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Spike was grumbling to himself the entire way to the address. Thankfully, he had his GPS, not that Sunnydale was a particularly big town. He got on his phone to arrange for someone to bring him a change of cloths because as much as he liked the memories, they smelled a bit. He pulled up outside of a large mansion, hidden down a winding road.

“Spike! You're almost late and you smell like sex. A lot of sex. While I'm glad you've been the recipient of many orgasms, but time is money and money makes the orgasms better.” Spike shrugged and followed Anya into the house.

It was immaculate. Spike's lip curled up in disgust. Who could live like this? The environment was sterile and unwelcoming. Almost hostile, Spike thought with a frown.

“No frowning!” Anya chided. “The clients don't like frowning.” Spike snorted; he didn't give a sod about the clients. Besides, he was an artist, he was allowed be temperamental. Anya opened a door and pushed him in the small demibath. “Change, quickly. See if you can...sponge down or something. And be prepared to give me details at lunch.”

Spike rolled his eyes heaven-wards and shrugged into the change of clothes Anya had provided. Well, even if he didn't like these people's house, he could at least thank them for bringing them here and giving him the chance to meet those two green-eyes beauties...

“SPIKE!” Anya banged on the door, startling him our of his reverie. He growled at the intrusion and stalked out of the door, dressed all in black and more than ready to play the pissy artiste.

“...and this exquisite piece brings the room into perfect balance, wouldn't you agree?” Spike arched his eyebrow as a diminutive blonde woman with a fearsome bearing intimidated one of his grips. The hustle took on a different quality as he entered the room, and Spike found himself the focus of the woman's intense focus. “And you must be...Spike.” She lingered on his name as if trying to decide just what she thought about him. Spike simply nodded his head, just this side of cheeky.

“Spike, this is Darla McAvery, CEO of Angelus Industries. Her husband is Liam McAvery, the company's president.”

“He should be here shortly,” Darla assured him, as if Spike cared. Spike busied himself with his equipment, wanting to anything but get involved in a conversation with the noxious woman. She made his skin crawl.

Darla watched the blonde photographer with interest. He was quite pretty, she wouldn't mind a dalliance with him. She didn't think her Angel would either. They were, after all, connoisseurs of pretty things.

“Pet, can you set up the lights for a test shot?” Darla purred at the accent, so different from her husband's Irish tint. To hear that voice all husky and aroused would be divine.

Spike tried to keep himself busy so he wouldn't have to think about the eyes that followed his every movement. The McAvery gave him the willies, and he wasn't an easy person to scare.

“Sorry I'm late, emergency meeting. We ready to begin?” That voice sent a similar chill down Spike's spine. He turned and got his look at Mr. Angelus Industries, who purportedly went by the name of Angel. From Spike's point of view, there was nothing angelic about either of them. It was only then that Spike realized everyone was staring at him expectantly. He quickly ran one last check of his camera and his settings before looking up, pasting a chipper look on his face.

“Yep, all set here. I was thinking of using the natural light and your big bay windows—“

“Oh,” Angel interrupted, a slightly malicious grin on his face, “we were thinking something more formal and classic, a family portrait by the hearth or something.”

“Oh darling, what could it hurt to allow Spike to...play...with us a little? He's the artist, after all.” Darla smiled winningly at the photographer, but she had nothing on the two ladies he had so recently left behind. Darla's smile became strained when Spike merely shrugged noncommittally.

“What ever you two want.” Spike just wanted to get this over with and get to the nearest phone. “If you could stand by the fireplace, I'll take a few test shots with the digital SLR and we can set up the lighting.”

“Whatever you want,” Darla purred. Angel looked over Darla's latest toy but found him...oddly inspiring. He was pale and fair, and Angel could only imagine how wonderful it would be to mark that flawless skin. The way his shirt rode up when he reached for something showcased toned abs and more smooth flesh. Oh yes, this one could be fun.

“Mmmmmm, your desire is intoxicating,” Darla whispered in her husband's ear. He was so deliciously dark and twisted. They barely registered the flash or the camera whirring.

“Good. Move light two a bit to the left and that should be perfect.”

“The pixies capture souls in tiny boxes, but what to pain when there is no soul?” Spike spun around. An incredibly pale and frail-looking girl stood beside him, her eyes focused on something in the distance.

“Come again, pet?” he asked, wondering where she'd come from.

“Druscilla, darling, what are you doing here?” Darla elbowed Angel, telling him silently to take care of this.

“Dru, we've talked about this, you're supposed to stay in your room,” Angel said brightly, taking the girl's arm and guiding her away. Spike was left frowning after a pair of haunted eyes.

“Our daughter,” Darla said, pulling Spike's focus to the suddenly up-close and personal client. “She's special.” Darla ran her hands down Spike's black button up shirt, brushing away imaginary lint.

“She's, ah, pretty,” Spike managed, feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

“Yes. Who would you say she takes after?” Darla lowered her face and looked at Spike through her lashes, trying for coy. Spike just thought she looked somewhat constipated.

Spike was seconds away from saying “The milkman” when Angel returned and announced himself on a tight schedule. The rest of the day went without interruption, and Darla only hit on him once or twice every five minutes. Nothing he couldn't handle. Nevertheless, Spike was eternally grateful when he threw himself on the hotel bed. He'd been on his feet taking pictures of the McAvery's in every room of their sodding perfect mansion all day. He deserved a bath. Especially since he was contracted through the end of the week to take pictures of Angelus Industries' various galas. The things he did for money.

He almost didn't answer his cell when it rang. Almost.

“'s Spike, better be import'nt.”

“Oh, well, I'm the most important person in my world, does that count?” Spike was suddenly completely awake, and so was Spike Jr.

“I guess I could make an exception for you, pet.” He smiled into the phone, relaxing back into the pillows.

“I know there's some sort of three-day-rule thing, but I'm not patient and...hello!” Spike laughed. That was his Buffy.

“To be fair, if I hadn't been so bushed tonight, I would've called you, three days be damned.”

“Yeah?”

“Damn straight, pet.”

“You gonna be tired tomorrow night?” Buffy asked with feigned casualness.

“Seein' as I've got tonight to recover from this weekend...I think I could manage tomorrow.” Buffy laughed huskily, and Spike's cock stirred at the sound.

“Then I'll call you tomorrow around 6.” Spike raised an eyebrow at that.

“You callin' the shot here Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I am. You got a problem with that?” Buffy challenged. Spike grinned.

“You gonna insist on being on top too?” he teased.

“You know it.”

“Then we're just fine luv. Six it is.”

Spike was still grinning when he hung up the phone, disturbing thoughts of Angelus Industries firmly out of his head.





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