Chapter 13
Buffy had not said a word to him. Not once during the entire fifteen minutes it took for her to say goodbye to all of her friends that were sad to see her leave. Not once during the walk to the Volkswagen. And now they were driving in silence, it was only 10:13 p.m., and Spike wasn’t about to give up on the evening.
So, he turned the car down the next road they were to pass and started driving aimlessly.
“Where are you going?”
He shrugged and smiled at her. “We’ll figure it out.”
She sighed and looked out the car window, pretending not to care, but he saw her playing with the hem of her ruffled skirt and he knew she was frustrated.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing over at her as often as possible without wrecking the car. She still wouldn’t look at him, so he started humming a nondescript little melody, making drum noises with his lips.
She sighed again, loudly, making a show of crossing her legs and wiggling on the seat.
Well, if she wasn’t going to talk to him, he was going to turn on the radio and smoke a fucking square and she could just get over it. He clicked, flicked, and sucked his reward, rolled down the window, and cranked the knob on the radio to turn it on. When Beethoven’s Fifth came through the speakers, the trumpets blaring like canons shooting off against the piercing front of advancing piccolos, Spike smiled and turned up the volume. Of course, his smile had nothing to do with an appreciation for the perfect instrumentation of war, and everything to do with having seen A Clockwork Orange and loving it.
“This tune’s all right,” he said, getting cozy in his seat and following the road wherever it led them.
“Spike, where are you going?” She rolled her head towards his, resting it on the back of the seat.
He straightened his arms as he gripped the wheel, inhaling slowly. “I don’t know. Here’s good.” He roughly jerked the car into a parking lot next to a closed art and hobby supplies shop, came to a stop, and turned off the car.
They sat in silence for a moment as Spike gathered his thoughts. He figured he’d already fucked it up, so he might as well give her his nuts, too. It was a brave decision, but he had nothing more to lose.
He took a deep drag, letting the smoke burn his nostrils as he exhaled, then he flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window. “Look, I’m gonna tell you something, and it doesn’t leave this car.”
Buffy shifted beside him, but he was too busy staring at the odometer to see her face. She stayed quiet.
“You want to know something personal about me? Here’s one for starters. My mum’s ex-husband, this twat named Marcus, turned her into a worthless excuse for a human, moved us to the shit part of Brixton where I got my ass handed to me day after day, a bloody useless borough with a school not fit for a rugby team, so I had to quit, and then he fucked up my future by accessing the trust Mum set up for me and took it all. Every fucking cent of it!”
He knew he shouldn’t have purged it all like that, shouldn’t have yelled most of it either, but he didn’t know how else to do this without getting emotional.
He didn’t realize he was breathing as heavily as he was until he felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder. He looked at her then, taking in her sympathetic smile, relishing the feel of her hand moving in slow, soothing strokes on his shoulder. But he didn’t want her to touch him this way. He didn’t want her pity, but then he didn’t know what purpose telling her any of this had served. It seemed like a great idea when he started, but now he just wanted to hide in shame.
He stirred in his seat a bit until he was more comfortable, the movement of which forced her to drop her hand, and then he looked out the window.
“How did he get to your trust?”
Spike snorted a laugh, reaching for his cigarettes out of habit, cursing when he saw that he was out. He crumpled the box in his fist.
“There was a clause that anyone listed as my legal guardian could access the account. I don’t even know how he knew I had a trust set up. Mum started it a year before they married, when I was fourteen. It wasn’t very much money. She wasn’t exactly the brightest bird when it came to finances and being responsible, but it would have been enough after the interest built up for the next three years. Marcus emptied it, Mum was too drunk to give a shit, I was too young to do anything legally, and six months later they were divorced. Then I found out he opened some souvenir shop, no doubt the bulk of those funds for the purchase coming from my bright and hopeful future.”
He tossed the empty cigarette pack onto the dashboard.
“What about your father? Couldn’t he help out?”
Spike smiled sadly at her, his hand slowly rising to brush a lock of hair away from her forehead, dropping his hand heavily on his thigh when he was done. She had no idea how much worse this story was, had no idea the things he couldn’t ever tell her. She was lucky in a lot of ways, having the things she had, the friends she had. Even if shit got really bad for her with Joyce or with Angel, even if she never got into that dance company, Buffy would always be taken care of. He almost felt bad for reminding her that there were people in the world who didn’t have her life.
“I don’t have a father.”
She frowned, and that sympathetic look was in her eyes again. “I’m sorry, did he…did he die?”
“No, I just…don’t have one. The only contribution he made was giving me his last name and sticking around long enough to make things really bloody awful for everyone. Good riddance to him. And—I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”
“Maybe because you need to?” She tilted her head and smiled at him in a way that was so open and honest and sweet that he almost ruined the image by telling her how beautiful she was. She spoke before he could. “So what happened? How did you wind up in jail?”
“You won’t understand if I tell you.”
“Yes, I will!” She sat up straight in her seat, turning her body so that she was facing him. “You can tell me.”
“I’ve done some bad things in my past. Some things I’m not very proud of, and most things I’ve done because I can’t fucking control my temper!”
She tensed up beside him, gasping a little, and he closed his eyes.
“See? You can’t even take the disclaimer. Let’s just go.”
His hand never reached the ignition, because she grabbed it and pulled it into her lap. He watched her fingers twine with his, her pretty manicured nails on her other hand scratch his palm with the utmost tenderness, felt the heat of her skin surrounding him, and when his eyes met hers, he was struck with the knowledge that he was probably falling in love with this girl.
“I’m not letting go until you tell me.” One corner of her mouth lifted into a small grin, and she held his hand, upturned in her lap, drawing circles in his palm.
His eyelashes fluttered for a moment, her touch successfully relaxing him, almost making him purr. “If I tell you, you’ll stop doing that, though, and that’s really very nice.”
He loved the sound of her gentle laughter. “I won’t stop. I promise.”
“All right.” He swallowed hard, his head lolling back onto the headrest, and he closed his eyes while she continued to pet his hand and wrist like a kitten. “Well, my mates Jimmy, Eric and Charles and I were out one night, drinking and being assholes, as we did most nights. But I was wound up about Marcus and drinking only made that worse. So Jimmy starts shouting ‘Fuck that git!’ and ‘I’d like to kick his ass!’ and shit like that. He was always very supportive.”
Buffy began tracing the outline of his fingers.
“But I didn’t know where Marcus’ sodding shop was, or where he lived, so getting revenge on him was out of the question. I mean, when I say this man was a twat, I mean he was a Grade A Twat with an oily comb-over and crooked horse teeth, you know what I mean? So we’re walking down Stockwell to go see if any bands are playing, and lo and behold, there’s fucking Marcus and his fucking, run-down, shoddy souvenir and cards shop. So I hold up a hand to get my friends’ attention, and we duck out of view beneath this pub’s entryway so I can keep watch and come up with something.”
Buffy’s hand stilled, and he was afraid she’d pull away, but she merely pressed her palm against his and held it gently, looking at the difference in size.
“The streets in London are jam-packed with stores, right? Like, everywhere you go there’s a shop or a pub or a place to get something to eat, side by side and congested as fuck. But down there, it’s a bit seedier, the shops are crap and you’re always looking over your shoulder. Anyway, I count the number of shops from where we’re hiding down to Marcus’ store front. There’re three doors, right? I look up to catch the address of the pub we’re in front of, subtract three, and I figure I’ve got it sorted. So we sneak into the alley. This particular alley had address markers on the back doors for rubbish pickup, deliveries and what not. So we look for Marcus’, and I’m still not sure what we’re gonna do yet.
“But Charles was a dumb fucker and never waited for details, and he starts setting trash on fire. I’m still drunk, Jimmy thinks this is brilliant, and Eric is already putting kindling by the door and laughing like a twit. Now, in the back of my mind, I know this is a bad idea. I’m not stupid. But I’m drunk, and I fucking hate Marcus, and I don’t consider the fact that you can’t control a bloody fire, so I gladly start helping.”
Spike exhaled when he felt his chest start to sting with guilt. He’d yet to speak of this and telling Buffy about it might very well end all his chances, but she was still looking at him, still waiting, still touching him. “You sure you want to hear this?”
She nodded slowly and her nails soothed him once more. “I told you, yes.”
He spoke quickly, wanting to get it over with. “In seconds, without any warning, the fire ignites into this massive wall of flames. Eric has already bolted, Jimmy is too wasted to keep his voice down, and Charles is still throwing trash into the fire. I panic, because this has gone from bad to worse, and start searching the alley for something to put it out. Long story longer, the police show up in a flash, Jimmy and Charles are gone, and I’m stuck in a dead-end alley with a now enormous fire that has completely taken over what I think is Marcus’ shop. They arrest me, haul me off, and that’s when they told me we’d set fire to some poor old man’s convenience store that he’d owned for nearly thirty years, one door down from the souvenir shop. All because of my fucking stupidity, that man lost his fucking livelihood. We were lucky they put it out in time before another shop caught fire.”
He was exhausted, feeling a prickling behind his eyes and that familiar boiling sensation in his insides whenever he thought about this. He hated himself.
“I don’t deserve to be here. No matter how much time I served, though, it won’t erase what I’ve done. It doesn’t take away what a fucking shit I am. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
Spike turned his head to look at her, but only a nanosecond had passed before Buffy suddenly gripped the sides of his face and pressed her lips against his with the most exquisite whimper he’d ever heard. He never hesitated, sliding his hands around her waist to pull her closer, parting her lips with his tongue as things immediately turned feverish. She was breathing heavy, her forehead against his as she maneuvered herself to straddle him in the driver’s seat, his hands sliding up her back to tangle in her hair and pull her back down to his mouth.
He didn’t know how this happened, what had inspired her to kiss the breath out of him, but he couldn’t think about that, not when her warm tongue massaged his, not when she moaned softly as she settled on top of him, not when his nose filled up with her scent and his body tingled with want for her. He’d never kissed anyone like this, as if he were on the verge of consuming them, hot and desperate for more, biting and sucking her plump lips, out of breath and never caring to come up for air. Nor had anyone kissed him like Buffy, with such neediness, such passion.
Her nails scaled his shoulders and back before their arms tangled together in a frantic attempt to make contact with skin. His hands slid up the sides of her legs beneath her skirt and he thrust upwards to let her know how hard she’d made him in mere seconds, causing her to gasp and stare at him, wide-eyed in shock. She was stunned still, their eyes locked together as he let his hands drift a bit further, until his fingertips whispered over her panty line that curved over her soft, round bottom. The haze over her eyes lifted like a veil, awareness of what she was doing settling quickly, and Spike tried to make her forget by attempting to kiss her once more.
But she was horrified, trembling, and trying to crawl off of him. He grabbed her wrists to keep her still.
“What are you doing?”
“Spike, I can’t—I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I—”
He kissed one of her wrists, staying calm, staying sultry, hoping to God it worked.
“Please don’t say that. Don’t say you can’t.”
He placed her hands on his shoulders, then trailed his fingers up her arms, his eyes following every move he made until he was looking at her once more. Her eyelids lowered a fraction, the affect he had on her becoming more obvious when she started to pant.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, her eyes turning red, her chin quivering. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“So why did you?” He kissed her throat, smiling against her skin when she made no move to pull away.
She was nearly winded now, unable to speak properly. He made it worse when the tip of his tongue took a languid trek up the length her jugular.
“Because…you’re so…”
“So what?” Her back was so soft, and she smelled so good, fit so nicely against him, fuck, he could nibble on her neck all night.
“Real.”
She lifted his face to hers with both hands and he saw her inner struggle. He saw the war inside her, the right and wrong sides pulling her from both ends. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. I’m…selfish and that was wrong and I don’t blame you if you hate me now.”
A wave of cold air slammed against him the second she crawled away to her own seat. She looked like she might be crying, but when he reached over to touch her, she flinched, curling into herself and looking out the window.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she was saying softly, but he didn’t know if that apology was solely for him.
He sighed, his body falling limp and dejected as he looked out the windshield. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” he said quietly, though he didn’t regret a second of it.
He started up the car and slowly pulled out of the parking lot, going back the way they came, to the roads they were familiar with, driving in silence until he pulled in front of her gate, ignoring Mitchell’s polite wave as he punched in their entry.
Spike was prepared for her to dash as soon as he came to a stop near the front door, but she remained seated, staring at her hands, so he waited.
“I’m not my mother. I’m better than that. You’re better than that,” she said, looking at him with those last words. “I shouldn’t have kissed you after such…an emotional moment, after you shared your—But you do something to me that scares me to death. It’s no excuse.” She inhaled sharply, her right hand reaching for the door handle. “I’m sorry, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me again.”
“Buffy, I don’t care that you kissed me, only if you didn’t mean to.”
“I meant to, and that’s why this has to stop. What I did was wrong.”
If she said she had a boyfriend, he was going to scream. However, what she did say was far worse.
“I hope we can stay friends.”
She got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and ran up the front stairs and into her castle. Every ounce of air inside him rushed out of his lungs and he punched the dashboard to release just a bit more. Then he peeled out of the circular drive, through the gates, and headed back home, now listening to Beethoven’s Ninth and hating it. There was nothing to be joyous about, no ode worthy of such a feeling. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn off the radio, because silence would have been far worse.
* * *
Spike walked through the front door of his uncle’s flat at 11:36 p.m. Rupert was still awake, removing his glasses with a pleased smile as he stood to greet his nephew. Then his expression melted into concern, he rounded the recliner on his way to him, and squeezed Spike’s shoulder gently.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
Spike’s chin trembled, then his jaw tensed and he closed his eyes. Rupert had him in a fatherly hug before he could protest, and Spike was feeling too gloomy not to receive it.
“Those women are to be the bane of our existence,” Rupert said, his large hand patting his nephew on the back before he rubbed it lovingly. Spike laughed a bit, pulling away to gain composure, to keep from breaking.
“It’s more than that. Been a rough night is all.”
Rupert seemed to ponder something for a moment, then he inhaled sharply as if coming to an inevitable conclusion.
“That’s it, I’m getting the scotch.”