"How I Spent My Summer Vacation" 1/3

Well, looky here! A Spander fic! And here of all places!
*scratches head in wonder*
*is clearly insane*

Part one, muchachos! Part two and three are right on its heels.


How I Spent My Summer Vacation (1/3)
Author: _beetle_
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Jinkies!
Concrit/Feedback: Like, sure, Scoob!
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set pre BtVS S4, in Oxnard, from whence it goes AU. Broken into three parts to make for easier posting.
Summary: Xander spent a summer in Oxnard, at the Fabulous Ladies Night Club. My take on how it coulda went.


June 28th

“Well, well, well.”

I’d just stepped out the kitchen exit of the Fabulous Ladies Night Club with a bag of garbage, when a shadow detached itself from the shadowy bulk of the dumpsters and flowed toward me

Holy. Shit. My first eloquent, not to mention useful thought on hearing that unfortunately familiar voice. I’d like to say I whirled around with two stakes at the ready, an expectant grin on my face.

I’d like to say I was all Dirty Harry, like “You feel lucky? Well. . . do ya, vamp!”

Yeah--screw that, I was just glad I didn’t wet myself, ‘cause I’d drunk about a gallon of water throughout the shift and I had to piss like a racehorse.

Swaggering unevenly toward me, duster flapping, ice-white hair glinting,was one-quarter of the Scourge of Europe.

The evil fiend who bashed me over the head with a microscope.

“Imagine my surprise when I picked up a familiar scent in this shithole club. Thought maybe you had a long-lost twin, or summat . . . but it’s you, alright,” he slurred, closing the distance between us till my back was against the grungy kitchen exit. The bag of garbage--not so much a weapon as an anti-weapon--dropped from my hand with an undignified squish. “The Slayer’s boy.”

Spike braced his hands on the door, to either side of my head and leaned in till all I could see was his eyes. Words like thrall and hypnotize danced across the backs of my eyes as he frowned thoughtfully. “Xander . . . somethin’-or-other. . . .”

How do you know that when it comes to the great action movie that is life, you’re nothing more than the comic relief? When your arch-nemeses don’t bother to remember your last name, that’s how.

“Harris,” I muttered as Spike got up in my face. Underneath the smell of garbage and piss--way underneath--I could smell leather and smoke and Jack Daniels. I’m not gonna say that made me all light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel . . . I was still firmly in the that-light’s-a-big-ol’-train camp, but my odds of surviving this night had increased a tiny bit. “Xander Harris.”

“Ah.” Spike seemed weirdly polite, possibly because he was so blitzed. But he obviously didn’t care what my last name was. Which makes sense, because I’d never cared what a Twinkie’s last name was either, before I ate it. “So what’s an impressionable lad like you doin’ in a den of iniquity like this, hmm, Xanderrr Harrris?”

Don’t ask me how he hissed his Rs. Maybe it’s a British-thing. I know it’s not a vamp-thing.

“Just thought I’d do something original the summer before college. Forget back-packing through Europe or a Great North America Roadtrip, nossir! I decided to be a scullery-boy, in a strip club in the asshole of California--”

At least that was what my mouth was saying. My brain was saying something else.

He’s not listening to me. He’s not buying any of this and he’s not listening to me. He’s watching my neck like it’s pay-per-view and licking his lips, but not so much with the listening. Oh, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all, nope, gonna die out here tonight, back by the dumpsters like a stray dog--

My mouth:

“--good old UC Sunnydale. Sure, it’ll be a heavy course-load, double-majoring in business administration and accounting, but I’m really gonna buckle down and go for the gusto--”

My brain:

Eeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkk!!!!!! Vampire!!!!!!

“Mm, fascinating,” Spike broke into my babble, nodding thoughtfully. Then he switched to gameface. “I’m hungry, Xanderrr Harrris, and you smell like Sunday-brunch. Whatcha think ‘bout that, pet?”

He stepped even closer to me and leaned in to sniff my neck; again, it was so fast, one moment I’m looking into merciless gold eyes, the next I’ve got a cool nose pressed against my neck and nuzzling me. His hands were only a little warmer and they clamped on my upper arms just tight enough to squash any illusions of breaking free.

“Uh . . . invade my personal space, much?” My voice was weak and about eight octaves too high as his lips brushed my skin. “The S-slayer--”

“Isn’t here for you to hide behind, so don’t embarrass yourself, boy.” He inhaled deeply; the rush of air on my sweaty skin made me shiver. “Bloody hell, you smell divine.”

And that was so funny, for a moment, I forgot my predicament and laughed.

“You think sweat and au de dish detergent is divine? Man, you’re so drunk!”

“Smell like sunshine and life, fears and regrets . . . and chocolate.”

“I--chocolate?” Guess you really are what you eat.

“Mmhmm.” Something cool and wet rasped across my skin. I shivered again when I realized it was his tongue. I knew I was about to die. “The really good kind . . . bitter-sweet and dark.”

“Um--my scent is very misleading. You would think I'd taste good, but in actuality I’m very bland, and unappetizing--”

Vampires don’t need to breathe, but I could feel his breath on my neck. “Find that hard to believe. I’ll bet you’re a real nummy treat.”

“No-no-no!” I didn’t wanna die like one of those ensigns in Star Trek. Those bright-eyed, nameless young guys wearing shoot-me-dead red shirts . . . you know the ones. They always got phasered by Klingons, or eaten by giant blobs during away-missions with Kirk. “I taste really, really bad! Like moldy lima beans and rancid peanuts!”

“Be a good little nummy, and I’ll make it nice for you,” he whispered, and I felt the prick of sharp, cool fangs. . . .

“Oh, damn,” I whimpered. This was it. This was the grisly end. I only hoped it’d be quick and painless. Or at least non-torture-y.

Oh shit oh fuck gonna die gonna be drained by evil-bizzaro Billy Idol never even been to Disneyland why isn’t my life flashing before your eyes I’m about to die but all I’m seeing is the stuff I never got to do never woulda done anyway I’m such a loser--

“Christ, boy, don’t you ever stop yammering?” Spike asked, straightening up to glare at me. But he sounded exasperated and kinda amused. “Even imminent death isn’t enough to shut your bloody cakehole!”

Had I said that out loud?

Gameface melted away and Spike rolled his eyes. “Unless I’m suddenly psychic, you did.”

“Did I just say that out loud, too?”

“Tosser.” The hands on my arms shoved me once, not too hard, but hard enough the back of my head bonked against the wall.

“Ow! Hey!” I was angry, and ready to give my soon-to-be devourer a piece of my mind, but when the stars and exploding flowers faded--

I was alone.

I didn’t waste any time. I yanked the door open and stepped into the safety of the kitchen, panting and shaking. Then stood in the doorway, scanning up and down the empty alley until Mr. Anastasio barked at me to get my ass back inside and take care of my station.

I was actually grateful to get back to stacks and stacks of dirty dishes.

But not before a much needed bathroom run.


July 2

He was back a few nights later, just after close.

Paco was taking his last smoke-break out back. I was elbows-deep in warm sudsy water, thinking about how neat independent wealth would be, when:

“So, nummy, this is the best summer job you could find?”

“Aha!” It was as close to a Slayer-esque pun as I could get. I whirled around, two stakes--hastily carved, wet and soapy, but still perfectly serviceable--at the ready, and there he was. Spike. William the Bloody. One-quarter of the Scourge of Europe. The Microscope Menace. “Weren’t expecting me to be armed, were ya?”

“Can’t say I was, no,” he said, his relaxed stance not changing in response to the grave threat I’m sure I posed. He was smirking like I wasn’t holding his timely doom in my hands, but I wasn’t about to let that deter me. “You look bloody ridiculous, by the way.”

“Let’s hear you say that when you’re a big pile of dust, Bleach-boy!” I tried to leap forward heroically--and kept sliding because Paco never wrings out the mop carefully. There were always puddles all over the kitchen floor and damnit! That was the third time I’d slipped that night!

Spike moved, like a black-and-white blur, out of my way. The stakes went flying out of my hands; good thing, too, ‘cause I probably would’ve landed on them and killed myself. As it was, I hit the floor with a thud that knocked all the air out of me.

“Pretty pathetic, that,” my nemesis noted from somewhere above and behind me.

“Wow . . . who says you can’t die from humiliation. . . ?” I panted, not even rolling over to face my death. I had no problem dying with my eyes closed and on my belly. I didn’t want the last thing I saw to be Spike’s neener-neener-neener! face.

“Huh . . . not bad.”

“I’m flat on my face and you think so?” The floor tasted kinda funny, so I rolled over, my eyes still closed.

“Not you. You’re a bloody catastrophe, pet. I meant these stakes. Could make a living carving things. Probably a better one than you’re making now,” he chided, with just a hint of tsk.

“Great--just great. Even my devourer feels the need to point out how badly I’m screwing up my life. Beautiful.” I risked opening my eyes. Spike was leaning back against the sink, examining my stakes critically, his hair gel-less, and glowing perfectly white in the fluorescent lighting. He was wearing his trademark black duster, red silk shirt and sprayed on jeans.

“Not here to devour you, mate. Or torture you, or whatever thoughts are going on behind those pretty, dark eyes.” Spike turns his laser-beam gaze on me. “Tell me, how’ve you been?”

“What? Since the last time we hung out, and you tried to cave my skull in with a piece of lab equipment?”

The scarred left eyebrow went up, as if to say yeah.

“Um. . . fine?” Then what he said hit me. “Hey, my eyes aren’t pretty, they’re manly!”

“Are they, now?” That sneer implied otherwise. I felt obliged to defend the masculinity of my eyes and the rest of me, though I hadn’t done the greatest job of it, so far.

“That’s right, Soulless; damn manly!”

He snorted and tossed the stakes back at me. One hit my chest, the other my crotch. Slay-side down.

“Hey--hey! Kill me, but please don’t castrate me!”

“If I was trying to castrate you, nummy, you’d be singing soprano right now. And I’m not gonna kill you, either. Come on.” Spike stepped closer to me and offered his hand. When I didn’t make a move to take it, he rolled his eyes impatiently. “Better get up before that Anastasio wanker comes in here and sacks you for gold-bricking.”

A moment of hesitation and I sat up, taking Spike’s hand. Call me crazy, but it seemed like a bad idea to make a soulless psychopath think I was being ungrateful.

And I figured Spike wouldn’t take ungratefulness too well, either.

“You worrying about my job security is as touching as it is creepy,” I muttered. Spike pulled me up so fast, I almost rebounded off him, which knocked the breath out of me for the second time that night. He caught me by the arms and held me up . . . held me close.

I made the mistake of looking into his eyes--very, very blue--and forgot all about breathing. Not in the stopping sense, but in the thrall-thrall-must-look-away sense. But I couldn’t. There was gold in them thar blue depths, winking sedately like sunken treasure.

“Should be more careful, pet,” he said, smirking, stroking my biceps calmingly. “Don’t want you gettin’ all banged up.”

He was solid, warm . . . kinda smelled like copper. . . .

He’d just eaten.

“Oh, Jesus!” So much for the thrall. I tried to jerk away from him but he gripped one of my arms like a vice and wrapped his other arm around my waist. He was still smirking, but it was--fond smirking, which was much, much wiggier than gameface.

“You shouldn’t work yourself up so, love. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then just lemme go and get outta here before you really do get me fired!”

“No.”

“C’mon!” I couldn’t shake him loose and trying was getting me nowhere. I groaned, and risked looking into his eyes again. Still blue. Still . . . thrall-y. The last of my struggles tapered off without any permission from my AWOL brain. “Look, I’m a loser, okay? So not worth the thralling, or subverting, or whatever it is you’re doing. Please, let me go--leave me alone.”

“Can’t. See, I’m in the market for a Consort, Xanderrr . . . and you’re in the running. In the bloody lead,” he added, his eyes getting closer and closer. “Think you might be interested?”

“C-consort?” I stammered, wracking my brain for what that meant.

“Didn’t feature runnin’ into any of you white hats here, of all places. Gotta figure something put you in my path for a reason.”

Yeah, and the something? Would be Jack Daniels, I thought, but was still smart enough to not say. “But--you’re evil!”

“Well, you’re not nearly as slow as you put on, are you?” There goes the sneer. But even without it, I know sarcasm when I hear it. No way was I gonna ask him what the hell a Consort was if I was gonna get the eyebrow of ‘you simpleton’ for my trouble.

Anyway, I was pretty sure Consort was a step above minion, or Slayer-bait, and didn’t involve death or soul-loss. Something like a jumped-up side-kick. Either way, evil incarnate was offering me a job. “Uh . . . you’re kidding me, right--?”

More winky gold light in his eyes. “Well, it doesn’t carry the same cachet of glamour that dishwashing and hauling trash does, but the pay’s excellent.”

“Wait a minute--there’s pay?” I asked, which was stupid. I should’ve been screaming my head off, or at least pretending I was noble enough not to be curious about the wages of sin. “How much?”

“Monetarily? Dunno, exactly. . . .” Spike purred lazily and pulled me flush against him. There was either a gun in his pocket or he was really happy to see me. “But I can promise you great personal satisfaction.”

And suddenly I was remembering what being a Consort entailed--at least according to Giles’s huge and dusty old books.

“Guh!” For once my mouth stopped working as soon as my brain did. “I--”

“You?” Spike was staring at my mouth, his tongue curled over his teeth.

“--am gay. I mean not gay! So not gay! Love the boobies!” I back-pedaled out of his arms and he let me, not that I was in any way comforted. I was alone with a male vampire who was--luke-warm for my form. Freaking out seemed to be the next logical step, followed by screaming and running out of the kitchen. But before I could, Spike chuckled, all throaty and British, like some kinda Bond villain.

“Human hang-ups are so adorable,” he observed, and took a step toward me. I took a step back. “Bet it’ll takes you less than a month to lose all yours.”

“What part of ‘not gay’ is giving your brain error messages?!”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is this your latest evil plan? Trying to get me to switch teams? ‘Cause I gotta say . . . not so much evil, as--” confusing. That was what I was gonna say, but admitting that was not something I thought it wise to do at that moment. “Not so much evil, as lame.”

“Told you, the only plan I’ve got is taking a Consort.” Big flash of gold that seemed cold, instead of warm. Yeah, he was getting angry. “It’s not Sophie’s Choice, nummy. All I need’s a simple yes, or no.”

I backed a few more feet toward the hallway, Spike matching me step for step. “And if I say no--what then, huh? You kill me and decorate the kitchen with my blood and innards?” Just saying the word innards around someone who could easily show you your own? Maybe not the smartest move ever.

One second, Spike was all narrow-eyed indignance and five feet away; the next, he was nuzzling my neck like he’d done the other night, holding me gun-in-his-pocket close.

“If you say no, I walk away. Find someone else,” he murmured against my throat, kissing and licking and nipping at the skin. Reptile!me--you know, the part of the human brain that still fears fire and thinks the sky’s falling every time there’s thunder--was screaming bloody murder. The rest of my brain, was trying very hard to reiterate how gay I wasn’t.

And my body, which was all horny teenage guy, was starting to . . . react.

We’re not gay! My brain insisted. Reptile!me hissed and took shelter in its cave. My body was too busy getting hard to pay attention to either of them.

“But if you say yes, love. . . .” Spike walked us backwards till we hit the wall next to the swinging doors, then sighed against my neck, soft and cool. “If you say yes, you’ll be lavished with love, attention, affection, and sex . . . and money, too.”

“You’re, like--kidding, right?”

“No. I’m, like--not.”

“What about Drusilla?”

“What about her? Not in the picture, anymore, is she?”

Since I couldn’t see what his mouth was doing--smirk, leer, sneer, grin--I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, or . . . well, he couldn’t be serious, but why would he lie?

Uh, to get to the Slayer, dipstick! Remember her?

But even for a vamp-plan, it was far too convoluted and screwy to make sense. Which meant. . . .

“Oh.” I let out a shuddery breath. He meant it. He meant it. “Oh, fuck me.”

“A Consort with initiative! I like that!” I could hear the smirk in Spike’s voice; he ground his groinal area against mine and started kissing his way up to my mouth.

“Gah!” I shoved him back so hard he nearly fell over, but he caught himself easily. “Dude! Not. Gay!”

“Harris, Jr., there, might disagree with you.” He pointed at my crotch, then sauntered toward me, smirk firmly in place. I shrank against the wall, making the sign of the cross with both index fingers--not that that wards anything off, believe me, I know--but he kept going. Past me and through the swinging doors.

“Be seein’ ya, pet.”

And he was gone.

My head thunked back against the wall and I took some deep breaths. I tried to think unsexy thoughts . . . Principal Snyder in a speedo, Mr. Anastasio in a two-piece. But they kept turning into Spike in a speedo, and Spike in a two-piece (which should’ve been ridiculous, but my body wasn’t laughing).

There was a loud thud from just outside the kitchen, and I jumped, expecting naked!horny!Spike--or even worse: naked!horny!Mr. Anastasio, holding a meat cleaver and a severance check--to come barreling through the doors.

But after a few seconds, no one came in.

“Thank God,” I sighed. My brain agreed. Reptile!me peeked out of its cave, hoping for an all clear.

My body . . . just stayed wired and hard.

Be seein’ ya, pet.

That didn’t bode at all well for my longevity, or my heterosexuality.


July 3

The next night was one of the busiest nights I’d worked, so far.

If Spike was lurking around--snacking on the hordes of screaming, horny women or picking off the waitstaff--I didn’t notice.

Close rolled around. Even with Paco and Sonny, the titanic piles of dishes and glasses took forever to get cleaned and put away. There was floor to mop, bathrooms to clean, table and counter tops to wipe down. . . .

I was too tired to keep an eye out for horny, bisexual vampires.

Finally, it was time to lock up and head on back to town. Sonny and I went outside, mumbling disinterested good nights. A few minutes later, he roared off on his motorcycle. I sat on the front steps, arms crossed on my knees, head pillowed on arms, waiting for my ride to finish getting reamed by Mr. Anastasio.

I wasn’t the only one to slip after Paco’s turn at mop.

Anyway, I must’ve dozed off, ‘cause when I woke up, Spike was sitting next to me, watching me.

“Hello, pet.”

“That is really fucking creepy, man,” I yawned. Being scared took levels of energy I no longer had, and whatever weirdo vamp games he was playing obviously didn’t involve corpse! or vamp!Xander. At least not any time soon.

“You’re pretty when you sleep.” He reached out and touched my face very softly. “You look even younger than you are.”

“I’m not gay, and your fingers are cold,” I said, sitting up and away from his touch, but his fingers followed me.

“That doesn’t matter, and I’m fairly sure you wouldn’t approve of my means of warming them up. . . .” His smile was fleeting, predatory and made me shudder. Thankfully, it was quickly replaced with something more like his usual smirk. “Not safe for pretty, young things to fall asleep out here. Not unless they have someone to watch over them.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Watching over me? Not stalking me?” I waved his hand away. “My bad, then.”

“Your mate’s gone. The Spanish one.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry, he’s not dead. I sent him home--poor bugger looked ready to drop in his tracks.” I looked around. Yep. The space where Paco’s parks his pick-up was empty. But one space over was full of Spike’s crappy DeSoto. “Told him I’d give you a lift.”

Relief made my shoulders sag and I laughed. “You told him?” Disbelief? Oh, yeah. The only thing worse than my Spanish was Paco’s English.

Spike shrugged. “Happen to speak Spanish, don’t I? Told him I’d be giving you rides, from now on.” Cue the stupid leer.

I was still figuring out how to respond to that innuendo when what the rest of what Spike said filtered through the haze of exhaustion. Paco was the only person I knew whose shift ended at the same time as mine and who was willing to give me a lift if I chipped in for gas.

He was also the only person who--sorta--talked to me, besides Del (one of the strippers) and Sonny . . . and Spike had just chased him off.

I could’ve cheerfully punched him in the face. I settled for screaming at him.

“You--crazy--evil--bleach-brained--!”

“Oh, dear, have I over-stepped my bounds?” I didn’t believe that innocent/concerned look on his face, not for one second. “I just figured, us being amigos an’ all, that--”

“We are not amigos! You’re--stalking me!”

“Same difference.” Another shrug, as if to say tomayto, tomahto. He stood up and offered me his hand--courtly, like I was a delicate little flower, instead of a damn manly dishwasher.

I glared at him and smacked his hand away, bouncing onto my feet. Too fast, as it turns out . . . I overbalanced and nearly fell over. Spike caught me, and used that as an excuse to grope me.

“Stop that! You’re a--an undead perv!” I smacked his hand again--this time off my ass--and put a good fifteen feet of dusty asphalt between us. “Look, if you’re not gonna kill me, just leave me alone, alright? I know what a Consort is! It’s me getting the bad-touch from you, so the answer is no!”

Spike’s smirk turned into a grin and he sauntered off toward the DeSoto with a shrug. “Come on, nummy. Let’s get you home and tucked into bed.”

“I’m not nummy, damnit and no way! There’s no fucking way I’m getting into a car with you!” I ranted, knowing that the only thing insaner than walking the twelve miles back to Oxnard in the middle of the night, was going for a ride with Count Drunkula at the wheel.

“I’m not lettin’ you walk all the way back to that fleabag motel of yours alone, pet!” He called. He unlocked the DeSoto and got in. It started up smoothly, and he rolled slowly towards me. I couldn’t see Spike through the painted over windows, but I could imagine the smirk.

Whatever. I turned toward the highway and started walking. The DeSoto followed me, like the worlds biggest, most annoying puppy and I ignored it.

“You won’t make it a mile without some big nasty gettin’ its teeth in you, and you know it!” Spike yelled.

“And this differs from you driving me home, how--?”

“Ha-bloody-ha!” He didn’t say anything else until I was actually on the highway. The DeSoto got closer, then swerved around me, slowing to a crawl again about ten feet away. When I caught up with it a few seconds later, Spike kept pace with me, leaning out the driver-side window.

“I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman. I’ll keep all my bits to myself until you say otherwise.”

“Until?”

“Well, it’s really only a matter of time till you’re gagging for it--”

“Gee, I can’t imagine who wouldn’t wanna get into a car with you. . . .”

“You got any other bright ideas about how you’re gonna make it home in one piece, Xanderrr?” He hissed that ‘R’ on purpose, I realized. I don’t know how he knew it made me shiver, but he knew and he did it on purpose. “In you go--I promise you’ll be safe with me.”

“Well, if you’re giving me your solemn vamp word-of-honor.” I snorted, but had to face the fact that I didn’t like the odds of me making it to the outskirts of Oxnard and my crappy motel room alive.

I stopped, in the middle of the highway and the DeSoto stopped with me.

Mr. Anastasio would let me sleep in the storeroom for one night, right? Till I get things straightened out with Paco? Hell, sleeping out on the front steps would be better than accepting a ride with the undead Mario Andretti. . . .

“I just wanna see you home safe, Xander.”

What did it say about my state of mind that I actually believed him? Many things, and none of them good.

“Trapped in a moving vehicle with a vampire doesn’t say safe to me.” I started walking again. I could do twelve miles easy. Okay, not so easy, but it wouldn’t kill me. I hoped. And there was still most of a full moon to light the way.

“I’m pretty certain draining you isn’t the way to your heart, pet. So there’s no sense in me doin’ that, is there?” Spike smiled. A real smile, not a smirk or a leer. I caught myself before I could smile back.

“Come on, pet . . . get in.”

“No.”

“Why the bloody hell not?!”

“Even if I was stupid enough to forget the fact that you’re a vampire, you drive like a total lunatic--”

“I drive bloody great!”

“That you think that tells me I don’t wanna be in any car that you’re piloting, Crash, so run along.”

Spike made very English sound of annoyance, and I suddenly missed Giles a lot. “Stop being silly, nummy.”

"I'm being very un-silly. Beat it."

"I'll follow you all the way home like this."

I didn't like the idea of him knowing where I was staying, but he was the vamp poster-child for ADHD. He'd probably get distracted by something shiny, and lose interest long before I got back to town. “Go right ahead."

"I'm not bluffin', pet, I will!"

"Have fun."

"Damnit, get in the bloody car!"

"There’s no way I’m getting in that car with you, dead-man-driving! No, non, nyet, nien no!”

*

“Here we are, pet,” Spike drawled as we pulled into the motel parking lot. “Safe as houses.”

He smirked at me and I scowled right back. Two miles into my walk, I’d caved, and gotten into his lame-mobile. Spike didn’t say anything, but he radiated satisfaction like cheap cologne.

“Smugness isn’t at all becoming,” I’d said coldly, slamming the door and trying to glare a clear spot through the paint on the windshield.

“That’s not what your scent is saying, nummy.”

So I spent the whole ride crammed against the passenger door like a virgin afraid of being date-raped. After what felt like hours, we hit the outskirts of town and a familiar neon sign glowed in the distance. My motel. I hadn’t volunteered the address and he hadn’t asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how he’d gotten it.

Even though my instinct was screaming at me to bolt out of the open window and run, run, run, I risked a look at Spike. He was grinning at me, his nostrils flaring delicately.

“Stop . . . smelling me.” I squirmed and reconsidered the window as a means of escape. But I really didn’t think I’d make it out of the car alive. “It’s creepy.”

“Don’t wanna.” Spike leaned closer to me, close enough that I could smell his scent: leather, whiskey and cigarettes. But no copper, tonight. Huh. ”So, how about a good-night kiss, Xanderrr?”

I still maintain he hissed his Rs just to make me shiver.

“Sorry, blood-breath, I don’t kiss on the first date.” (I swear, in my head? That sounded witty and Slayer-esque . . . and not nearly as gay.)

Spike leered. “How ‘bout on the second date?”

“Eww, no! And we’re not dating!”

“You were the one who said--”

“I was being glib!”

“Well, then, you’re not very good at that, are you?”

He had me, there. “Apparently not,” I sighed.

“Poor pet,” Spike tsked and pouted, and put his hand on my knee. “I know what’ll put you right--” his hand slid up my thigh. . . .

“Gah!” I warp-nined it out the window, hit the ground hard and rolled to my feet running. Spike’s laughter following me across the parking lot and to my room.


Part II