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Author's Chapter Notes:
Not entirely sure what I had to say here except WARNING it's got vomit and if you're stomach is easily affected or you are eating, you may way to wait until you're all settled cause as I said this chapter includes vomit. There be the warning.
Here be the disclaiming: the characters are not mine and I only use them to entertain myself and others. I know this and I shan't refrain from doing otherwise. AND THANKS FOR THE HILARIOUS ARGUMENTATIVE BETAING DAMPERS (sorry I forgot this in the first edit)
Chapter Nine: Strong Mussels

The cobbles felt normal beneath my bare feet, my mind happily humming away thoughts about seeing Spike in a few hours. I stepped up onto my bus, my cute little skirt flowing around my knees and my sweater hugging tight and appropriate. I left my hair down, eager to have Spike’s fingers wrap my locks around his hands. I looked perfect for meeting with Tara and some execs at the expensive restaurant.

Only when I sat on the vinyl bus seat and went to cross my legs did I realise that I was barefoot. And the bus was already zooming along the road. Damn, the only thing I could do was buy a pair. And I thought today was going to go so well.

Humming, I couldn’t help but be happy as the bus made its way into the city and across the sturdy bridge to the other side of the river where parade grounds, gardens and restaurants littered the bank. Street performers were everywhere and the people happily walked about casually. The faux beach was beset with children and teenagers; the pools filled with people and lifeguards strolled around the grounds.

I realised why there were so many people when I came to the centre of the entertainment precinct. It was Sunday and the markets were on. Thank god for vintage shoe sellers. All I could find was strange novelty footwear until a little stall where I picked out a pair of, what I thought were the less hideous, blue slips until I realised I looked like a moron. I had spent too much time looking at the shoes so I quickly grabbed the pair next to the blue and decided that they were best chosen now or never. I later wished it were never.

I arrived at Callori at twelve; ready for my meeting with Tara and whoever it was this time. She sat at the table with a shy brunette girl in big glasses and the cute redheaded man next to her. I vaguely remembered him from somewhere.

“Hey, Buffy! This is Winifred Burkle and Daniel Osborne. Fred, Oz, this is Buffy Summers.”

“Hi Buffy, we’re here to discuss your contract with Magicbox Publications. How are you today?” The timid Fred spoke so clearly and passionately and a little bit fast I had to stop and think for a second. I plopped down in the empty seat.

“I had such a mental deficiency today. I forgot to wear shoes.”

“There are shoes on your feet.” The man called Oz said stoically.

“These are new shoes. Well, old new shoes. Vintage! Have I met you before?”

“He was at the Writers’ Festival Dinner. Why don’t we discuss some business?” Tara moved to pull out papers from her briefcase as Fred went to do the same.

We talked for twenty minutes, discussing the details for my next fantasy trilogy contract although I barely partook in conversation. Tara would look at me with every little moan and gasp that flew out of my mouth as the wretched vintage slips I had bought broke my days-old ugly blisters open again. I quietly sighed as I slipped my feet out of the shoes under the table. We were crossing the last t’s and dotting those damn i’s when I felt a hand on my shoulder and a familiar smoky leather smell pull a chair away from another table.

“Hi, love, where’s your shoes?”

****

God, her blush was gorgeous. I arrived half an hour early. Yeah, I knew it, too bloody eager. But I couldn’t wait to see her. When I saw those naked slender legs dallying about beneath the table I had to touch them.

She shivered under my hand and made quick introductions. She whispered an apology in my ear about our date being interrupted by her meeting but I brushed her words away with a sweep of my hand through the air.

“Love, I’m early. And I would love to have lunch with these distinguished literary types.” My other hand played with the delicious skin above her knee.

She smiled and turned to watch her agent talk to the executives. Drinks were ordered and Buffy’s smile grew wider as my hand inched its way up her thigh. The mousey-haired executive and my girl’s agent were back to looking over papers so I turned to Buffy.

“Why do you fence?” I couldn’t hold in the question ’cause she was just too gorgeous when she moved the deadly steel that broke my skin. I needed to see her do that again, to lick my life away from my neck, possibly every day of the bloody year.

“I took it up in school because I loved fantasy books and all the heroes were swordsmen and women. And plus, I went into fantasy writing and it totally helped my woeful description.” Fantasy writing? The chit was doing epics and I didn’t know it?

“Really, I don’t remember seeing Anne Summers fantasy works.”

Her lips grasped to the glass, her top lip lingering over the precipice of the flute, clinging at the droplets that the tinkled down inside. I took a sip of my own drink to try and settle my hazardous breathing and thumping heartbeat. All I could think of was those dangerous lips enveloping my own; enflaming the burn inside of me and extinguishing thoughts of everything and everyone but her.

“I write under the pen name Bianca Springs.” I almost jumped out of my skin and dropped my drink.

“Bug shagging bloody bollocks. You are my two favourite writers!” She blushed and I caught the amused grin Tara directed our way.

The waitress appeared and handed out menus before whispering to Buffy, “Ma’am, management has asked me to ask you to put your shoes back on. We have a strict shoe policy.” Buffy’s blush was awesomely crimson and I looked at her supple legs as she slipped her feet back into her shoes. She looked up and I quickly picked up a menu and glanced at it.

Fuck, I couldn’t read a bloody word. I searched around my pockets but they weren’t anywhere to be found.

I forgot my sodding glasses.

The waitress returned as I searched my pockets. She took the others’ orders and stared at me impatiently. I panicked.

“Um, that one thanks, love,” I said pointing to the menu before shoving it into her hands. She stalked away with her nose in the air and I felt an impending doom settle on my shoulders. Buffy quizzically looked at me with a small tilt of her head.

“You hardly looked at the menu. Knew what you wanted?”

I nodded at Buffy’s question and hoped like hell it would be edible.

****

His eyes were as wide as saucers but I couldn’t figure out why he looked so horrified. The meals had been brought out to the table and Spike’s Yellow Curried Mussels floated in front of him. He lifted the spoon to his lips, the horror never leaving his face. When the soupy concoction entered his throat he sighed with relief. I watched as he cautiously spooned the juice between his lips, not once touching the pallid meat in the bowl. His eyes flicked to mine and quickly picked up the mussel in his spoon and shoved the mussel in his mouth. His eyes bulged and I watched as he forced the lump down past his Adam’s apple.

He watched me watching and spooned more juice.

I turned to my own meal of lasagne and made small talk before vomit spewed all over the table. Spike coughed and coughed and whatever he’d eaten earlier drenched the napkins and plates. Tara, Fred and Oz immediately moved back from the table and I tried to smooth Spike’s head as he heaved.

“Come on, sweetie, its okay.” Except it wasn’t. He wasn’t breathing. He was choking on the big lump of meat.

“Does someone know the Heimlich?” I screamed at the staring restaurant goers. I was hysterical. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. And there was vomit on my beautiful cashmere sweater.

Fred moved me away from Spike and grabbed him from behind. She pounded on his chest until his mouth opened. The piece of mussel flew out and collided with Oz’s forehead, allowing the rest of the vomit the right to leave.

“Muscle blockage” Oz nodded knowingly.

Spike somehow managed to blush and apologised before Oz herded him into the men’s bathroom. The manager arrived and I began apologising profusely. There was a whole lot of sorrys going about and a hefty amount of money exchanging hands.

Spike returned and had the most sheepish look plastered on his ashen face. I melted when his look of gratitude stained his cheeks once I shot him a reassuring smile.

“Let’s get you out of here, you big bad scene-maker.”

“Yeah, I’m the Big Bad.” He said weakly and allowed me to help him out into the fresh air. We walked along the river esplanade, the bright breeze bouncing off of the water and wafting through my hair he now held tightly against the back of my neck. I sighed, happy to be in his arms. Unfortunately, the day’s events weren’t over.






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