“Hel-lo?” Sitting, next to him, Xander was hailing him back to earth with a perplexed smile on his face.
“What?” He noticed Gunn was now standing in front of him.
“Do you want another beer?” Gunn asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bar inside. “I’m gonna go grab one.”
Seeing his nearly empty glass before him, William nodded appreciatively. “Thanks, mate.”
As Gunn departed, William turned to Xander who addressed him half-questioningly, “You are so out of it lately, man.”
“Sorry.” He drained the last of his beer.
“Excuse me, are these seats free?” a melodious female voice floated above them.
William looked over to see a curvy redhead and a tall brunette standing by the adjoining table to their own in the brasserie’s crowded porch.
“Absolutely,” he replied, flashing a smile as he gallantly pulled the metal chair next to his own out for the redhead.
“Thank you.” Once seated, she leaned over slightly towards their table, making eye contact with both men to comment, “It’s so crowded inside.” She giggled in embarrassment. “This is our first time here. I’m Virginia, by the way, and this is my friend Amanda.”
“I’m Spike. And this is my friend, Xander.” As the quartet shook hands, William sized both women up quickly.
They presented contrasting female types. Virginia was short and voluptuous with curly red hair that reached past her shoulders and was lushly styled. Wearing a filmy ochre top and skirt that complimented her hair, she seemed dressed for a date rather than a casual dinner with a friend. Amanda was tall and thin, with pleasant features and hair a mousy shade of brown parted down the middle and blown stick straight in a style that was too severe to be flattering. Her pencil skirt fit her too loosely to be sexy and she was too flat-chested to fill out her sweater set in a way that suggested anything but that she might be an actual librarian.
“So do you guys work nearby?” Virginia asked casually after they had all exchanged greetings.
William immediately understood the question as one designed to suss out whether he and Xander had studio jobs at the big movie lot nearby—to discover, in other words, whether or not they were big game or just a passing distraction.
“Nope,” he replied decisively, looking her directly in the eyes. Any disappointment she may have felt was well masked.
“Neither do we,” she replied brightly. “I wish we did, though. The only place to eat where we work is Souplantation,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Not my kind of liquid lunch,” Xander agreed, toasting Virginia with his beer as she giggled.
As she chatted animatedly with Xander, William observed both women surreptitiously. Virginia projected an alpha female vibe, while Amanda exuded an air of suppressed shyness in keeping with her demure appearance. William cynically suspected she was the appointed sidekick, carefully selected by Virginia not to detract too much attention away from herself.
As William considered relationships of convenience, the two women were caught up in an exchange over a large white card Amanda had picked up from the table and was apparently not relinquishing.
Shaking her head at her friend, Amanda regretfully informed her, “No, this is just an ad for some club, Ginny.”
Virginia frowned. “Oh. No menu? How quaint.” She turned back to the two men. “Um, do you guys know how it works here?” she asked with a coy tilt of her head.
William nodded and absently drummed his fingers on the side of his empty glass. “So, the waiter’ll come round eventually if you want to order food. They only serve their gourmet house burgers and fries and the odd appetizer,” he explained. “And drinks you have to collect yourself up at the bar.” He inclined his head in the direction of the interior of the restaurant.
Her gushing smile was a disproportionate reward for his explanation. “Oh, thank you, Spike.” Turning to her friend, she exclaimed, “It’s so intimidating inside. We’ll have to brave it together, I guess, won’t we?” She laughed airily as she shifted in her chair, positioning her body so that it was angled towards the two men. Making eye contact with William, she fondled her throat with her fingers and widened her big brown eyes at him expectantly.
Reading her signals clearly, William sighed internally and briefly contemplated whether or not he should do the gentlemanly thing, which was also to make the required first step to advancing in Virginia’s good graces. In his experience, women like Virginia set their sights on him when they were looking for some reassuring affirmation of their sex appeal while on their quest to land the man who would provide them the lifestyle of spa appointments and philanthropic board meetings that they coveted. William was always ready and willing to provide the requisite service and flattery in exchange for the welcome relief they offered to the taxing condition of being male.
Tonight he felt rather disinclined to play waiter boy for chivalric or any other reasons, but he was still willing to make the concession to her demands. Just as he was about to take the girls’s drink orders, Virginia launched a second strike for attention.
“Gosh, I hope they haven’t forgotten about us outside here,” she commented, gesturing towards the outside serving station. “We do a two-hour pilates class after work so we’re simply famished.” She noticed his plate of food for the first time. “Oh, is that a fried onion?” she asked eagerly.
Sensing the danger, William immediately inched his plate closer to him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Xander’s eyes practically bulge out of his head.
Virginia’s face contorted in indignant surprise for a split second before settling into a tight expression of blank neutrality. Shooting Amanda a meaningful look, she exchanged some silent, speedy communication with her friend. When she turned back to William, he could see from the decisiveness of her demeanor that she meant to cut her losses. He was mildly impressed by her ruthless calculation.
“You know, I think we’re gonna go inside and see if we can’t speed things along. And it’s kind of chilly out here.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if to prove her claim. “See you guys later.” Flashing him a fleeting brush-off smile, Virginia got up and proceeded to leave with Amanda awkwardly toddling after her.
William sent her a crooked smile. “Have a nice night.”
When the women were out of earshot, Xander turned to William and asked incredulously, “What the hell was that?”
“What?” William asked irritably.
“Have you totally lost your mojo, man?”
“Oh, did I miss something?” an amused Gunn asked, cutting in to the conversation as he plunked down his spoils from the bar and resumed his place at the table. Crossing his arms, he smiled widely and sat back to observe what he hoped would be an entertaining exchange. “Please, don’t let me interrupt.”
William scoffed at Xander’s suggestion as he grabbed his beer. “A likely story. It was obvious she wanted to be chatted up. Just—wasn’t interested.”
Xander shook his head. “Dude, at this rate you’re gonna get a mandatory induction into a monastery. What’s it been, like four months since you went home with that casting agent from the Brig?
William sent him a withering stare. “You really keeping a sexual diary of my nightly activities, Harris?” he challenged him, at once snide and humorous.
Gunn laughed out loud. “Yeah, that isn’t gay at all.”
“It’s not gay,” Xander sputtered. “It’s—it’s male camaraderie.”
Gunn pointed a fry at him. “You’re just lucky you didn’t say bonding.”
Wanting to drop the subject and anything resembling it altogether, William tried to move the conversation onto a new topic. “So, eh, it’s all right here, innit? You guys like it?” Leaning back in his chair, he gestured at their urban chic surroundings.
Diverted from the subject of his friend’s waning sexual prowess, Xander looked up and was momentarily dazzled by the row of hanging lights on the porch awning. Turning his gaze to the mass of patrons, he offered slowly, “Sure, it’s—bigger than the one on Montana, I guess.”
“Less noisy,” Gunn observed.
“Scenic outdoor seating, check,” Xander added. “But—it’s different,” he concluded, giving common expression to the mildly unpleasant feeling of having one’s comfort level with unfamiliar places tested.
“Right.” Absorbing their unenthusiastic assessments, William suddenly felt a little foolish.
Xander looked down at his empty plate and felt slightly bloated by the memory of his dinner. “Same burgers, thank God.” He scratched his head. “Why’d you want to come to this one?” They had frequented My Father’s Office for the last two years after he had discovered their gourmet barbecue sauce, but they had always stuck with the one in Santa Monica.
“Just novelty, I s’pose. Thought we should see the latest incarnation of it.” William tried not to think about the fact they were a stone’s throw away from Buffy’s neighborhood.
Gunn surveyed the array of restaurants and designer furniture stores across the street that had colonized the area once dominated by the old Helms bread factory. “Culver City has changed,” he remarked, shaking his head. “I remember when this place used to be a dump,” he seemed to reminisce fondly.
”Yeah?” William asked curiously.
“Yeah, my cousin lived round here. Used to give me grief because I was a Valley boy.” Gunn chuckled. “He was in this poser gang with more attitude than game. It was always, ‘C.C., brother.’” As Gunn imitated his cousin’s words in a gruff voice, he reproduced the gang sign with his hands, making two c-shapes and crossing them so one was facing backwards and one forwards, forming an x.
William was skeptical. “Isn’t that the Chanel logo?”
Gunn grinned widely. “Like I said, they weren’t exactly the Crips.”
“Chanel?” Xander challenged William in faux-shock.
Not missing a beat, William hit back in his best condescending tone, “What can I say, I’m a sophisticated man of the world. Wouldn’t expect an American such as yourself to understand, whelp.”
“Wolfram’s new fashion division almost got a corporate contract with Eres last year,” Gunn sighed to himself.
Xander feigned offense at William’s dismissal. “Oh, you think I lack cultural capital? I’ll have you know I’m overflowing with the currency of the nouveau—no, no…” Xander held up a finger, considering his words. “That would be the old riche,” he concluded triumphantly.
“Nice save,” Gunn praised him.
Adopting a pompous Masterpiece Theatre air, Xander informed them, “Yes indeed, I’ll have you know that I have, in fact, recently become a patron of the arts. I am now the proud owner of a limited edition Lothar von Falkenleuschen print.” He struggled heroically through the Germanic pronunciation.
William managed to keep a straight face while Gunn laughed silently. “And pray tell. Who is that?”
“Oh, he’s an up and coming art photographer. Yep, an up and comer. His specialty is taking pictures of medieval torture devices that—and I quote—‘cunningly evoke the harmony of universal geometric shapes.’” By the end of his explanation Xander had devolved back to his normal self and was reflecting on the absurdity of his recent foray into fine art. “Because everybody needs a breaking wheel in their bedrooms, don’t they?”
“Sounds about right,” William agreed.
“Did Anya talk you into this?” Gunn asked, open-mouthed.
“Of course she did. We bought it down here, actually—at one of those galleries on Washington Boulevard.”
“How much did that set you back?” Gunn asked curiously, ever the financially savvy one of the group.
“Fifteen hundred big ones,” Xander replied with a mixture of awe and terror in his wide eyes.
Gunn whistled. “That’s a chunk of change.”
“And almost a week’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears. But hey, she paid half,” Xander joked hollowly. Picking up his coaster, he flipped it between his fingers and then tapped it against the table distractedly. “And speaking of Anya,” he awkwardly segued, “I, uh, I think she wants to get engaged.”
William raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
“Really,” Gunn responded, shocked but not surprised.
Xander continued fiddling with his coaster. “Yeah, she keeps dropping hints that a diamond ring is the perfect gift for a thirtieth birthday,” he told them nervously. “And she’s not talking about the De Beers’s right-hand girlpower deal. More the graduation with an M.R.S. degree trophy.”
Unusually inspired to social commentary, Gunn shook his head disapprovingly and said, “They’re all blood diamonds, dude.” Seeing his friends’s surprised looks, he then cracked a smile and shrugged. “I learned that from Kanye.”
“The king of bling himself,” William snorted and took a sip of his beer.
Momentarily intrigued, Xander grasped at straws. “Do you think she’ll believe I’m ethically opposed to buying her a ring?” he asked hopefully.
“Good luck with that. So her next birthday? Isn’t that in November?” Gunn asked.
“Every year,” Xander said wearily.
William studied his friend critically. “You don’t want to marry her,” he bluntly stated his question.
“Well, it’s just… it seems like she’s on some kind of schedule, you know? Like we’re supposed to be in lock-step with her accounting school friends.” As he spoke, Xander looked unseeing towards the windows of the bar and then back at his hands. He dropped the coaster he’d been handling. “When they moved in with their boyfriends, she wanted us to live together. And I was fine with that,” he added as if he was defending himself against an unspoken accusation. “Now her best friend Hallie’s engaged, so…”
“I hear you,” Gunn nodded. “The female countdown to matrimony. Once that clock starts ringing, you can’t hit snooze.”
Xander didn’t seem to really be listening to him, focused as he was on his dilemma. “We’ve only been living together for three years. Everything’s great. Why do we need to rock the boat? Why can’t things just be easy?” It seemed a question for the universe.
A stray line of Auden flitted through William’s mind. “‘We would rather be ruined than changed.’” He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until he saw Xander’s flabbergasted expression, directly squarely at him.
“What? What’d you say?”
“Hmm? Nothing, sorry.” William rubbed his forehead. He knew he had nothing to really offer his friend. He tapped his fingers on the table. “You’re in a real pickle, mate.”
As if by silent agreement, Gunn and William resumed eating as Xander hunkered down in his seat and stared morosely into his beer.
Chewing thoughtfully on an onion sliver, William recalled that from the first he’d heard about her from Xander, Anya had struck him as a go-getter and a bit of a ball-buster, an impression that had only been enhanced by subsequent observations of her in person. By contrast, his friend’s tendency to let things happen to him, coupled with his troubled family background, made it difficult for him to really know what he wanted or how to go after it. He had spared himself from having to make some big decisions by simply following her reliable lead.
They had met at a bar where Xander used to bartend sporadically on the night that Anya and a group of classmates were celebrating passing their CPA exams. On their first date she had told Xander over the appetizer course that she was ready to have sex with him. The next morning she had informed him if he was going to be her boyfriend he needed to move out of his parents’ basement in West L.A. and find a job that didn’t have him working until three a.m. Through her client connections, he had gotten one contracting job, and then another, and then another until he was a partner at a medium-sized firm.
Their entire five-year relationship had developed out of that Pygmalion dynamic and one couldn’t argue with success, William supposed. Xander was successful and he was happy. The only problem was, he didn’t know how to make himself believe he could make it last. And Anya couldn’t singlehandedly change that for him as she had everything else.
Xander looked up expectantly from his beer at his friends, startling William out of his meditation. “Any thoughts?”
William just shook his head in response.
Gunn sent him a sympathetic grimace. “Better start saving up, Mr. Riche-y Rich. November’ll be here before you know it.”
As Xander sighed the sigh of the resigned, William turned his attention once again back to his onion.
Sprinting down the stairs, Buffy made it to the front door after the first ring and threw it open to reveal Willow and Tara on her porch, wearing matching smiles and carrying what appeared to be multiple plastic and paper grocery bags between them.
Buffy greeted them enthusiastically. “Hey guys! Come in. It’s been forever. How was Santa Barbara?”
“Oh, we had a super time,” Willow chirped brightly. “So beautiful.”
“Really? What did you do?” she asked as they entered her house.
Her two guests turned toward each other in the foyer. Talking over one another, they collectively remembered the highlights of their recent vacation. “Yeah, we visited the botanical gardens… went shopping on State Street… oh, that’s right… walked along the beach… ate ice cream… saw UCSB… ”
“And we toured the mission,” Tara finished. Handing Buffy the small square piece of thick construction paper she held in one hand, she explained, “I made a rubbing for you from an old tile illustration.”
Touched, Buffy smiled curiously at the fuzzy rendering of the old Spanish façade in cobalt blue crayon that Tara had transferred onto the paper. “Thanks. I’ll put this on the fridge,” she said excitedly, leading the way to the kitchen.
On route, Buffy called over her shoulder, “I’ve never been there. Did you take a tour? It must have been cool to learn about its history, huh? Is it still in use?”
“Well…” Willow began, coming up to stand beside Buffy as she looked for a free magnet on her fridge. “Actually, it was pretty horrifying,” she concluded in a severe tone.
Buffy turned toward Willow in surprise and blinked. “Because… monastic asceticism requires those scratchy robes?”
Willow was too caught up in her righteous indignation to register Buffy’s joke. “No, because the mission docents act like when the Chumash Indians lived with the missionaries everything was all hunky-dory when what really happened was the Spanish kidnapped them as children and forced them into barracks where they caught these deadly diseases,” she exploded.
“Oh,” was all Buffy could say as Willow concluded her diatribe.
Tara jumped in to point out, “Well, he did acknowledge that their initiation methods were problematic, but it seemed like the Indians did learn new farming and trades from the missionaries.“
“But if they were really happy living at the mission why did they rebel?” Willow questioned Tara rhetorically. Addressing Buffy again, Willow informed her with a note of triumph, “He couldn’t answer my question about the 1824 uprising at all.”
“Oh.” Buffy said again, and wished, as she often did, that she were better informed so that she could weigh in with the right response when such topics arose. For a little while after she had dropped out of college, she had kept a list of things that came up in conversation with friends and acquaintances that were unfamiliar to her—literary allusions, historical references, political arguments, sometimes just words she didn’t know—with the idea she would follow them up on Wikipedia. She had pitched the list after she realized it ran over two pages in less than two weeks and her shifts at In-N-Out left her too mentally exhausted to pursue reality T.V., let alone self-improvement.
Tara, noticing that she and Willow seemed to have lost Buffy in their rehashed conversation, tried to direct her girlfriend’s focus elsewhere. “How have you been?” she asked Buffy. “Anything new?”
“Not really.”
“Work’s good?” Tara asked.
“Today was good,” Buffy agreed, her face lighting up. “One of our first-time kids got placed into a group home.”
“Oh, that’s great sweetie.”
“Yeah. I really think it could work out for him.”
“And how’s it going with that ‘crazy case’ with Rona’s brother?” Willow interjected curiously.
Buffy started at the reminder of the moonlighting she’d been doing. She’d forgotten she’d said anything to Willow about Dashawn at all.
Tara, misinterpreting her surprise for displeasure, ventured to suggest, “I can leave you guys alone if you want to talk about it in private?” She was already moving towards the door.
“No,” Buffy objected, waving her hand. “Willow just caught me off guard.” Buffy smiled at Tara to reassure her. Though Tara had been Willow’s girlfriend for more than a year now, she still went out of her way to try to please Willow’s old friends. Buffy suspected it was a manifestation of lingering anxieties about her status as an interloper in their social circle.
The truth was Buffy had been shocked when Willow had come out to her, and her allegiance to Oz, her friend and Willow’s gone-but-not-forgotten boyfriend, had delayed her acceptance of Willow’s new relationship for a time, but after spending some time with the new couple Buffy couldn’t deny Willow seemed happier than she had ever been. Buffy herself was especially happy when Willow even managed to reach an amiable break-up with Oz when he returned to LA to retire from touring with his struggling band, only to find his romantic hopes dashed along with his professional dream. Their peaceful coexistence meant Buffy didn’t have to choose between any of them. She had quickly grown to genuinely like and trust Tara, and sometimes even sensed she might feel more comfortable confiding in her than Willow, given her utterly nonjudgmental nature.
“It’s fine to talk about the case a little,” Buffy told both women. “I didn’t say anything to compromise confidentiality.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’m not even on the force anymore. Just a concerned citizen, you know?”
Willow looked uncertain at Buffy’s blasé attitude.
“The case was kinda stalled, but then I—we came across something that was overlooked,” Buffy continued. “So hopefully it’s unstalled now.”
Willow nodded at her friend’s vague elaboration and asked, “Are you still involved?”
Her mind flashed to the strange night in the alley that had played out several days prior. As Buffy knew she would, Faith had come through for her, answering her call and agreeing to be her official proxy for the material discovery she had made. To avoid questions about their unorthodox investigation, Buffy had instructed William to go home on his own, but he had stubbornly sat in his car to wait until the police arrived. His concern was an unnecessary nuisance but she had finally, grudgingly tolerated it. Perhaps she even found it cute in a gentlemanly sort of way, though she figured she was the most dangerous thing in that alley.
Buffy struggled to answer Willow’s question. “Um. I’m not sure. There’s probably nothing else for me to do. Dashawn will be able to go home when they conclude the investigation.” She bit her lip and looked away. “But I could… I should talk to Rona, maybe.” Buffy felt uneasy just saying it aloud. Suddenly, the idea of enlisting William to join her in seeing Rona again popped into her head. Just as quickly, she dismissed the thought as a ridiculous one. They weren’t partners in crime or even friends, far from it, despite whatever accidental success they’d had tagging along with each other. She felt a little guilty as she remembered the two voice messages he had left her earlier that week. As much as she was invested in the case, she was also wary of continuing to push her luck in matters way beyond the scope of citizen Buffy.
Willow’s eyes were wide as she asked her, “Are you ready for that?”
“We’ll see,” she responded lightly.
Buffy cast about for a new topic. Just then, her stomach grumbled.
“Let’s talk about dinner,” she said wryly. Buffy noticed again the excess baggage her friends had brought in with them but not wanting to assume it was all for her, asked brightly, “So, do you guys wanna order in?” She smiled slowly. “Hu’s?”
Catching on, Willow giggled. “Who’s what?”
“Hu’s Chinese,” Buffy giggled back at their old joke.
“I don’t know, who’s Chinese?” Willow shook her head. “Actually, Tara made a casserole,” she said proudly.
Tara carefully lifted a porcelain square container swathed in hot pink saran wrap out of her grocery bag to show Buffy. “It’s curry lentil. B-but we can still order out if you’d rather?” she ventured hesitantly.
Buffy’s eyes lit up. “No, this’ll totally be better. I’ve reached my MSG quota for the month, anyway.“
“And hey, you wanna watch a video after?” Willow brought a plastic case out of her Mexican crochet shoulder bag and rattled it for effect. ”We brought your favorite,” she sang in sing-song.
Buffy’s expression of delight mirrored Willow’s. “Squee.”
Two hours after Willow and Tara left, Buffy was dialing Angel’s hotel number from her old bedroom phone, fifteen minutes before their scheduled talk time. Still feeling upbeat after spending quality time with friends, she had finally felt in the mood to confront the paternal missive she had been avoiding for several days. Unfortunately, despite its predictable contents, it still had the power to evaporate all her positive energy.
Now, feeling anxious, she stood next to her bureau, fiddling with the picture of herself and Angel taken at his family’s last New Year’s party as she waited for him to answer. She focused on the image of the two of them as the sound of the phone became white noise in her ear. He was dressed in a classic tux, she in a pinky mauve silk strapless dress. They sported matching ear-to-ear grins, only slightly exaggerated for the photographer. Whenever she saw the picture she kicked herself a little for not asking to keep the Pamela Dennis gown for herself and agreeing to donate it instead. It was the prettiest thing she had ever worn. On the other hand, it was a one-off garment if there ever was one, and she had understood that it would help support Angel’s relationship with Oxfam.
Angel picked up after the seventh ring, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “Buffy? Hi, sweetheart. I miss you.” He sounded a little out of breath.
“I miss you, too, Angel,” she said wistfully, turning away from her bureau.
He picked up on her tone. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, is this a good time?”
“You bet,” he replied cheerily. “I just got back. I’m all yours for the next forty-five.”
“Great.”
“What’s going on?”
“Not so much.” Buffy looked at the torn envelope in her trashcan. “I got a letter from my dad. Last week, actually. I just opened it.”
“You did? What was it?”
“Same thing as always. I don’t know why I bother opening his mail. Not like it’s ever anything different.” She swallowed hard.
“What did the letter say?” Angel pressed.
“In business-ese? He wants me to assume my minority stake. Translation? I’ll have a seat on the board and be his voting pawn.”
There was a pause on Angel’s end before he said quietly, “Maybe it’s time you should think it over, Buffy.”
“Being a pawn voter? I don’t think so. I mean, Jerry Brown fooled me once, but—“
“You know what I’m getting at. You can’t avoid it forever.”
Her tone was petulant. “Yes, I can. Watch me. This is me, avoiding it, right now.”
Angel sighed. “You should prepare for the future.”
“Still avoiding,” she interjected.
“You’ll be twenty-five next year. You need to make some decisions.” Angel sounded exasperated.
Even though he couldn’t see her, Buffy put a defiant hand on her hip. “I made my decision a long time ago. I don’t want to be a part of his world.”
“I think you’re making a mistake. Remember that you can do whatever you want with the money once it’s yours. Expand the agency. Found another one. Hell, together we could fund anything.”
Buffy’s head hurt as Angel spun his grand plan. She tried to ground herself in reality. “It’s not my agency, Angel. I just work for it.”
“But it could be. Or save the whales. Whatever. I’m only saying, just because you’ve had problems with your dad in the past, it doesn’t mean you have to write off your family legacy.”
Buffy’s voice cracked. “This isn’t like when you were pissed at your father for making you go to Pepperdine, Angel!”
Taken by surprise, Angel rushed to do damage control. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Buffy, I know.” She could hear him breathing heavily over the phone. “Please don’t be upset. I just hate to see you throw away this opportunity.”
Buffy pushed down the hurt she felt and focused on her abiding sense of outrage towards her father. “I don’t want to sell my soul in exchange for this vague promise that I’ll make up for it,” she said firmly. “That the devil’s bargain.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic. But I won’t bring it up again, okay?”
Buffy breathed in relief. “Thank you.”
A pause stretched on as they were both silent. Buffy didn’t want to end the conversation on such an unhappy note.
She strove for light-heartedness. “Let’s talk about something else, ok?” Picking up the cradle of her phone, she carried it with her over to her bed and sat down. “How’s the food over there?”
Angel laughed a little. “Well, the tinned sardine breakfasts are starting to lose their novelty.”
Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Eww. You never mentioned those.”
“I was trying to spare you. What about you? Are you eating well?”
Buffy smiled fondly to herself. “You mean, without Lorne to make my dinner?”
“Hey, I didn’t say it. I told you, he’d be happy to make weekly meals for you. Just say the word.”
“No, that feels weird. It’s different when you’re not there.”
“He still works for me. It isn’t—“
“I can manage to feed myself, Angel,” Buffy interrupted. Feeling a little annoyed but knowing she couldn’t back up her claim convincingly, she conceded defeat. “Anyway, Willow and Tara brought me a casserole tonight.”
“Oh, that was nice of the girls. I’m glad they’re taking care of you.”
Sensing she had successfully placated him, Buffy tried to move the conversation in the direction she wanted.
“Yeah, we had a really nice time. We watched a movie—“
“What did you see?“
"Enter the Dragon."
Angel chuckled. “Of course. That’s fantastic. How many times is that now?”
“For me? I’ve lost count,” Buffy admitted sheepishly. “Hey, it’s an oldie but goodie.”
“It is, sweetheart.”
Buffy warmed slightly at his endearment. She bit her lip and charged ahead before she could chicken out. “Willow fell asleep halfway through so Tara took her home right after.” She swallowed. “I’m getting ready for bed now.” She fingered one of the shoulder straps, trying to inject the sexual longing she felt into her voice. “I’m wearing that nightgown you gave me.”
“Oh, is it getting cold at night?”
Buffy looked down at her long white dress. Made of cotton flannel, it was strictly speaking more practical than sexy sleepwear. Buffy valiantly tried again. “No, I just put it on because it reminds me of you.” She wound her finger around the cord of her phone and breathed into the handset. “Almost like you’re here?”
As a longish pause ensued, Buffy wondered if she had shocked him speechless or if their connection was faltering. Finally, Angel replied nervously. “That’s nice. Uh, I’m on my lunch break, sweetheart.”
Disappointed, Buffy took his non-sequitur as a gentle hint. She fake yawned and let him off the hook. “I should let you get back to work. I’m tired, anyway.”
“I’ll let you sleep.”
“‘Kay. Talk to you later.”
“I’ll call you soon. Love you, Buffy.”
.
“Love you, too. Bye, Angel.”
As she unseeingly clicked off her phone and let it drop to the floor, the back of Buffy’s head hit her pillow. She lay sprawled on her bed, her hands coming up to clutch at her hair in frustrated embarrassment. She was desperate to feel something other than the emptiness that had descended over her since she had been left alone that evening.
Buffy thought of her last night with Angel before he left Los Angeles. She could sense how distracted he had been by the trip and case and that had set her a little on edge. Two days before, he’d gotten the nearly last-minute call to join the team for which he’d originally been wait-listed, said yes immediately, and had his own ticket booked within the hour. The next forty-eight hours had been spent frenetically coordinating with the other attorneys, reviewing briefs, doing his own research, and tying up loose ends at work. As for the two of them, they hadn’t really had time to seriously talk over or digest what was happening. Because she hadn’t wanted to come across as emotionally needy, Buffy’s show of effortlessly taking everything in stride turned out to be totally convincing to Angel.
But then suddenly they were having the goodbye sex that was to last them the next several months. From the vantage point of his bed Buffy kept seeing his two massive suitcases looming at her from the luggage stand in the corner of the bedroom. Though Angel had been considerate in not rushing their practiced foreplay and gentle as ever in slowly stoking the fire inside her, it had taken a lot of focus on her part to come. She kept expecting his imminent departure to bring more urgency and passion to their encounter, but the civility that she associated so strongly with the more mature, post-Darla Angel of the last few years had remained in place. Afterwards, it had felt a bit as if they had made love simply because it was the expected send-off in their situation.
Her mind danced over bits and pieces of memories of their nearly two years together as a couple, dwelling on their first time together—going back to his house after being caught in a rainstorm, and finding solace in his arms after being kicked off the force—before it went further back, to a much older memory of Angel when she had seen him at her Aunt Darlene’s McMansion in Palos Verdes the last time she attended her spring party. Angel had brought Darla with him, as he always did in those days. If Buffy was lucky, she saw him once, maybe twice a year back then, and she lived for the five minutes he would spend talking to her about her boring little suburban girl concerns.
For the moment, she repressed the subconscious knowledge of why she was thinking about that year’s meeting.
She had been irrationally hopefully that he would see her as the woman she was that day, finally past her eighteenth birthday and beginning college in the fall. In preparation for the occasion, she had highlighted her hair a lighter shade of blonde and worn a new, slinky jade green slip dress with a tiny floral print that required a strapless bra, deciding at the last minute against adding a matching cardigan that would have provided modest coverage. To Buffy’s eye, her standby strappy sandals were the weak point of her outfit. Though they were cute, their shorter, blocky heel didn’t exactly add sophistication or sex appeal.
Angel had arrived as always with his aggressive girlfriend Darla in tow, dressed in a red version of one of her trademark wrap-style belted numbers that Buffy knew she preferred because they showed off her cleavage, and tottering around in stilettos wildly inappropriate for day. Buffy had never thought much of Darla’s sense of style, but when C-cups were on display, cheap polyester fabric seemed to pass for the finest crepe silk for all men knew. Angel was in a casual pair of black slacks and a loose blue-grey button-down shirt that he wore untucked. She had always liked the fact that he didn’t seem to know how to dress himself to advantage, or didn’t care to. Though they were expensive clothes, he moved in them as if he were wearing an outfit from the Gap. Or perhaps he was simply that used to the feel of luxury.
An hour or so into the party he came directly up to her as she was lingering by the pastry table under the stucco gazebo, debating another profiterole while she avoided her father, who was busy ingratiating himself with some hedge fund honcho by the new enlarged lagoon pool on the other side of the gardens.
Angel had been courteous and as always, both put her at ease and made her heart race with the sincerity he managed to project even in their small talk.
“Hey, Buffy.”
She tried to play it cool but friendly. “Hi, Angel.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” he began, scanning the Pacific views on the horizon. Glancing towards the crowd on the lawn, he observed, “I swear, this thing gets bigger every year.”
Buffy momentarily glanced towards her aunt, holding court in front of a circle of rapt listeners next to her imported rosebushes, before replying ruefully, “Maybe she’s competing for a Guinness record.”
Angel smiled at her before asking softly, “So how’re you and your mom doing?”
Such a seemingly innocuous question, but the real concern in his big brown eyes made her feel like she had been hooked up to an I.V. machine powered by his kindness. Flooded with warmth, she told him the truth. “Great, thanks.”
“Are you still—in Culver City?”
Buffy looked him straight in the eyes. “Yeah,” she confirmed. She knew the question was probably Angel’s tactful way of finding out if she and her mother were financially stable. Since the divorce, she knew everyone gossiped about their straitened circumstances. Angel didn’t know Joyce had extracted a deed of trust for their house from Hank as the sole condition of keeping their ugly divorce confidential.
Angel nodded. “Good. And you’re enjoying your senior year?”
Of course. The four-year divide between them somehow never failed to find mention in their conversation, especially in those moments when she felt closest to him. At least this time she could remind him she was an adult now. “Can’t wait to graduate and move out of the house. Um, what about you?”
He winked at her and smiled broadly. “Same here.”
“Did you hear about law school yet?”
“Yeah. Hey, you remembered.”
Buffy felt her cheeks heat up. “Sure.”
“I got into UCLA. So I’m going to stay in L.A.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” Her heart was pounding and she tried not to let her excitement show too much. In as casual a manner as she could muster, she told him, “I’ll be there, too.”
He looked surprised. “Oh, really? I forgot you were applying there. Hey, we’ll both be Bruins.”
She beamed at him. At that inopportune moment, Darla crashed into the gazebo from out of nowhere.
“Angel, save me before Connor makes me watch him play badminton again,” she whined in a slightly slurred voice, her hand jostling his elbow.
Visibly annoyed by his girlfriend’s unceremonious interruption, Angel exhaled and greeted her with a tight smile. “If you’ll excuse us,” he apologized to Buffy while Darla sent her a silent, scathing look.
Buffy nodded. “See you later,” she said, smiling brightly for him alone.
She watched as he steered Darla away from her, muttering something to her under his breath while she swatted at his arm. Buffy lost sight of them almost immediately. Halfheartedly scanning the crowd for someone else to talk to, she quickly gave up and turned into the main house to use the restroom and hide out for a while.
Buffy weaved her way past men in golfwear and women in pastel dresses to enter her aunt’s three-story monumentalist architectural mess of a house from the back. She dodged through the busy kitchen overrun with caterers and down a long hallway. As she reached for the door of Aunt Darlene’s downstairs guest suite at the end of it, the sound of Darla’s high-pitched, mocking voice from inside the room stopped her in her tracks.
“And it’s high school girls now? Do you really think she can give you what you need?”
Angel’s voice, irritated and angry, shot back at her. “Are you crazy? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t see it. All she can do when you’re around is make moon eyes at you. It’s pathetic.”
Standing stock still, Buffy felt her cheeks burn.
She heard Angel warning Darla, “You’re wrong. You just leave her out of this, Darla. She’s a nice girl.”
Darla just continued ranting, “Are you gonna make daddy proud? Dump the slut for Hank’s little golden girl? And you think you’re such a fucking rebel, Liam.” She spat out her contempt.
“She has nothing to do with us. I’ve known Buffy since she was a kid, Darla. You know that.”
“Since that little cunt was fifteen she’s been—”
“That’s enough!” Angel was clearly furious.
Muffled sounds of a physical struggle could be heard and then Darla hissed, “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Maybe you should be,” a low and menacing voice that Buffy barely recognized as Angel’s answered her.
The next thing Buffy could make out was the sound of a zipper. Seconds later a loud masculine groan suddenly hit her ears and made Buffy gasp. A breathless Darla panted, “I know how to please you, don’t I lover?” The last thing Buffy heard before bolting from her frozen position at the door back to the kitchen, embarrassed and confused, was Darla begging Angel in her seductive little-girl voice, “Tell me we’ll be together forever.“
The memory of the overheard encounter playing out in her mind, Buffy closed her eyes and tried to imagine what had unfolded behind the closed door. She pictured Darla clawing at Angel’s stomach with one hand while the other worked the base of his cock as she sucked him off. It was something Angel never liked Buffy to do. He told her he couldn’t enjoy it, putting her in that position. She wasn’t sure if he thought of it as submissive or degrading for her and she had never been able to bring herself to ask him. As Buffy imagined Angel’s hands stroking Darla’s platinum blond hair, she reached her hand down between her legs to circle her clit with her fingers.
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Buffy put herself in Darla’s place. She felt Angel jerking her up by her shoulder and hair from her kneeling position to stand before him. Inhabiting her taller, more voluptuous body, she stared into Angel’s eyes, clouded by lust and anger. She licked her lips, tasting the gluey texture of the overdone, glossy tomato-red lipgloss she always wore to piss him off. She slowly untied her belt, letting her dress fall open to expose her body to him. Closing the small distance between them, Angel brought his hands up to roughly handle her breasts before using them to spin her around and bend her over the back of Aunt Darlene’s leather club chair.
Craning her neck to look back at him from her half-prone position, she watched Angel standing there with his pants open, stroking his cock with one hand while the other pulled up the hem of her dress and shoved her panties down to just above her knees. He used his legs to spread her own wider apart and she could feel them stretching the bindings of her panties. The anticipation of what he was about to do and the heat of his thighs against her body made her wet. Then she felt one hand sliding up her back to grip her neck and the other seizing onto her hip, holding her in place as he began to thrust into her without ceremony. Her fingers clawed harder down into the soft leather back cushion of the chair to keep herself from collapsing over it. She heard him grunting out how much he hated her and herself in an alien voice throwing his words back at him, ridiculing how much he despised himself for needing her. Red faced and perspiring, he turned her head to face directly forward so he wouldn’t have to see her even in profile. Clamping his hand over her mouth to muffle her screams, he fucked her relentlessly until she bit his fingers, drawing blood.
When she came, Buffy let out a sharp sound between a moan and a cry of pain. In a confused haze, she turned over on her bed, burying her head in her pillow in despair. She had never felt more screwed up in her life.