Okay, normally I don't post two chapters in one week, but I felt inspired.  Now, I'm not at all a religious person, but today is Good Friday.  So being in the spirit of being "good" I decided to give you a taste of something "bad"!  Big thanks to Sanityfair and Diebirchen for being awesome.  Also, big thanks to those who left a review for the last chapter: adrianiling, mazza, and Joyce.

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Buffy exited the Bronze with Angel sullenly following closely behind her.  She kept walking until they were out of earshot of anyone who might be at the entrance.  The last thing she needed was more people sticking their noses in where they definitely didn’t belong.
 
Still slightly ticked off from the stunt Angel pulled inside, Buffy spun around to face him and instantly struck her classic “no-nonsense” pose.

“Talk.”  She eyed him impatiently, her features a stern mask.

“You haven’t been around, so I thought—”

“Well, that’s your first mistake.”

By his stunned expression, she could tell her curtness caught him completely off-guard.  His shock didn’t last long before his gaze hardened, and he moved, almost menacingly, into her personal space.

Regardless of his attempt at browbeating, she held her ground firmly.

“Look, you asked me to lie and say I don’t love you.  I wouldn’t, and I won’t do that.”

Angel’s somewhat harsh tone belied the meaning he seemed to be trying to convey.  Then to confuse matters more, his eyes softened as he reached out, attempting to tenderly cup her cheek.
  
Buffy evaded his touch by stepping back, not wanting to get caught up in his fleeting show of affection.

“I get that, Angel, I really do.  But what I want from you, you can’t give me.  I need, well, more.”

“Obviously.”
 
Buffy watched his irritation return, hearing it clearly in his snidely muttered response.  She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing while barely tethering her anger.
 
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“The way you were dancing back there—” Angel motioned to the Bronze, his voice still holding an unmistakable edge.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Angel, this isn’t the eighteenth century!  Dancing has come a long way from the waltzes in your day!” Buffy started pacing a small stretch of pavement, attempting to temper the rising desire to stake her ex.

“Buffy, I’ve seen hundreds of dances in my time, but what you were doing was being a cocktease.”

Buffy stopped abruptly when the last three words sounded in her ear.  She turned, stomped toward Angel, and started jabbing his chest with several sharp pokes of her finger.

“What did you just call me?”

Angel’s eyes widened while his hands instinctually rose in a submissive, “I give” position.
 
“I didn’t call you anything, Buffy.  I only said what you were doing was a little risqué, and someone might get the wrong idea.”
 
“Yeah, well, that’s not your concern.  Not anymore.  I’m a big girl, Angel.  I can take care of myself.” 

With that having been said, Buffy stormed off, reentered the Bronze, and left a very confused Angel in her wake.

 
 
Spike stood at the edge of the Bronze’s rooftop watching the Slayer’s dramatic exit and the Great Poof’s cave-man brow scrunching up with confusion as he headed off in the opposite direction.
 
A throaty chuckle escaped from around the cigarette filter dangling precariously from Spike’s lips.  If he’d known watching these two go at it was so bloody entertaining, he would’ve dragged up a comfy chair and settled in for the show.

Watching this little blow-out made the last few hellish days all worthwhile. 

Ever since he decided to come back to SunnyD, he’d driven nonstop for two full nights.  His only breaks were for petrol or a quick bite to eat.  The latter he’d definitely been rethinking, since that meal had made his stomach roil for hours after. The foul station attendant certainly tasted worse than those God-knows-how-old rotating hotdogs he peddled.

Finally, with two hours to spare till sunrise, Spike crossed over the border into California.  Without wasting any time, he found some shite-hole motel in downtown San Diego.  After draining the occupant, he’d set himself up for the day in one of the west facing rooms.

Having had a hot shower and wrapped only in a small motel towel, Spike sprawled out on the less than clean bed and turned on the telly.  As he lay there, sated with a full belly and spent from a celebratory wank of his newly returned hard-on, his thoughts returned to all the nasty things he wanted to do to the sweet Slayer, until sleep finally claimed him.

Spike woke just as the sun was dipping down past the horizon.  After another good wank and a hot shower, he gathered his meager belongings, loaded up the Desoto, and headed straight for SunnyD.
 
As usual, once Spike hit the town-line he took out the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign.  But the major difference between the previous time and now was that despite his entrance, he didn’t want anyone to know he was back.  Well, not until he was ready to show himself.  The last time he gave the Slayer a heads-up to his plans for “Saturday night,” her axe-wielding mum had handed him his arse.

First things first—he needed to hide his well-known Desoto and set up shop somewhere.  Without much thought, he chose Miller’s Woods.  The thick groves, overgrown paths, and numerous caves made this an ideal place.  For an added bonus, he knew the Slayer wouldn’t risk ruining one of her little outfits, and he did mean little, by traipsing around in nature.

With that done, some Slayer recon was next.  After all the times he’d faced her, he knew the only way he was going to win was to find and exploit her weaknesses.  He’d watched and went toe to toe with her enough times to know it wasn’t while she was in ass-kickin’ mode.

Then it came to him.  What he needed to do was get past the crunchy, candy coating shell of the Slayer and get to the delectably sweet, soft center of the girl.  That was how Angelus had almost defeated her.  Not with fangs and fists, but reaching the vulnerable girl inside.

Now he’d figured out his in, all he had to do was find the door.

With that settled, the next stop was the Slayer’s house.  Being Friday night and all, if she wasn’t off killing his kind, she’d surely be doing some teenage thing.
 
When he reached his destination, he hid in the shadows of a tree in the front yard and waited.  He was greeted by the intoxicating commingled scents of sheer raw power, vanilla, and innocence wafting from an open upstairs window.

Must be the chit’s room.

Shortly after his arrival, he saw her bedroom light go on, and then heard the incessant chattering of two teenage girls—the Slayer and her friend, the red-haired witch.  He could easily tell they were getting ready for a night out.  Dru and Darla used to natter on and on the same way when getting ready for an evening.  Alive or undead, women were all alike.

Almost an hour of losing-his-bleedin’-mind-from-boredom later, he noticed her light turning off before he heard the pitter patter of heeled and sneakered feet descending wooden stairs.

Spike sank further into the shadows of the yard.  It was far enough to be safely out of the Slayer’s vamp radar, but close enough to still hear the brief muffled conversation between the her and her mum as the front door opened.

Almost immediately, his senses were assaulted by Slayer concentrate.  First, it was her scent.  It was the same le parfum de l'Assassin as earlier, but now it was more potent.  Then like a chain reaction, the rest of his senses were bombarded.  Sight, sound—hell, even his taste was affected.

Along with the sight of her in that tantalizing outfit of black leather, crimson, and not much else, it was hearing the steady cadence of her heartbeat and the snug fabric brushing against her tan, nubile body that made his cock, if possible, excruciatingly harder.

Then like Pavlov’s dog, his mouth watered from the thought of sinking his teeth deeply into her exposed throat and savoring her blood like a fine wine.

Oh, no—no gulping down the good stuff this time.

He watched the pair still locked in conversation, trekking down the walk.  In mid-sentence, the Slayer stopped and checked out her surroundings before resuming their conversation then heading down the street with the witch.

Spike wasn’t worried about following her right away.  In this one-horse town, there weren’t many places for teenagers to go on a Friday night.  Even if there were, he’d be able to track her in a heartbeat, well, if he had one.

With a parting glance, Spike adjusted himself in his ever increasingly tight jeans, then slipped from the shadows and set out for the Bronze.

After detouring for a quick bite to eat, Spike entered the club through the backdoor.  He stuck mainly to the shadows, while giving the place a once over.  Then when he spied a catwalk running between the bar and dance floor, he climbed the metal stairs in order to get a better vamp’s eye view.

He stood near the railing, as he predatorily scanned the crowd.  There, in the middle of a throng of dancing teens, was the Slayer and her two groupies, Red and the Whelp.

Red appeared as if she were totally out of her element.  She was stepping awkwardly side-to-side and clapping out of rhythm with the music.  Then there was the bumbling Whelp.  He looked as though he was trying to stomp out a fire with his shoes and swat away a swarm of bees by the way he was flailing about.

Wanker!

Spike’s focus only lingered on these two momentarily, before training his sights on her.  She was a bloody vision.  Even at her tender age, she moved like a woman with years of experience tantalizing men.  She reminded him of an old-world burlesque dancer, the ones who hid behind feathered fans, only giving on-lookers flashes of flesh.  Just as those women had with the audiences of long ago, each sway of the Slayer’s hips drew him in further. 

Like a moth to the bloody flame.

Soon Red and the Whelp seemed to have had enough and went back to their table.  Yet the Slayer still danced.  It appeared now with them gone, each of her movements became bolder, more calculated, like her dance was a meaning to an end.  What that end was, he didn’t know, but he’d die all over again to find out.

Obviously, he wasn’t the only one that felt her pull.  Like a siren’s call to sea-faring men, several pimply-faced pups soon approached her, each trying to get a sniff.  Even though she thwarted every advance, Spike felt his demon rising, nonetheless.  After he’d tamped down his fangs and possessive growls several times, he could no longer fight the need to get closer.

Spike took the stairs down two at a time.  After reaching the bottom and turning toward the crowd, it finally dawned on him that he was headed straight for the dance floor or, more specifically, toward her.  Quickly, he put on the brakes and gave himself a mental slap.

What the bleeding hell?  Get a grip, mate!

When he finally had control over his wayward feet, but still needing to stay close by, Spike spotted and slid into a shadowy alcove near the dance floor and settled in.  His hungry gaze never left the reincarnation of Gypsy Rose Lee, as she unrelenting enticed. 

Then, in an instant, the moment was gone.  She stopped abruptly.  Her body became stock-still while her gaze swept across the room with a hunter’s astuteness, until her eyes connected with his hidey-hole.  He knew she couldn’t see him, but it was clear she knew he was there.

Maybe we’ll have our confrontation a little sooner after all.

As she pushed through the throng of people surrounding her, Spike shifted into game-face.  He may be cornered, but he’d be damned all over again if he’d cower with his tail between his legs.

Amazingly, Lady Luck must’ve been on his side just then, ‘cause the only thing that could’ve stopped a Slayer on the hunt, stepped into her warpath.

Now, he’d never admit to thinking this, but he never been happier to see Tall, Dark, and Forehead in his unlife, as he swooped in and didn’t give up until he got his own way.

Probably first and last time I’ll be saying this, but I’m glad to see you’re still trying to be the boss of everyone, Liam.

When the pair’s brief tête-à-tête ended, the Slayer headed straight over to where her friends sat and, after a few parting words, left with a six-foot shadow sulking behind.

Now, this is goin’ to get interesting.

Wearing a wolfish grin, Spike slid from the alcove, slipped out the backdoor, and headed to the roof to get a better seat for the show.  

Even from the rooftop, he could hear every heated word passing between Peaches and his ex.  She was right pissed with him, and he, of course, was trying to play the wounded puppy.  When that didn’t work, he went all possessive and imposing.  Still, despite all his peacocking, the Slayer stood firm.

Bully for her!

Spike almost scoffed out loud when he heard the crowning jewel of this spectacle, Angel telling her he was “worried” about her virtue.  What bullshite!  No matter what he called himself, that bastard was the poster-man for tainting a woman’s virtue and purity.     
        
In classic form, his grandsire was skirting around speaking the truth: always speaking in bloody circles, that one.  He’d never been truly honest with the Slayer about his past or even the present, for that matter.  Just take now, for instance.  He was using namby-pamby words to cushion the blow of what he really thought about the Slayer’s dancing.  The truth was, she was “being a cocktease.”  Plain and simple.

Then the totally unexpected happened.  Even with all of Peaches’ attempts to placate her, she went into full attack-mode all the same.  She told him where to go and how to get there.

Bloody Brilliant!

Spike always loved it when the poofter got his due.  It didn’t happen nearly enough for his liking, but he’d take what he could get, and this little spectacle definitely made his top twenty. 

It wasn’t too long after, when this all-too-short scene ended, and each actor left the stage.  Spike toyed with the idea of going back for the Slayer.  After a little smoking and debating back and forth for a bit, he finally decided it was best to not push his luck tonight.

No rush, mate.  
 
Grinning madly ear-to-ear while basking in Angel’s misery, Spike jumped down from the roof and headed off into the night.
 
 

 

 

Author’s Notes:

Please be good as well and leave a review.  They really, really make my day.  And I'm not too proud to beg for them!   *puppy dog eyes*  Please

le parfum de l'Assassin: perfume of the Slayer

Pavlov’s dog was part of an experiment done by Ivan Pavlov, dealing in conditioned reflex. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivan_Pavlov

Gypsy Rose Lee was a famous burlesque dancer from the 1937-1969.  People said she was the one who put the ‘tease’ in striptease.   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gypsy_Rose_Lee