Chapter 11
She called him Tuesday night. Not Sunday evening as he had hoped, when he’d sat perched all night in his bedroom by the telephone. Not Monday, when he worked his ass off to make the hours slip by more quickly, only to hurry home and wait by the phone again like a girl.
No. Buffy didn’t call him either of those days. She called him on Tuesday. Clearly she didn’t know him very well. Patience was a virtue that Spike did not possess. You didn’t tell a bloke that you were going to call only to make him wait two days.
Finally, when the phone rang at 8:47 p.m. that Tuesday evening, it barely had a chance to complete a full ring before Spike’s hand shot out like a ninja and plucked it from the cradle.
“Hello?”
“Spike?”
He smiled. Leaned back on the bed. Exhaled.
“Who’s this?” he said needlessly.
“It’s Buffy.”
“Buffy who?” He crossed his ankles on the bed and played with the phone cord. He heard her laughing and he closed his eyes to let the vibrations tickle his ear.
“Buffy Summers. Your mortal enemy.”
“Oh, that Buffy. Well, sorry, don’t want any. Thanks for calling.”
“Ha-ha. So…I guess we should figure out what’s, um, going on Friday?”
“Are you wearing one of your little dance numbers?”
“Spike!” Oh, how he wished he could see the blush on her face. “God!”
“Answer the question. Legwarmers?”
A sigh. “Yes. So, Friday night we should be thinking of leaving around—”
“The pink and black ones or are these a new pair I haven’t seen?”
He heard her laughter again, but he heard someone else giggling too. “Why do you care about my legwarmers so much?”
“Who’s with you?”
“Huh?” This time when he heard another voice in the background, he was positive she had company. “No one’s here, I don’t know what you’re talking—”
Her voice was abruptly cut off by the muffled sounds of a phone being argued over, and the stranger must have succeeded in winning because a new voice came on the line.
“This is Buffy’s conscience speaking,” a girl said. “Can I help you?”
“Give me the phone, you whore!” he heard Buffy shouting in the background.
The other girl laughed again.
“And who is this?”
“I told you, I’m her conscience.” She covered the phone though he could hear her say teasingly to Buffy, “He does have a sexy voice!”
Spike linked his hands behind his head, propping the phone next to his ear. He could be patient now. He had all the time in the world for this brand of waiting.
“Are you still there?” the mystery girl asked, and Spike laughed silkily when he heard Buffy’s shrill squealing, pleading uselessly with her friend.
“Still here, love.”
She whispered, “I had to make her call you even though she talks about you all the ti—ow!”
Spike closed his eyes, smiling arrogantly. “She does, does she?”
“Um…Buffy’s conscience is no longer at liberty to discuss that matter,” she said seriously. “The growing bruise on my arm tells me so.”
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Cordelia. Are you coming to my party on Friday? I have Caravella and a cicchetti spread to persuade you!”
“The bloody hell is cicchetti?” He didn’t know what Caravella was either, but he didn’t want to be dumb twice.
Cordelia snickered, trailing off with an amused sigh. “Spike, you’re hysterical.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh. Well…they have cicchetti bars everywhere in Venice, haven’t you been? I could live off the salmon crostini alone.”
“Oh yeah, hundreds of times. I go to Venice every weekend just for a laugh,” he said sarcastically.
“Whatever…so are you coming?”
“Not sure yet. Have to check my schedule.”
“You’re not foolin’ anyone, buddy.”
He chuckled. “Can I speak with Buffy now?”
“I’ll have to see if she’s scraped herself off the floor, hang on a minute!”
The voices were successfully muted now, and he was a bit irritated that he couldn’t eavesdrop on Buffy’s rage. But then she finally got on the line and sighed heavily.
“Please ignore everything that idiot said to you.”
“Too late. It’s all I’ll be thinking about now. So, you talk about me to your mum, talk about me to your girlfriend, just who haven’t you talked about big bad Spike to, Buffy?”
“You are completely full of yourself? And I regret ever talking to you.”
He started snickering, biting his lip and tangling his fingers in the phone cord. He stopped as soon as he realized it, scolding himself internally for being a woman. “Well, I like talking to you.”
She was quiet for a long beat. Then, “You shouldn’t.”
“Why, because of Angel?”
“Yes, because of Angel! He’s still my boyfriend.”
“He’s out of town this weekend!” Cordelia shouted in the background. Spike liked this girl.
“Does he know I’m going to your friend’s party with you?”
He knew he’d caught her when she covered the phone again to mute the frantic whispering between her and Cordelia.
“Look, you don’t have to go, all right? It’s not a big deal. I just thought we were…”
“What? You thought we were what?”
“I don’t know! Friends?”
He sighed harshly and moved the phone to his other ear. “Look. I’ll come to this party with you. Gladly. I’ll even come as just your friend. But let me ask you a question and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Ok…”
“What if one of your friends hits on me? What if I like one of them? You gonna be all right with that? I mean, we’re friends, right?”
Christ, he was good. He could hear her blood boiling all the way across town. She didn’t even have to answer him. The long pause and the heavy breathing from the other line was answer enough.
“I think…that um…that would be…”
“Yes?”
“Well, most of my friends are dating anyway.”
“Oh, baby, you underestimate my charms.”
“That would be impossible,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “You can do what you want to do. I really don’t care, honest.”
“Is that why Angel knows I’m going to this party? Because you don’t care?”
“But he doesn’t know that you’re—hey! Sneaky jerk. I can’t believe you just Bugs Bunnied me.”
He started laughing evilly.
“Whatever, I hate you.”
“You really don’t, though. And that’s why I’m coming. What time, love?”
“Can you pick me up at eight?”
Pick her up. Driving. Car. Fuck! “Uh…well…I don’t exactly…can you hold for a minute?”
He tossed the phone on the bed and bolted down the stairs four at a time, using the handrail, and stepped in front of the television, blocking a rather precarious sea anemone from Rupert’s view.
“Rupert! Car! Need it Friday!”
“Please move out of the way.” Rupert leaned to the side in his chair to see the deep sea creatures behind his bouncing nephew.
“Car! Look at me old man!”
Rupert reached for the remote with an exasperated huff, annoying his nephew even more when he took forever to spot the power button. Why did he always have to look at the fucking buttons on the remote as if they’d magically moved the last time he used it?
“Top right, Rupert. Same place as always!”
He leaned towards the lamplight on the table beside him. “Well, if it wasn’t for the blasted dim light in this room I could easily—oh, there it is.” He looked down his nose and pressed the big, red button with his pointer finger, cradling the remote like a rock in his hand. Spike was about to throw it out the window.
“What do you need a car for?”
“Buffy? Date. Eight o’clock. Need to drive. Please?”
Rupert chuckled. “Do you know how to drive standard?”
“Of course I do. Yes or no?” Spike’s weight shifted from boot to boot, prepared to dash up the stairs once he had his answer.
Rupert rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. Spike’s eyes widened anxiously, strained noises bubbling in his throat from frustration.
“I suppose that will be all right—but!” he said sternly, forcing Spike to stop when he was halfway up the stairs already. “You had better be home by midnight.”
“Midnight?” he said impetuously. “Don’t make me look like an idiot! I’m at least a year older than these people. A fucking adult for Christ’s sake!”
“House rules are nine o’clock. I’m being quite generous. Take it or leave it.”
Later. He’d deal with that later. He had a car and an answer, and that’s all he needed for now. Flexing his fists at his sides, he inhaled to calm down, and ran up the remaining steps into his bedroom, flung himself on the bed and picked up the phone.
“Yeah, of course, Buffy. Just had to tell Rupert how it’s gonna be. I can pick you up. No problem.”
“Great! Then I’ll see you Friday.”
“Yes, you will.” When he hung up the phone after their goodbyes, Spike stared up at the ceiling, smiling with contentment.
“Yeah… She wants me.”
* * *
It was Thursday afternoon, the anticipation for the following evening to come filling Spike with anxiety. He welcomed the feeling. He didn’t even mind when Rupert teased him. In fact, he enjoyed it, if only for the reminders. It had been a long time since Spike had anything to look forward to, as small of a thing as a party might seem.
Spike knew he was over-thinking everything. He knew that he should tread lightly, that he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Buffy was one of a kind, a unique girl that had already been snatched up by a boy who didn’t appreciate her. And though it may seem that she was irritated with her boyfriend, that didn’t mean that she’d leave him for a guy like Spike, a guy with a soiled past and an empty wallet and absolutely no future that he could imagine.
There were times when he was younger that he had great ideas, fantastical dreams of being something, of making something of his life without a stitch of doubt. He had known then that the world was his oyster, that he could pluck it up from the shoreline and claim it as his own. He had been so sure of that once. He wanted that feeling back, that no matter the obstacle, Spike would be able to overcome it. That no matter what stood in his way, he would always be able to get around it.
He met Buffy and everything changed. The hope he’d given up on, the hope he left behind the day he moved to Brixton with his mum and Marcus, the hope that had always made him walk a little lighter, had finally begun a slow and steady crawl back into his chest with a newness that was almost frightening. Almost. It would have been frightening had he not wanted it for so long.
His temper was evening out, the raging, boiling madness within him cooling to a rumbling simmer. With every day that passed, he found himself changing. He found himself doing. He liked being helpful, being needed and appreciated for what he could offer. It wasn’t an easy thing to admit, but Spike actually liked working at that fucking antique whatever shop. He’d put up a big front when he came here to protect himself, was suspicious of everything and with good reason, considering the past four years of his life. But it was nice to finally relax, to take a breath, to start enjoying the simpler things. As soon as he realized that, the quicker that feeling of hope rushed through him.
Rupert had been there for him, too, waiting for him to talk about it. Never pushing, never forcing. Simply waiting. Spike wanted to talk about it, about what happened with Marcus and the convenience store. But Spike was afraid if he opened that door, he’d open the other one. The one that had his uncle’s name written on it. Things were finally going well between them and the last thing Spike wanted was to fuck it up by bringing up something he should just get over. He’d closed that door long ago. Spike was a man now and there was no use in bringing up past wrongs when he was a boy.
His mind was too preoccupied with images of blonde hair and sweet smiles and red shoes to wander into that territory anyhow.
Spike had seen hundreds of movies that told the tale of the rich girl, the poor boy, and just how the heck were they ever gonna? Realistically, Spike knew those movies were crap. Sure, they’d fool around and she’d say, “Oh, I love you!” and then the movie would end with you thinking that they lived happily ever after to the tune of some Cure song. But they never told you the rest of the story. They never told you how she’d eventually grow tired of his crappy, piece of shit car, tired of him losing job after job, tired of never being able to afford to go to Paris as she’d always dreamed. Then she’d figure out he was a deadbeat loser and she’d bail and find a guy similar to the one she left years ago for him. The one with the money, the cars, and the stability. That was reality, that’s how shit really worked in life.
This wasn’t a movie. This was Spike’s life and he was sure that things wouldn’t be quite as melodramatic as they were depicted in films.
“Call the press, Angel’s here!” Angel said humorously when he suddenly entered the Triple R. He removed his expensive, faded-tint aviators, spread his leather clad arms wide as if he were about to be mounted on a crucifix, smiling like the devil. Spike couldn’t contain the noise of disgust that wrenched its way through his mouth and nose.
Joyce laughed, because she adored rich boys with money and cars and stability, put down her feather duster and walked over to greet him. Spike sighed, dug his fingernails into the antique school desk that he was moving across the showroom floor, and tried not to lose it.
“What a surprise!” she said, giving him a motherly hug. “I don’t think you’ve ever come to the shop before.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he replied, his big, perfect white teeth glimmering. “Joyce, really, you’re too good for this place.”
“Oh, stop,” she said, turning away from him slightly. “I like working here. Gives me something to do.”
“You could be meeting my mother, Ellen and Theresa at the country club this time of day. They always ask about you and wish you’d come have lunch.”
“That’s very nice of them, but I’m working.”
Angel looked at her sadly, as if it physically pained him to see Joyce earning her wages. He sighed in submission, and said with another crocodile smile, “I’ll never understand it, but if it makes you happy…”
She swatted him with the duster, smiling as she turned around to finish her task. That’s when he finally took notice of Spike.
“Look who’s here,” Angel said, his eyes darkening slightly.
Spike set the desk down loudly and folded his arms. “Angel.”
Angel sniffed, letting his eyes wander around the store and taking leisurely steps towards him. “What is all this?”
“Antiques. Collectibles. Books.”
Angel nodded, his chin upturning with a little frown of acceptance. “Like a thrift store.”
“It’s not a thrift store,” Spike said, suddenly feeling the need to defend his uncle’s livelihood. “That clock you’re standing next to is a Chinoiserie painted clock from the late seventeen hundreds. That desk you’re about to sit on is nineteenth century rococo, and please don’t.”
Joyce looked at him curiously from behind Angel, obviously surprised with the jargon Spike had picked up on. Angel sat down anyway, his arrogant ass pressing down on the eighteen hundreds as if it were a bar stool.
“I’m impressed, Spike,” Joyce said, her duster flitting over a Biedermeier carved armoire.
“Rupert’s always been into antiques. Might not like the same things he does, but I do know how to listen.”
Joyce smiled in shock, having nothing really to say to that.
The expensive Italian leather coat Angel wore squeaked and sputtered as he slowly folded his arms to study Spike carefully. “Aren’t you just the cutest? Hey, what’s that over there?” he said, pointing to something at random with child-like excitement.
Spike rolled his eyes, feeling a smoke break coming on. “Got work to do. So unless you’ve something interesting to say, I’m going to get back to it.”
“I do actually,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Got work to do.”
“And this will only take a minute. Bet you could go for a smoke.”
Spike sighed and cracked his neck. He already knew where this was going. “Fine. Two minutes.” He barreled past him to the front door, pushing it open hard and jangling the bells over the door loudly. In seconds he had one lit, tucked into his lips, arms banded in front of his chest and his eyes hard as he looked over at Angel.
Angel smiled scathingly, sliding his sunglasses back on before he scratched the side of his head. “Man, you know, I heard the funniest thing today.”
“Oh? You finally realize your life is a joke?” He blew smoke in his face.
Unaffected, Angel continued, that proud smile of his still slanting across his visage. “See, at first I thought it was impossible when I heard. That there was no way she would do something behind my back like that. Until I realized why.”
Then his smile turned into something seedier and he tried to use his size to intimidate Spike as he took a step closer. Spike remained silent, the paper of his cigarette crackling when he took another drag to burn it down.
“I mean, here you are…no friends, living with your uncle, working a piece of shit job. Buffy’s a nice girl, you know. She has this…maternal thing about her. It’s one of the reasons I love her.”
“Please get to the point, you’re boring the piss out of me.”
“She feels sorry for you.”
Angel’s nostrils flared in delight, chomping up the sight of Spike’s bewildered expression.
“I mean, that’s just what she told me,” he said, holding his hand across his chest like a Southern Belle.
“You’re full of shit.”
Angel laughed and patted Spike on the shoulder. “If it helps you sleep at night, you just keep telling yourself that.”
Spike shrugged him off and took a final drag of his cigarette before he flicked it to the ground. Exactly ten seconds passed during this conversation that Spike had started to doubt himself, had started to believe this bastard’s line of bullshit. Until he remembered something very important.
“You’re so sure about your girlfriend. That she’d never. If that were true, who told you she invited me? Buffy?”
Angel’s lips pursed.
Spike smiled.
“Found out from someone else, didn’t you?” He clicked his tongue in shame. “It is a pity when your girlfriend starts keeping secrets, isn’t it? Wonder what else she’s hiding…”
Angel’s tongue slid behind his bottom lip, a gesture of restraint that Spike couldn’t help but feel proud for putting it there.
“So,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels with glee, “where you going this weekend? Family vacation? Be gone long, will you?”
Angel turned around and started to leave, his shoulders bouncing up and down with his heavy gait.
Spike cupped his mouth with one hand to shout, “I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about! I’ll take care of her, keep her on the straight and narrow!” He snickered when he saw Angel pop his collar and quicken his steps.
Smiling with self-assuredness, Spike walked back into the shop, mumbling under his breath, “Fuckin’ prick.”