I need to get a hold of my life.

I was through with the dyed pink hair job, the taking Beth from Shelby antics, and hooking up with almost anybody just to have another baby tragic performance.

The only drama I want in my life will be the ones I'm saving for Yale. It's a miracle that my short outward lashing stint had only cost me a few notches down on my GPA, but I have to do much better and crunch my neurons harder.

Unfortunately, my ticket to getting into Yale was proving to be dismal. I had a long discussion with my parents about my future and it seems that staying there financially was my problem. With the recession at hand, my father admitted that he wasn't sure if he could afford the expensive tuition and I was fully aware that spending a four year semester thing in an Ivy League institution did not come cheap.

I sought help from the school councilor, of which, I think asking her advice would seem ironic as she looks to be in need of a shrink because of her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. After my talk with Miss Pillsbury, I have to raise my GPA and impress the Dean of admissions, who by the way seems like a real tough guy who bears no sympathy to anyone.

And right now, I'm really desperate.

Desperate to the point that I find myself sitting in night classes to make up for loss time. It isn't so bad, most of the people who come here are adults. Most of my classmates are immigrants who have still to master their English. Others are those who never had the time to finish their academic ambitions due to circumstance. Take, for example the housewife, Jennifer, who married early in high school, but now has to find a job to support her kids after her good-for-nothing husband left her.

It's my first time to be in night school, but I'm listening to Jennifer blab about the new teaching assistant who apparently did well during his first class yesterday night.

She sighs as she tilts her head as if reveling back into the memory of a very pleasant dream. "He's like a Hollywood superstar and a gorgeous male model rolled into one. If he starts quoting Shakespeare, I swear I'm going to die." The other women beside us nod in agreement.

"I heard he went to some fancy school in college and dropped out because he wanted to pursue a career in music." Iora, the small diminutive woman from El Salvador who reminds me of Snooki from Jersey Shore whispers as if she were divulging in some conspiracy secret.

"That would make so much sense, handsome on the outside, brilliant and sensitive on the inside. I hope he's not gay." Jennifer added and giggles like a schoolgirl. Her face drops suddenly and she settles in her seat as my gaze travels and I'm soon to find what the ruckus is about.

"Good evening, guys." Iain Hargreave walks in cheerfully. He looks absolutely gorgeous wearing a black slim fit five button Hugo Boss furious sports coat that's open revealing a white v-necked shirt that shows off the sleek column of his neck and dark brown pants. I can't help but think that he looks fit to be in a Hugo Boss commercial with his hair mussed in a "I-still-manage-to-look-hot-after-rolling-off-the-bed" look and those piercing blue eyes as he enters the room. He slowly shuffles out of his jacket and a rushed adrenaline feeling starts making me want to move out of my chair and start handing him dollar bills.

I almost make the sign of the cross as an act of penance for possessing such lustful thoughts!

He throws the jacket on the seat and glares at me when he realizes that I'm in the room. We're caught in a staring match, and I can almost hear him take a long breath of intake, almost as if the sight of me simply takes his breath away. His handsome features tighten as he frowns and turns his attention towards the rest of the class and begins his lessons. He spends the entire time completely ignoring my existence. 

 Somehow, that knowledge alone makes me sad, almost like as if I could wish that he actually like me more than resented the very being that was Quinn Fabray, blonde, Christian to the core, and too perfect on the inside, an absolute horrid mess inside.

I never understood Iain's disdain towards me. Usually, he comes along as charming and affable to everyone, including my own father who can't seem to stop saying how great he is. My dad has always wanted a son and my sister Frannie, who had just recently gone through an ugly divorce, and I never filled that void.

My mother tolerates Iain with cool civility, but my sister is the worst. She shamelessly flirts with him whenever he's around. I roll my eyes remembering how she coquettishly asked him how he pronounces his name. 

 He replies it would sound like as how it would have been spelled as Ian because his nickname comes from his Scottish great grandfather or something. And though he throws that usual charming smile, which I know is fake because it never quite reaches his eyes, he's been pretty firm in his actions in telling my sister that he has no interest in forming any relationship with her.

How Iain came into the Fabray household was my father's brainchild idea. He told me that he had hired me a personal tutor who not only could help me with my SATs and GPA, but that he also had personal connections to Yale which could definitely help me get the scholarship I needed. Or at least a partial grant, my father reassures me that we could still manage the expenses. Not that I needed a tutor, I can handle myself academically fine. Prior to my tumultuous state in the past few months, I had been a straight A student and though I was a blonde cheerleader, I could also hold myself against even the nerdiest people in the academic world.

Except where Iain Hargreave is concerned. 

 Every time I'm around him, my mind turns to mush and I can barely concentrate. The minute he walked in our house, I recognized him as the young man I saw that day on the hotel lobby in New York. I was hooked on him during those days because I couldn't wait to get out of our room and seek him out. In fact, the only reason why I was able to convince the rest of the New Directions to get out of there and explore New York was because I wanted to find him and hope that I would run into him again at the lobby or at Central Park like as if we were destined for a happy ending like those scenes from every Romantic Comedy Film that was set in New York. Unfortunately, that never happened. So I consoled myself by being a bitch all over again.

And as if the Universe was going to do a Linda Blair 360 on me, I end up finding my dream man in our house. Somewhere also in that moment when he stepped in, I knew he also recognized me when a flicker of surprise shone for a brief moment before he mentally shuts down and his granite expression doesn't reveal anything.

In fact, most of the time when we're together, I've been dying to ask him that very same question. However, pride pulls me back. Most of the time, he's formal and somehow being around me makes him tense and I myself become self-conscious. He is so not like those boys in William McKinley, they barely hold a candle to this guy's high level octane of hotness and sophistication.

Geez. I can't believe I just said that.

It doesn't help either knowing that he acts as if dealing with me was a painful chore that he has to endure five days a week. I hate to admit that it does kind of irk my feelings knowing that the only reason why he's helping me out is because he's in need of money, which my father would handsomely provide once I get into Yale. On the days that he's at home, Iain gives me assignments and then would leave me to do them alone. My sister sees an opening salvo then whisks him away, talking animatedly as she pulls on all the moves. Iain pleasantly tolerates her, but somehow I get this feeling it's because he does this out of spite rather than polite courtesy.

As Iain's voice drones along with talks about World History, I tune into his voice. I know he speaks in an American slang, but there's a hint of something foreign. My mother told me that he's very smart and went on scholarship to a fancy boarding school in Scotland during his teen years and was accepted at Harvard with a business degree but dropped out because his scholarship grant went bankrupt. She didn't divulge on any details as to what Iain was doing in Ohio because he doesn't look like the type that grew up in Lima.

Actually, a lot about Iain baffles me.

Yet intrigues me and makes me yearn for more. This is an emotion I'm not so used to and gives me a queasy feeling of inadequacy. I've dated guys whose personalities ranged from naive, immature, boring and unworldly. Finn was inexperienced, Puck is a part little boy and drama queen, and Sam was pleasant as a day fishing. That is if you like long hours of boredom.

Everything that Iain isn't.

Something about him doesn't add up. He's cultured, educated, recklessly dangerous, and ridiculously good-looking that it's a distraction alone watching him in a simple white shirt that contrasts yet emphasizes his bronzed muscled body. As he turns around to write something on the board, I'm mesmerized by the easy, graceful movement of his biceps and his shoulder as he writes that I find myself wondering what it would be like to be caught in that embrace and looking into those deep cobalt blue eyes.

A woman behind me sighs lustfully, interrupting my thoughts. I respond by breathing out irritably in response. Iain turns slightly and I catch the smirk on his face, almost as if he heard my reaction to the woman.

An hour flies by and then class is over, as everyone starts packing their things, Iain ambles towards me. I can feel that the entire class too has noticed the tension and tries to tune into our conversation. Iain throws a rather annoyed look towards their direction and they hurry out of the room leaving me alone to deal with him.

"Is this some kind of joke?" He asks eyeing me suspiciously. "I'm gone for a few days and you start doing night school behind my back? "

"Joke? No, a joke is something that involves laughing and I don't find this funny at all." I reply tartly as I lean my head to look at him. He's so tall that I start feeling the tension roll towards my neck.

His eyes scan my face then slowly rove around my body. Being Captain of the Cheerios at some point of my life, I'm used to this typical kind of male behavior of being checked out. Except this guy does it so blatantly to the point that it feels intimate even though he's standing an arm's length away from me.

Noah Puckerman does the same thing all the time too, but it comes off as offensive. This one makes me feel all warm and tingled inside and at the same time I want to run far away, scream my head off and pray to Jesus for having sinful thoughts involving this dark-haired angry young man with electric blue eyes. I can feel a rush of blood shooting up towards my face thinking of things that I really don't want to discuss if I were still in the Celibacy Club.

Right now, he looks too darn sexy for words. Don't even get me started on those lips. I could have probably been imagining things because for a slight second he seems a bit amused by my own reaction. Almost like he can read my thoughts and that he was thinking the exact same thing.

Not that he can help that. I'll bet he probably gets this sort of attention all the time, I remark bitterly. My thoughts suddenly turn to thinking of the scores of women who have fallen rock hard for him. Or how many had their hearts broken just simply by being around him? Looking at him is like a drug that gives one the warm fuzzies.

I remind myself that I don't like warm and fuzzy feelings. Not a good place to be in considering my bad history. I throw him a cool smile as if he doesn't affect me in anyway even though I'm torn between running away and rushing towards those strong arms around that 6 foot tall frame and handsome face who smells like a combination of bergamot, sandalwood and him. I've never been a fan of men's fragrances before but since I've met Iain, whatever expensive aftershave or bodywash he uses gets me hooked every single time. That's a lie, I tell myself, Iain Hargreave is addictive.

"You shouldn't be here. It's late and it's way past your bedtime."

"You didn't give me a choice. I mean, the whole assignment thing wasn't working out for me. Besides, the added attendance also makes up for the classes that I skipped before and for your information, it's only ten o clock."

"Did you drive here by yourself?" he quickly changes the topic. It's a habit of his, distracting me with one thing and then saying something that's completely different.

"No. Fran's picking me up."

"Forget it, I'm taking you home." He reaches out and takes my arm. I try to ignore those warm fuzzy feelings again as he firmly, but gently drags me along with him. I wasn't sure if what started it was when he mentioned the part of taking me home or when he took my arm or maybe it could have been both. People around us were gaping and I could hear Jennifer mumble something about me being so lucky and I roll my eyes in response.

We amble our way out of the parking lot and Iain hands me a motorcycle helmet for me to wear. Before I protest, he climbs on top and looks at me, expecting me to hop in.

"What? Motorcycle rides not good enough for you, Princess?" he asks sardonically, though I can hear him chuckle under his helmet. It's the first time he's laughed or shown any other emotion other than annoyance, irritation, or indifference.

"I've ridden motorcycles before," I retort as I wear the helmet and climb behind him. I was actually glad that I chose not to wear a dress at this particular time as that would have been awkward. I wrap my arms around his waist and feel his rock-hard abs underneath his jacket. I tremble a little in response and he reaches out to warm my hands and forearms as if he was thinking I was cold. His fingers linger a little longer than necessary as he tells me to hang on. I hear the engine roar and I grab on tight and lean on his back and rub the side of my face against his jacket. He smells clean, like laundry soap with a hint of male masculine sexiness. Kind of like what an Irish Spring commercial would have been like if they ever invested in fabric conditioners. I'm not sure if it's because I missed him or I missed the smell of mixed bergamot, sandalwood, and him as I lean closer and continue to inhale his scent as if it were the only thing I needed.

I may not like warm fuzzies. But I could get used to this.