God knows he's going to need both. Puck has to step carefully around her: I came to California to be a bartender. Puck wastes no time in knocking on Penny's door. Admittedly, cable repairmen aren't quite the same as hot babes in bikinis who are riding a convertible with the top down, but California is nothing but the land of promise. He learns over Thai food that the girl next door is called Penny. Slow, careful, with just that hint of teenage urgency that promises he's up for the fun part. If he doesn't think of Rachel's sweater animals or Finn's mailman, his pants are going to get uncomfortably tight very fast.
My real calling is alcohol and serving others with it. Then the tension leaves her shoulders, and she slumps again. The first thing he imagines his straining his eyes to make out anything taking place in the bad lighting. She crosses her arms, hunching her shoulders, shooting daggers at him from her eyes. Like, you know, try and get cast as the new lead in Cocktail II. He figures he would need to know the secret of backdoor re-entry into that place, and Puck needs to keep coming round 4A so that he can get close to Penny. In her horrible yellow factory-drone uniform, and in plain sight of an entire restaurant. Puck's always had a thing for blondes anyway. She giggles a little tipsily. They're much easier to browbeat, and by extension manipulate into letting Puck getting more alone-time with Penny. Penny is pressed up against a wall in that godawful cheesecake-yellow uniform all waitresses here wear, staring glassily up at the sky. If he doesn't think of Rachel's sweater animals or Finn's mailman, his pants are going to get uncomfortably tight very fast. I bet she'd laugh if he tried to compare her to Princess Leia. She fires him on the spot, which is ironic, because she'd come to tell him that Giselle is on the warpath and he's doing a surprisingly good cleaning job. It's not his fault. And he's a good kisser. There's no freaking way he's Penny's reason. I wouldn't waste it on any skinny two-bit girl doing rounds at my temple's annual beauty pageant. I came to California to be a bartender. She said it was cute, not rational. Puck winces obligingly anyway. God knows he's going to need both. In fact, one might say it's so endearingly cute that it's why she leans over, forcibly takes away the mixer from him and kisses him. He does the next best thing: By contrast, the other three are okay. Her gaze travels interestedly down the expanse of his chest, exposed by the shirt that's currently flapping open. As the latter extracts a bottle of orange juice for him, Puck says as casually as he can:
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