Chapter 11
Buffy was sitting on a closed toilet seat in her bathroom, her elbows were propped up on the sink as she watched Spike primp and preen after their shower. They’d had sex two more times until the water ran cold. She’d finally stopped coughing after he’d used practically an entire can of hairspray, making sure each and every spike and tousled lock of hair was placed exactly where he wanted it. Then he pulled out the eyeliner.
“You know, this is sort of demystifying.”
He smiled and leaned closer to the mirror, drawing a thick black line around his eyes. “Well, did you think it just magically appeared on my eyes?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “No, it’s just not every day you see a man putting makeup on. And poorly.”
“Oi, don’ mock my abilities, pet,” he said as he tugged on his lower eyelid and carelessly drew below it, “I’ve had models ask me my technique, so back off!”
She giggled and took the eyeliner pencil once he set it down and read the brand name. “Models, huh?”
Too busy with his task, he didn’t notice the downcast eyes of his lover. “Do you have any Q-tips?”
“Medicine cabinet.” She twirled the eyeliner in her hands.
Spike pulled out a Q-tip and started smudging the kohl liner with it.
“So, when you say models, do you mean like, fashion models or nude models for art or…hand models?”
He tossed the Q-tip in the trash and turned to face her tilting his head. She still wasn’t looking at him. “Buffy.”
“What?” she dared a glance at him and then quickly turned away, stood up and pretended to look for something in the linen closet. Locating a bottle of lotion she grabbed it and turned around, blinking when he simply stared at her with his arms folded across his chest. “What, Spike? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You know why.”
She unscrewed the cap and squeezed a bit into her hands, roughly rubbing it into her already moisturized legs. “It was just a question. Don’t worry about it.” She walked out of the bathroom and Spike followed after her.
“You do realize I had a life before we met, right?”
She pursed her lips and flared her nostrils, sighing as she turned around to face him. “So you fucked a model. Big deal. Are you hungry?”
“Buffy, don’t walk away from me,” he said as she made her way to the kitchen.
“Not walking away, just making lunch,” she called from the kitchen, burying her face in the fridge. The fridge that proudly displayed his flier. “Those airplane peanuts didn’t quite fill me up.”
Spike leaned in the doorway, watching her avoid him. “For the record, she was a fashion model, don’ remember her name. It was one time, two years ago.”
Buffy set the makings of a sandwich down on the counter and gave him a watery smile. “OK, whatever. I don’t care, Spike, really.” She tore open a bag of bread.
“Sure you don’.” He rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the door frame and walked into the living room, shaking his head in irritation. He opened his suitcase and grabbed a t-shirt and carefully put it on so as not to mess up his hair, then his jeans. “You know,” he called out to her, “it’s not like you haven’ been around, Buffy.”
Buffy slapped a slice of cheese onto the bread and muttered under her breath angrily. Suddenly he was in the kitchen again, staring her down. “Can we not talk about this?”
“No, I think we should,” he said defiantly. “How many blokes have you fucked, Buffy? Wanna trade stats? Go over the list of people we’ve shagged? See who comes out the winner?”
She tightened the sash on her bathrobe and glared at him. “What is your problem? I said I don’t care, so why are you being like this?”
“Because you’re obviously brassed off, Buffy! You’re angry at me for somethin’ I did two bloody years ago!”
Buffy started putting the sandwich ingredients back in the fridge. “Make your own fucking sandwich,” she spat, grabbed the lunch she made for herself and brushed past him.
“Hold it,” he said authoritatively, shooting his hand out to grab her by the arm, halting her retreat. “Don’t talk to me that way, Buffy. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothing,” she growled, “is bothering me except for you! You keep pushing it and pushing it and all I want to do is drop it, OK?”
His jaw ticked and he sighed, releasing her from his grip. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” She walked past him and sat down on the couch, taking angry bites of her sandwich.
Spike took a moment to calm down before he joined her on the couch. It was painfully obvious that he’d done or said something wrong, but he couldn’t understand why she was so upset, or why she wouldn’t talk to him about it. Unable to let it go, he said, “Are you angry that it was a model or angry that I shagged Nancy?”
Buffy closed her eyes, gently set her plate on the coffee table and clasped her hands in her lap, breathing through pursed lips to calm down.
“Oh, get a load of this! You’re still angry because of Nancy!” He stood up and started pacing.
Shooting daggers at his form with her eyes she said, “Why did you fuck Nancy, while we’re at it?”
“No. We’re not doin’ this,” he started towards his luggage, zipping it closed.
She stood up and followed him. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about it so fucking bad, so we’re going to talk about it!”
He smirked and turned around. “I’m sorry, Buffy. OK? I’m sorry. It was a mistake, I was weak, she used me, I used her, didn’ mean a bloody thing. I didn’ know where we stood at the time, I’d just picked up my mother’s fucking ashes and she pounced like I was a wounded animal. I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings, I’m sorry if you don’ understand but I’m not goin’ to put up with this. I’ve got too bloody much goin’ on right now!”
“This,” she pointed aimlessly in the air, “this, right here…is exactly why I don’t date! I tried to drop it, tried not to have an argument with you! But oh no, Spike has to keep pushing and pushing and big shocker, he doesn’t like what I have to say! Which is why I didn’t want to fucking talk about it!”
Spike dropped his suitcase by the front door and spun around. “This has nothin’ to do with Nancy, or me. This has to do with you not bein’ able to fucking deal with the fact that maybe,” he inched closer, “you might let me in. And if that happens, uh-oh! Your perfect little delusional world comes crashin’ down, yeah? Better to throw up the walls on the first sign of danger instead of actually doin’ somethin’ to save it, right?”
“This conversation is over.” She turned around and walked to the couch.
He laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “Struck a nerve?”
“I said…I’m done talking now!”
“Whatever. I don’t have time for this anyway. I’ve got a show next week and a hell of a lot of work to play catch up on.”
“Fine,” she huffed, not turning around to look at him.
“Let me know when you get your shit together, Buffy.” And with that, he slammed the door behind him. Buffy hadn’t realized she was crying until she saw the wet marks on her robe.
“Stupid men,” she pouted. The truth was he was right. About everything. His ability to read her was so unnerving and she felt completely vulnerable in his gaze, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. She wasn’t angry about Nancy, well, maybe a little, but that wasn’t what tipped off the bad vibes. Playing the Nancy card was an easy way for her to avoid what was really bothering her. Buffy was incredibly insecure when it came to Spike. She knew he’d had tons of sexual partners. While he may like her now, who was to say that some ‘model’ with legs for days wouldn’t strike his fancy? It wasn’t like she’d ever done this before, wasn’t like she herself wasn’t just as promiscuous as he was or had been. Sure, she’d been with guys who, by all accounts, could be considered ‘hotter than hell’. Some of them had bigger arms than Spike, bigger cocks, better hair…but none of them, not one single man she’d ever slept with had the whole package. Not like Spike. Not even close. And it terrified her, because what did she have to offer besides her newfound kindness and compassion and a great fuck? She’d obviously crossed a line, but she thought, rather irrationally, that if she just retracted her feelings that he’d drop it and everything would be fine again. She didn’t take into account her body language, or how easily Spike noticed every little thing she did.
So, they had a fight and it wasn’t pretty, but she didn’t know what to do at this point. “Good job, Buffy.”
Her cell started ringing and she wiped at her eyes before she turned it on. “Hello?”
“Is this Buffy Summers?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Mark. We met a few days ago, you showed me your portfolio?”
“Mark! Hello!” Buffy stood up abruptly and started pacing the floor in excitement.
“I just wanted to first say how thrilled Max and I were to meet you. You’re incredibly talented.”
“Oh wow, th-thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
Mark chuckled. “Say nothing. The reason I’m calling is because Max and I were discussing your work and we think we’ve found someone who wants to commission you for a job in a couple of days. Would you be interested?”
“Um…yeah! Yes, I mean, yes.” She scrambled about her apartment looking for a pen and paper. “What time? What day, who, where, all of it!” She didn’t even care that she was rambling. This was big. Really, really big.
“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” Mark said with an obvious smile in his voice. “His name is Anthony Hill. Heard of him?”
Buffy’s lungs purged out every last bit of air in them, she dropped her pen on the ground and started shaking. “Are you…are you serious? Anthony Hill as in…the Anthony Hill?” This was quite possibly a dream come true. Anthony Hill was her inspiration, the very reason she purchased her first camera, her idol. And he wanted to commission her?
“That’s the one. He’s working on a new project, combining sculptures and photography for an installment at the MOMA and he’s asked you to take the photographs. I’m sure you’re aware that he’s branching out with mixed media, so his primary focus is on his sculptures. The idea is for his art to be viewed in the third person; your photography is the window to the piece. It’s very avant-garde and you’ll be the only person, aside from Anthony himself to see the actual sculptures. Of course you’ll be paid hourly as well as compensated for any supplies you’ve used, plus your name will be part of the installation. This could be your break, Buffy. So, would you be interested?”
“Can you just…give me a second,” she said sitting down and breathing rapidly, holding the phone away from her ear to squeal like a teenager. “Ok, I’m sorry. Yes! Yes, I’m interested! Tell me where to go, what to do and I’m there!”
After Mark went over the details, she hung up the phone and jumped in the air. “YES! Yes, yes, yes! Oh, I’m sorry, did you know that I’ll be working with Anthony Hill? I know, we’re old friends,” she spoke to the air. “Why, yes…I am Buffy Summers, the very girl who worked with Anthony Hill on his latest installment and the mother fucking MOMA!!” She danced around her apartment, smiling so bright her cheeks hurt. And then her smile waned, realizing that the only person who would appreciate this news was Spike, and she couldn’t call him. Not after the fight they had. She slumped down onto the couch and sighed.
~*~*~*~
When Spike arrived at his loft, he’d been so angry that he hadn’t realized that he’d already killed his pack of cigarettes. He stomped to the kitchen and opened the freezer. He always kept spare packs in there. Locating one, he tore off the cellophane and pulled one out and lit it. As he inhaled, leaning against his fridge, his eyes landed on his kitchen sink. Two plates, two forks, one skillet.
“Wanker.”