Chapter 18
“I’m going with you.”
“You bloody well are not!”
“How do you plan on getting there, Spike?”
“I’ll walk.”
“You’re going to walk from here to Bel Air.”
“Can’t be that bad!”
“Oh no, not bad at all. There are only ten miles and a freeway to cross between here and there.”
Spike inhaled slowly. It was 6:30 p.m. Buffy’s recital was in a half hour, and Rupert was being a fucking prick about the damn car! So, he stole it. Whatever. So he put some scratches on the radio. Big deal! Why wouldn’t Rupert trust him to drive it on his own?
“You’re going to get in the way!”
“In the way of what, exactly? Your eyes and a stage of dancing teenagers?”
“I mean after!”
“Spike, you can’t mean that you’re going to speak with her.”
“Of course I’m—” He didn’t have time for this! If he was indeed walking, he better shake a leg before Rupert started to make sense about things. “What’s the point in going if I’m not going to speak with her?”
“Certainly congratulations and a show of support are in order, but somehow I doubt that’s all you have in mind.”
Rupert knew him far too well and it was starting to get on Spike’s nerves. So he planned on grabbing her and kissing the breath out of her, but only as a show of support! And if Buffy wanted more after that, then what sort of man would he be if he stopped her?
“All right old man, it’s time for me to lay down some fucking knowledge.” He listed the next very important facts on his fingers, in the same fashion as he had in the airport weeks ago. “A, Buffy wants me so bad I can feel it from the other side of Hollywood Freeway. B, you’re still single and you dated a married woman so you know sod all about dating. C, I’m impulsive, it’s what I do, and if I want to have a chat with the girl after the show, I’ll fucking have one.”
Rupert’s lips did that twitching thing, that bloody irritating mannerism that had nothing to do with restraining a remark and everything to do with being amused at how beneath him he thought everyone was.
“Shall I keep the car running for you then? Perhaps we’ll go for ice cream after and talk about your big day at school.”
Rupert’s nose and mouth began a musical snicker, and Spike was about to ruin his perfect eyeliner application by rubbing his eyes in irritation. That wouldn’t do though, because he’d spent far too long preening to look his best for this. His shirt didn’t have a single hole in it! Well, there was one, but it was near the armpit and Buffy wouldn’t see that. Hopefully she’d be too entranced with his stylish hair and black-rimmed eyes to care about how old his clothes were. The eyes were also a nice distraction from the bruise that still marred his face.
Cigarette in the mouth, cock in his walk, sneer on his lip, and Spike was fucking done with this conversation. “I’m walking.”
“You’re going to break a sweat and all that pretty makeup will melt away,” Rupert said just before Spike closed the apartment door on his way out. With an aggravated sigh of defeat, Spike took two steps back into the flat and closed the door.
Spike grumbled, “Fine. But you embarrass me and I won’t hesitate to push you down the first flight of stairs we pass.”
When Spike heard no reply from his uncle, he turned around, snorting when he saw what the old bastard was doing. “Oh, come on! You’re not wearing the hat.”
As Rupert wiggled an ill-fitting, plaid Sherlock Holmes hat onto his head, he smiled in mock innocence. “Hats are all the rage these days! It’s quite refreshing for an old-fashioned lad such as me to be in style at long last. Why, just last week I saw a young gentleman wearing a bright pink fedora to match his iPod.”
“I’ll paint over the graffiti on the back of the store if you hand your keys over right now.”
Rupert, apparently on the verge of a witty remark, stood suddenly stunned mid-flap as he considered this very alluring possibility. He removed the silly hat and looked at the floor to mull it over.
“You won’t have time to do it now that Joyce is gone,” he continued, pouncing on the subtle hints his uncle gave that he just might get his way if he pressed him.
Rupert sighed.
“And I know how much you hate the smell of primer,” Spike said, smiling brightly. He knew he won when Rupert sat down in the recliner. Once Rupert’s ass connected with his favorite chair, he would not move again until bedtime.
“I am a terrible disciplinarian,” he muttered, reaching into his trouser pocket to retrieve his car keys. Rupert was at least smart enough to keep them on his person, because both he and Spike knew the danger of leaving them out in the open.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Spike said, bouncing towards him to pluck the keys from his hand before he changed his mind. “I’ve learned all sorts of things about myself since I moved here.”
“For instance, how to manipulate your poor old uncle,” Rupert said, grimacing.
“That’s one thing, and another is how quickly I can do it.” He dashed to the front door before Rupert could snatch the keys from his hand.
“Don’t get cheeky with me!”
As he opened the front door, he called out to his uncle, “I’ll make sure nothing unseemly happens to your precious car this time.”
“Famous last words!”
* * *
“I’m here to see Buffy Summers,” Spike said to a lady in a very long line of people standing behind him in the foyer of Royce Hall.
The older woman straightened her spine and whispered something to her husband, obviously not interested in the young man speaking to her.
“She’s a great dancer. The best, probably. In fact, I bet she could dance circles around those gits,” he said, nodding in the direction of a group of teenage boys dressed in tuxedo tops and spandex leggings as they passed through the foyer to the back of the auditorium.
“One of those gits,” she said, her lips tightening in anger, “happens to be my son.”
Spike’s smile remained plastered on his face as he slowly turned around, feeling like an ass. That’s when he realized he was next in line and his foot couldn’t occupy his mouth if it was carrying him forward, could it?
He leaned against the ticket counter as if he and the lady at the register were old friends.
“I’m here to see Buffy Summers.”
“I don’t know the names of the dancers,” she said, bored, weary, and probably suffering from lumbar pains due to that too-tall chair she sat on.
“Well, she’s the best. Only seventeen and can do several different types of d—”
“Ten dollars.” The lady stamped a pamphlet that read The Art of Dancing and handed it to him. “You’ll find the order of the recital on page three.”
Spike blinked, he smiled awkwardly, and he felt like a fucking idiot. All this time standing in line it never crossed his mind. What a moron! How did he not bring any money? Well, the first and obvious answer was because he didn’t have any. But surely he could have had the notion to fucking ask his fucking uncle for fuck!
“Ten dollars, sir.”
“You’re very pretty,” he said, putting on the moves and trailing his finger across the counter towards her, biting his lip invitingly.
“Ten dollars.”
“Come on, don’t keep them waiting,” he said quietly, nodding to the people behind him in line but keeping his sultry eyes on the forty-something-year-old lady in front of him. He drew a heart on the Formica with his middle finger and practically batted his eyelashes. “Don’t you wanna let me in for free?”
“If you don’t have the money, please step out of the line.”
He panicked, his window of opportunity closing with every passing second. “I’ve got the money, I just…don’t have it here.”
“Next,” she said loudly, waving her hand to direct the flow of the line.
Sputtering, fidgeting, and looking for something to help him out, Spike suddenly found his way in. Joyce entered Royce Hall, dressed like a million bucks. Well, it probably was a million bucks, but that wasn’t important. What was important was the fact that she’d be the one to save him.
“Oi, Joyce!” he called to her, his loud voice booming and echoing off the marble floors in the large foyer. She looked positively horrified when her eyes made contact with his and she tried to ignore him, her avoidance increasing in time with the murmurs of people amused with his behavior.
He cupped the sides of his mouth and called again, “Joyce Summers! It’s me, Spike!”
Her mouth crumpled in anger and she stomped forward, which took quite a long time considering the distance between them, grabbed him by the arm and wasn’t at all amused with his snickering.
“Shh! Were you raised in a damn barn? Who taught you to yell across a room like that? I’m not a dog!”
“But it worked, didn’t it?”
The lady with the tuxedo git for a son tried to squeeze between him and the counter, so he got right to business. He whispered in Joyce’s ear, “I owe you one,” then smiled brightly, tugging her up to the counter by a firm grip to her fur-covered arm.
“See? I told you I had money, she just wasn’t here yet.” He leaned on the counter again, winking at the ticket lady.
“Twenty dollars,” she said, stamping another brochure to hand it to Joyce.
Joyce sighed, glaring at Spike as she dug into her purse and pulled out a credit card. “The worst, absolute worst manners I’ve ever seen.”
“But you secretly adore me.”
Joyce rolled her eyes and handed the card to the lady. “We are not sitting together.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
“Bloody hell,” he said loudly when he took in the large auditorium before him. They could fit fifteen hundred people in there, easy, and it looked as if they were close to accomplishing that number. People were everywhere, talking loudly, filing into rows of seats, and Spike started to feel nervous. No way in hell he’d get up on a stage in front of this many people and dance for them. He wondered if Buffy was a wreck backstage or if she was cocky as ever, having done it a hundred times before. He settled on the latter and smiled proudly.
“Spike?” he heard a female voice say. His heart fluttered for an instant, thinking it might be her. When he whirled around towards the voice, his shoulders dropped a fraction when he saw Cordelia, looking at him strangely. “No way!”
“Cordelia,” he said, offering a tight smile.
Her eyes narrowed, she folded her arms, and continued to slink towards him as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
“You came to her recital?”
Of course he fucking came to her recital! He wasn’t a complete berk.
He matched her posture, arms folded, eyes suspicious. “Yeah…”
“But she didn’t tell you about it. How did you know?”
“How do you know she didn’t tell me?”
Cordelia tsked, and he knew that was a dumb question the second he uttered it.
“Right. Well, Joyce told me.”
Her eyes widened, her mouth opened comically, and then she linked her hand in the crook of his arm and tugged him down an aisle. “You’ll sit with me, of course.”
“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
“I am,” she said with a bright smile as she took her seat, “but the boys just love it. Now, sit.”
Spike sighed, figured there was no use in arguing with her, and sat down beside her. She was looking at him though, studying him really, and making him rather edgy.
“The fuck are you looking at?”
“Your lip. He really hit you hard, huh?”
“All right, look. You stay right where you are in your own little world and I’ll stay right here in my personal space and my personal business.” He smiled saccharinely and turned to face the stage, feeling rather good about what he’d said.
This had no affect on the girl at all.
“Buffy was so upset, oh my God. Angel is always getting into fights and she hates it so much. He’s such a toddler. She couldn’t believe you didn’t hit him back and was totally freaking out and then she… She’s an idiot.”
Interest rightfully piqued, Spike turned back to face her. “What do you mean ‘she’s an idiot’?”
“Never mind,” she said, looking away from him in the hopes she’d ended the conversation.
“Oh, no, no, no, you don’t get to do that. What happened?” The house lights dimmed and the chatter in the auditorium began to fade away.
“Shh,” she said, “the show is starting.”
“What happened?” He could give a shit about the show starting. Buffy was ninth in the show’s lineup anyway.
A woman seated in front of him turned around and said, “Shh!”
“Shh yourself!”
The lady gasped in shock, mumbling to her husband about kids these days with their rap music and socialist dogmas.
“Spike, you’re embarrassing me,” Cordelia said through her toothy smile in case anyone was looking at her.
“Tell me what happened and I’ll keep quiet.”
“Intermission,” she said.
Well that was a bloody long fucking way away now, wasn’t it? He had to sit there for six dance numbers, thinking of a million different possibilities before he got the truth. Fucking women! Fucking women and their always trying to make him crazy. Spike knew Cordelia wouldn’t budge. She was just as stubborn, if not more so than he was. So he had to concede defeat and keep his mouth shut. He grumbled beneath his breath and shifted in his seat until he was comfortable. He heard Cordelia’s triumphant tittering beside him and he swallowed the urge to make note of it.
There was a crescendo of applause as the curtains opened and the first routine began. It was a lively number with a group of girls dressed like whores in camouflage.
Kelly, can you handle this? Michelle, can you handle this? Beyonce, can you handle this? I don’t think they can handle this! Whoooo!
Spike couldn’t handle this.
“I’m going for a smoke.”
“It just started!” Cordelia whispered loudly, but he ignored her and made his way to the great outdoors.