards. "Deal"

She trusted Puck. And he never broke that trust.

They worked their way up, starting from cheaper hotels, waiting in lobbies for hours, negotiating, wheeling and dealing. Puck had the golden tongue, the swagger, and the muscles to intimidate anyone who had any intention of violating his rules. But it was Rachel that was the key to everything.

She was a voracious reader. Half of her spare money was spent on second-hand books. She read everything and anything she found interesting. Her vocabulary, by result, was more than decent and she could give intelligent opinions from politics to environmental science. She studied etiquette, observed women dining at al frescos of expensive restaurants, sneakily listen to prep school girls talk with one another. She did her homework, and she did it well.

Lonely, extremely rich businessmen went nuts; a college-age girl whom they can have a proper conversation with while staying for a few days in New York. She catered well to those who wanted company but were too afraid or guilt-driven to sleep with anyone other than their wives.

Different men, different kinks.

By the time they have networked their way to four-star hotels, Rachel could pretty much quit her nightclub gig. But singing is what kept her sane, so leaving it simply became out of the question. Puck begrudgingly agreed to give her two days off per week for that purpose.

When Rachel hit twenty-one, she had regular patrons. She was their fantasy girlfriend. Someone they could look forward seeing to, dine in expensive restaurants, give flowers, make them feel young again. All without the heaviness attached to commitment and infidelity.

Seven hundred dollars for three hours was a small price to pay.

Three years ago, Puck decided to take a huge risk. They're moving to Vegas and put up a real escort service. New York laws were stricter, Vegas was still the wild frontier. They'll be up for serious competition, but operations would be easier.

He was moving to Vegas and he would never leave Rachel behind. They were a package deal.

By the time they landed in Nevada, Rachel stopped dreaming of becoming a singer and focused on simpler goals—financial security.

That was certainly a lot easier.

Because even in recession-driven America, Vegas never ran dry.

Her rate doubled in two years. She silently cursed Puck for having no business sense to move here earlier. But she really didn't have any right to complain. Money was good and she could finally afford things her late mother only dreamt of giving her.

She's gone far from the Jamaica, Queens. And she had no intentions of going back.

Rachel Berry, or Camila Santiago, as far as her patrons are concerned, was one of the most in-demand high-class escorts in all of Nevada.

She sold a fantasy.

And she got more in return.

Six months ago, she found an ad that was looking for a tenant in a very nice apartment. Upon much deliberation, Rachel decided to move out of Puck's apartment and venture out on her own. She was slowly weaning the boy off treating them as a buy one take one deal. The boy learned to love her like any older brother would but he depended heavily on Rachel to keep his apartment from being condemned by the health department. If he wanted to continue his lucrative business, while Rachel is off to some tropical paradise, he needed to organize his life on his own.

Surprisingly for the brunette, her landlord never bothered to ask for her background or the usual information she dreaded to give. All he looked for was a bank certificate, proof that she has the capacity to pay, and that was it.

And that's how Rachel met Quinn.

"Do you need help?"

Rachel turned around and closed the trunk of her car while balancing several grocery bags. She couldn't help but smile at the earnest tone in the girl's voice which betrayed her physical appearance. The taller girl looked like she came right out of some post-apocalyptic Tokyo-themed manga (oh, the things she learned from her Japanese customers).

"I live right in front of you. So, in case something goes missing, the police can easily find me.", the younger girl added with a lopsided smile when she mistook Rachel's silence as hesitation.

The brunette laughed. "Noted. And yes, if you would be kind enough to carry the ones on the floor; that would be greatly appreciated."

With her lower lip pulled between her teeth, Quinn couldn't help but look around the older girl's apartment. It was very Spartan in furniture and decors. "Transient?"

"Hmm?", Rachel hummed while fixing a cold drink for the girl.

"You've been here for a month, but you barely have anything on your wall. So, I guess that means you have no plans to stay here for a long time."

Is this girl observant or what.

Rachel smiled as she handed the glass of drink to Quinn. "Most likely, yes. If things go according to schedule, I'd be out of here in a year's time."

"Oh. That's sad. You're one of the nicer ones in this complex."

"You just met me", Rachel chuckled. "I don't even know your name."

"Like I said, you've been here for a month. I've seen enough to make a judgment. You always greet the guards and maintenance, and feed the stray cats every morning and dinner. That's being nice in my book."

The brunette's eyebrow rose involuntarily. Alarm bells should be ringing because this girl has obviously taken up Stalker 101. But for some reason, her instinct was telling her to relax.

"I'm just really observant. I like watching people, but I don't go out of my way to install cameras inside your alarm clock or something.", Quinn said seriously as if reading Rachel's mind.

"I don't think you're a stalker", Rachel assured the younger girl but made a mental note to replace her alarm clock anyway.

"Quinn", the younger girl mumbled. "My name's Quinn Fabray."

"Quinn. That's a very nice name."

"What's yours?"

"Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Cute"

"Is it?", Rachel laughed.

"Yeah. So, uhm", Quinn cleared her throat. "I helped you. Where's my reward?"

The brunette's smile faltered. "Reward? Whatever happened to good neighbor policy?"

The punk girl rolled her eyes. "I see you smoke."

"Ah.", Rachel chuckled and shook her head. "How old are you?"

"Not old enough to buy one", Quinn sighed dramatically. "Please? I'll buy your groceries every week if you pay me cigarettes."

"Nope. "

"Come on"

"No. Okay? Buying groceries. That's a very intimate thing. And since you've given me a preview of your stalking skills, no. The last thing I want is for you to know what kind of deodorant I buy and stuff."

"I don't care if you even use Old Spice", Quinn drawled out while looking up the ceiling.

"I care that I'll be transacting with a minor, using cigarettes as the medium of exchange. If you want to smoke, here" Rachel took her case out of her purse and threw it at Quinn. "But if your parents ever catch you, don't you dare point at me."

"You're pretty cool for an adult.", Quinn grinned widely before lighting up a stick.

Rachel looked absolutely scandalized. "Do I look old to you?"

"I said, adult. Not old. One can be a teenager and look old. But you…no. You look and smell nice."

"I smell nice"

Quinn tapped the bridge of her nose. "Very sensitive. Plus, I caught a whiff of your perfume when I took the grocery off your hands."

"So, is this a habit of yours to sniff people?"

"No, just the nice looking ones."

"You're quite the charmer."

"Yeah? Well—fuck", Quinn mumbled and took out her phone. "San, yeah. Okay. I'll pick you up. Whatever. How long are you planning to stay? Okay, cool. Yeah, thirty minutes. Bye"

"Got somewhere to go?"

"Yeah", the younger girl sighed. "My best friend's dad is in one of his funky moods again. I'm just gonna go pick her up."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"Yeah…yeah she's a tough bitch. Anyway, thanks for the smokes. I'll see ya!"

"Hey! You took my whole—damn it.", Rachel shook her head then laughed as she watched Quinn drive off a BMW SUV. Outwitted by a rich, bored, punk wannabe.

Quinn kept an icy appearance but drove as quickly as possible. They've been friends since freshman year; long enough for Quinn to know what when Santana Lopez calls for help, it meant serious business. Santana was her rock, the only person in her high school that Quinn could tolerate and trusted. She was a cheerleader but never apologized for being smart. The Latina, who comes from the poorer section of their town, knew that while beauty can be very powerful, it's the combination of that and brains that make a deadly weapon. She held a good reputation in their school because she was in all sorts of clubs and was a consistent honors student—something Quinn didn't have.

Though she didn't exactly have a bad reputation, either.

She was an artist, an abstract painter; a loser as far as the world of teen drama is concerned. But in a huge public school that mixed all kinds of backgrounds, everyone was almost invisible and bland.

Quinn appreciated the fact that when some people did care enough to be snarky, the Latina shrugged it off. Their relationship had been a constant source of gossip. Quinn was openly lesbian and Santana was closed about her private life. She didn't date because her one constant fear is to be like her mother who ended up pregnant at the age of sixteen. No boys, no pregnancy. That was her motto. So yes, it became natural for people to assume that they had a thing. When Quinn voiced out her concern for her friend's reputation, Santana took it with a stride.

"So? If people think I'm your girlfriend, I can think of a million other things worse than being called a lesbian. I don't care, Quinn. That's not gonna make me unfriend you."

Quinn appreciated it and became Santana's most rabidly loyal companion. Initially, the Latina felt offended by Quinn's kind gestures; driving her around, buying her clothes, treating her to lunch every day. But she eventually realized that money may be the only language Quinn knew best. It's what her parents taught her. Quinn wasn't buying their friendship. It's just that, it's the best way her friend knew how to thank her.

Their dynamics worked well. For an angst-driven, loner like Quinn, she needed a sounding board. A voice of reason.

Someone who could actually stop her from being a Holden Caulfield.

Quinn was Santana's protector, an escape from her tragic domestic situation.

"Damn", Quinn muttered as soon as Santana grumpily entered her vehicle.

"Not another word. Just drive.", the Latina said while surveying the bruises on her face on the mirror.

The punk nodded and took Santana back to the comfort of the artist's home.

"You think he would be too drunk to even swing an arm. But no", the Latina groaned while applying ointment on her bruises in front of Quinn's vanity. "Quinn. Hey", she turned around when she got no response from her friend.

Quinn was seated beside her window and stared outside.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

"She's feeding the stray cats again."

"Who? What?" Santana stood up and sat next to Quinn, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of what her friend was talking about. She saw Rachel hunched over and petting one of the annoying street felines. "Oh, eww. No wonder they're getting fat."

"Yeah, but I think it's a nice thing. She doesn't have to do it or care at all, but she does."

Santana frowned then studied her best friend. "Who's she?"

"Rachel"

The Latina raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. "Someone's got a crush on her new neighbor."

The punk's lip turned upwards.

Santana nodded and took Quinn's reaction as an affirmation. She went back to mending her wounds when it was clear that the artist was bent on staring at Rachel until the woman was out of her sight.

"You know, I told you, you can stay here for as long as you want, Tana.", Quinn finally said.

"Your parents?"

Quinn scoffed. "Where are they?"

"Just because you're a latchkey child doesn't mean it's okay to let people live here permanently."

"Trust me, they wouldn't even realize. I've not seen them in two weeks. The only way I know they're actually still alive is through the notes and money they leave for me in the morning."

Quinn's parents were nouveau rich. They worked their asses off to reach the status that they are currently enjoying. They had no time to deal with their child's affairs. Not even when Quinn had her first exhibit last year. Her art teacher cared more in the four years they've worked together than her parents in her whole life.

Quinn thought of experimenting once to see how apathetic her parents were. She almost died in the process. Her parents' reaction was to send her into the ward and had her rehabbed over the summer.

Seventeen and already institutionalized. What a way to cap off her high school days.

They chalked it up to Quinn's artistic streak. Van Gogh chopped of his ears, Quinn took valium.

Different artists, different forms of angst.

Quinn wasn't really suicidal, but she didn't mind dying.

She didn't mind living either. Especially since she had a nice-smelling neighbor who fed cats out of the goodness of her heart.