Author's Note: If all you're looking for fluffy Spuffy, you wont find it here (at least, not a lot of it). If all you're looking for is hot, hot sex, you should check somewhere else because this story is set around the plot, not the sex - though there will be plenty of it. If you want action, angst, and a complex story about a love that's not supposed to happen, then you've come to the right place!

I started this story a while back for the sole purpose of practicing how to write sex scenes because I felt really uncomfortable doing it. Somewhere in the past few months, writing "penis" and "orgasm" has lost it's awkward, uneasy feeling and I realized that I wasn't doing justice to my plot, so I decided to take it down for a little bit and turn what was meant to be a short, whirlwind story into a long, in-depth epic - of sorts. The background was polished, I created a complex storyline, analyzed the characters and human nature, did all sorts of research, and this is what I've come up with.

This was previously under the title "A Deadly Glance," but really, it's turned into something a lot bigger, so if you didn't give it a chance before, I really hope you do now. And if you liked it before, I'd suggest reading the changes because it goes a lot deeper into the characters and their history.

Setting: New York City - if you haven't noticed, most of my stories are always relocated to NY, mainly because I used to live by NYC and I've never actually been to California and would probably suck at describing Los Angeles. =/

Warning: Heavy angst, heavy violence, heavy sex.


Bullets and Stones

Prologue

Bullets and stones can break my bones, but love is sure to kill me.

There were some things in life that could be taught. Things like the fact that the burly, bearded man reading the New York Times two seats down had a solar plexus located under his sternum and beneath his diaphragm just like every other person on the subway. Or things like how his top two vertebra - the atlas and the axis - formed a joint with his skull, keeping his bulky head up and allowing it to turn as his beady eyes skimmed the New York Stock Exchange.

Then, there were those things in life that -- couldn't be taught. No matter how many times someone demonstrated the step-by-step method to breaking a neck, a person wouldn’t be able to do it without intimately knowing the sound of the cervical discs slipping out of place or the satisfying feel of smooth bone cracking beneath their fingers.

Her steady gaze was fixed on the man’s sweaty, red face, his pudgy cheeks drooping down into a thick chin. Maybe he thought being fat was a benefit -- that it meant more cushion to protect his bones. Too much flesh to maneuver out of the way. He didn’t know it yet, but it was already too late. In a matter of minutes, he’d be sitting in the same position with his head slightly bent at a crooked angle.

He has no idea, she thought, still staring at him as he swatted a fly away from his ear. The man might know what a solar plexus was and where it was located, but he probably didn’t know how to punch somebody so they staggered and had to fight for the sweet salvation of one single breath. Even if he did, there was absolutely no way he could know just how much force and just how far back he had to draw his arm to knock a person out of consciousness.

He might know that the atlas of his spine made it possible for him to nod, but did he know the swiftness and precision it took to push the joint to it’s limit and permanently sever his skull from his neck? He might know that when he slapped somebody, their axis allowed their head to swing to the side, but did he know just how hard he’d have to hit until their neck snapped?

Those were the type of things nobody taught in school. Those were the little things in life that went whispered from person to person, an excited breath traveling from ear to ear. People imagined it in their heads, the satisfaction of an ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s bones shattering, the scream of pain, then the silence of death.

It went unspoken. There were no classes to take. Unless, of course, you were training a killer…

The subway pulled to a jerking stop and the doors rolled open. Two people walked out, but nobody walked in. The fat man rubbed his wide nose and moved around to adjust himself to a more comfortable position. When the train was moving again, it was just him and her. Him, a bad guy, and her, an even badder guy.

In one swift motion, she got to her feet, leapt over to where he was sitting, grabbed his head in her leather gloved hands, twisted and snapped his neck. His eyes had time to widen, but his last words died in his open mouth.

When she let go, his head fell down over his massive chest and she stepped away. From an observer’s standpoint, he looked like he had fallen asleep -- with good reason too, the stock exchange didn't make for very exciting read.

At the next stop, she got off and didn't look back.


Killers and Liars

The Assassin

Assassins. Killers. Society's outcasts and society's keepers - they were the ones that people feared before closing their eyes at night and they were the ones that haunted every father and mother's dreams. They were the ultimate police and in this world, there was no such thing as a good cop.

It was a dangerous business. Some of them were sent to jail and others went to sleep and never woke up. Most of them never stayed in one place for more than a few weeks at a time. The grungy motel, smells of cigarettes and beer, smoky hazes above poker tables, raspy voices over payphones, black and white pictures sent classified through the U.S. postal service - that was the life of an assassin. Wadded up bills slipped discreetly into the seams of suitcases and bags; it wasn't glamorous, not like the briefcases stuffed with fifties and hundred dollar bills.

They all had to have a death wish. There was no reason not to. But something always happened; some grew tired of the sagging beds of Motel 6 that smelled of week-old urine, some were sick of looking back at their own dead reflection in airplane mirrors as they traveled far, far away from their last job. Others changed sides, had epiphanies, adopted Christianity,… fell in love. Love changed everything. Links changed everything. A successful assassin had no connections, nobody to tie them down to one place. They were less like the glorious free bird and more like the dark, lone wolf.

Most importantly, though, was calculation. Everybody and everything was a factor, from the victim to the boss, the amount of the commission to the number of bullets in the gun. Everything was measured, every footstep, every flutter of an eyelash, every swirl of a coat. The clicking of the heel on the pavement was timed, every smile and look was registered.

Some people grew bored. But others - others like her - saw it as a light. Life drifted away from mundane routine and everyday drill… to her, life became a thrill.


~*~*~*~*~


It was Thursday morning, September 7th, and the silver Fossil watch that she hadn’t had the heart to part with since college read 10:45:05. Exact. Buffy Summers looked up at the Subway sign in front of her. As always, she was right where she needed to be, down to the very second.

It was that time of year when the weather was indecisive, not wanting to leave summer, but not wanting to push away winter. The wind threatened to turn icy, but the sun beamed down at New York City, warming the city and the people in it. A gust of cool air blew across the street, making her cheeks tinge pink, but it left as swiftly as it came and soon, it was warm again.

She wore a mess of designers. Valentino, Marc Jacobs, Armani. Her beige trench coat, petite and slim around the waist, fell mid-thigh, an inch or two below the frayed hemline of a worn denim skirt. Two buttons were done up over a low-cut, satin tank top. The stiletto boots digging at her toes pushed her 5'3'' frame up another two and a half inches. They reached up just shy of her knee, warming her lean calves. A few joggers in spandex and nylon breezed passed her and she couldn't keep the smug smile off her face as she looked at their disappearing backs. If she had to, she could outrun them - in her boots. It all came with the job.

Another gust of wind blew, tousling her hair and making her shiver involuntarily. She stuffed her hand in her pocket and curled her fingers around a little Swiss knife, a birthday gift from her father. The sleek, silver pistol with her family emblem carved out in the wooden handle strapped high on her thigh was also a gift from daddy, along with the small, black gun tucked into her right boot. The first present she ever remembered receiving from him had been a machete sized water gun on her fifth birthday. If there was a message he was trying to send through his choice of gifts, it was being received, loud and clear.

A couple of teenaged boys brushed against her as they passed. She checked her watch again - 10:48:29 - before going down the stairs into the Subway station. The heels of her boots clicked on each step down. By the time she reached the ground, her toes were aching.

People hastily pushed by her as she walked to the ticket-office. A businesswoman in a sharp-looking suit and thin heels tripped over some invisible spot on the ground and her briefcase cracked open upon impact with the floor. Buffy walked on, not slowing down to help, gaining a glare from the woman. She felt like rolling her eyes, like she even gave a damn.

The line snaked around the ticket-stand and was getting longer by the second as hordes of people simultaneously migrated towards it's end. And there, walking briskly along the outskirts of the horde was the man in the picture that had been lying in her fax machine earlier that week. The target.

Something set him off from the rest of the crowd. It could've been his platinum blonde hair or his angular face drawn in a tight frown. He had a slight swagger in his gait and though he was walking quickly, he made it look like he had all the time in the world.

She silently measured his steps and slowed down to match them. It took twenty-three seconds and fourteen steps for her to finally reach the end of the line behind an elderly couple. They stared a little too long at the plunging neckline where the blades of her trench coat met and she gave them both a saccharine smile. The woman flushed and turned around, embarrassed, as the man just glared a little harder at her before facing front again.

As calculated, her target stepped into the line a few seconds after she did. He was yelling at somebody over his cell phone and she noted the impatient edge in his voice. There was so much one voice could convey. For instance, any bystander would be able to tell that he was frustrated, it was evident in the way he stressed his consonants, spitting them out as if they were vile. She read deeper into it and heard a slight tense infliction in his tone: not enough sleep and definitely not enough sex. That, I can work with, she smiled, realizing that her job had just gotten significantly easier.

Her index finger and thumb felt the light weight of a fountain pen in her pocket and for a brief moment, she relished that feeling of power. It was a sweet, satisfying sensation that started deep in the gut and she wondered how it would feel for him if he knew that the rest of his life depended on that single fountain pen.

Her fingers squeezed the pen and she took one more deep breath. In two seconds she would let go and the pen would tumble to the ground. Her target would bend over to pick it up and in that exact moment, his life would take a dramatic turn towards what probably would be hell. Control had never felt better.

One.

Two.


~*~*~*~*~


The Lawyer

The irony was absolutely brilliant.

The senior partners had called his new case "one that could potentially make your career skyrocket to the heavens and above - if you win, of course." Heaven being the ironic part, what with all the illegal and immoral cases that he had loop-holed and manipulated his way out of, he probably already had an assigned seat in hell. Nevertheless, if he won this case, he would have permanently made a name for himself and upped his career by countless points. If he won. The funny thing was that they never told anybody what would happen to them if they didn't win, but then again, it wasn't much of an issue because nobody in Wolfram & Hart had ever not won.

Those special "make your career skyrocket" cases were only handed out once in a while, usually meaning once in a lifetime so when the opportunity presents itself, you bloody well better make a grab for it. About ninety-nine percent of the time, the subject of those special cases deserved to be locked up - at the very least - but Wolfram & Hart couldn't care less. Though sometimes he felt a feather-light weight of guilt at releasing the monsters back to the world, being a lawyer under the Wolfram & Hart firm was highly lucrative. All underground, secretive, and illicit material aside, the benefits were endless if you played your cards right.

Playing your cards right, meaning that when the senior partners assigned you a slightly questionable case, you made it the new objective of your life to pay that particular client the attention he deserved and then some. Which meant that when they made an appointment, you had better catch it.

But, those assignments only came once in two blue moons. And, fortunately for Spike, those blue moons seemed to rendezvous at least once every week, as he had already divided and conquered more than his fair share of “questionable” cases.

It also just so happened that at this particular moment, Spike had an appointment to catch - one of those very important appointments - and right now, his wife was badgering, screeching, and pushing him, his patience, and her vocal chords to the absolute limit. He winced as her voice hit a particularly high note, making his eardrums shudder.

For the most part, Spike tolerated his wife. This was probably because she spent most of her time at the opposite end of the country, which enabled him to philander with slightly less headache-inducing and less commitment-wanting women than she. But at this exact, infinitesimal second in time, he wanted to kill her. Quite literally.

“No, Dru!” he tried reasoning, knowing it was going to be futile. He tightened his hand around his leather briefcase, pretending it was her long, pale neck he was strangling and tried to imagine the satisfying choking sound she would make as the life drained from her body. The line at the ticket booth was growing and he quickened his pace. “I can’t make it to California in two bloody days, okay?! I’ve been telling you this for the past twenty min - Are you daft? I have my job! - Oh, really! It doesn’t matter, does it? Well you can bloody well say good bye to those pretty things you like so much, the little - Oh, I get it! You’re completely off your bleedin’ nutter, you stupid, sodding bint! I’ve got clients to see, I can’t just --"

She cut him off again and he rolled his eyes, biting down on the string of curses he was about to spew at her. He stepped in line behind a woman in boots. Out of habit, he tilted his head to the left and checked out what the short trench coat she was wearing had failed to hide. Spike smiled appreciatively at her long, muscled thighs.

Drusilla’s voice rose again, dangerously approaching a sound that only dogs would be able to hear. People walking around him turned their heads so they could raise annoyed eyebrows up at him, like it was his fault that the raspy tones of his wife’s voice over the phone sounded like a mesh between a barmy witch and a sports-announcer on crack. He held the cell phone three inches away from his ear and glared at them. They turned around, obviously deciding that it was none of their business.

“No! How many times do I have to --" his voice was growing exponentially louder. The blonde in front of him twitched her head to the side and clear-polished nails reached up to scratch her hair. He caught a faint scent of citrus and vanilla… very nice. “Well, I’ll send your father some champagne, alright? That should do it -- Then tell me what the bloody hell it is that he wants!? … Are you out of your soddin’ mind? – “


~*~*~*~*~


Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of his nose taking in a non-too-discreet whiff of her perfume and her lips curved up in a knowing smile. She was already in control. Her hand crept out of her pocket and she let the heavy, fountain pen dangle casually from her fingers.

Her fingers went slack and the pen plummeted to the cemented floor of the subway station with a smack. Oops! She smiled and turned her head slightly to look at the pen lying listlessly on the floor, it’s jade color standing out from the muted brown and grey of the worn cement.

She didn’t have to look at him to know that he had put his briefcase down and was reaching for her pen with one hand as he shouted over the phone with the other. Buffy kept her eyes lowered and fixed her eyes on the freshly shined tops of his Gucci shoes. Slowly and deliberately, she raked her eyes over the pants of his black suit--Giorgio?--lingered at the yellow, Versace tie before flickering her eyelashes up and catching the cerulean blue of his eyes.

She had seen his face in the black and white photo that had been faxed to her apartment so she should have known that he had perfectly sculpted cheekbones, an eloquent, chiseled out hollow beneath them, a firm jaw,… but it seemed all different. Buffy inwardly slapped herself and it was all business again.

The man--Spike--seemed to have frozen with her pen in his hand. His mouth was still wide open as if he was in the middle of a sentence, but when he met her gaze, the sound had stopped coming out of it.

Acting shy and demure, she lowered her lashes and focused on the knot of his tie. “Thank you,” she smiled weakly, taking her pen back. Their fingers touched and she nearly jumped at the little electric shock that jolted her.

He moved his mouth but nothing came out and Buffy stopped the triumphant smile from making an appearance. She had done it. Everything from this point forward would be smooth sailing, there was absolutely no question. The side of her lip lifted slightly as she gave him a small smile. Then, she walked away from the line and towards the stairs that led to the soft white glow of hazy outside lights.

Spike’s eyes followed her figure as she walked away, switching her hips with every step, confident as … some kind of big cat. A lion. No, a tiger. Her hair glistened and fell over her shoulders like a golden waterfall of waves. Before she completely disappeared, she turned to look at him one more time and he felt his mouth go dry. He widened his eyes. What the hell just happened?

Buffy couldn’t help the silent giggle that erupted from her throat as she scampered up the cement stairs of the dark, subway station and into the bright daylight of New York City. It was all part of the job.

~*~*~*~*~

His wife was throwing a fit on the other line, but his ears tuned out her voice. A man behind him started having a coughing fit, but he drowned it out with his thoughts. Some saint in boots and a trench coat had just walked out from under his nose and his head was still frozen in place, eyes still rooted to the stairwell where he had seen her last. Who the fuck was that?

If he really thought about it, he’d wonder why she upped and left the line, he’d wonder why she was there to begin with. He’d even wonder why the pen that she held was the familiar Wolfram & Hart fountain pen that decorated every surface of every desk in the building. But something about that sex-goddess had made his brain stop functioning and all he could register was that her citrus-vanilla scent was still lingering in the air and he stepped forward to immerse himself in whatever was still left of it.

“Hey, line’s moving,” the coughing man behind him had suddenly stopped coughing and was now tapping his foot irritably. Spike blinked and realized that there was now a nice-sized gap between him and the person in front of him.

“Sorry,” Spike muttered, startled and shaken. The man behind him grumbled and Drusilla said something that sounded like You’d better be sorry!, but his mind was still fixated on that one piece of heaven who had just disappeared.

There was no question about it. He was truly and thoroughly buggered. That, and he was going to hell.







.............

Hope you're liking this so far... remember... reviews make the world go round!

I'm juggling WIP's right now... I'll be posting this once or twice a week, hopefully. "At Your Doorstep" should also be posted once a week or so. I DO plan to finish my other WIP's but... right now I'm having this really bad case of muse-failure. It's like I KNOW what's going to happen, but the scene's just not... coming out right.

Anyways... yeah. I just sent in my Early Decision application to Columbia a few days ago... so wish me luck!

Sadistic Fantasies

The Assassin

As she emerged from the underground to the midday hustle and bustle of the city, she suddenly felt a familiar tingle down her spine. Somebody’s watching …. She was instantly on the alert, heightening her senses and attuning her skilled ears and eyes to her surrounding environment.

The sun was slightly higher and she let herself bask in its warm glow for a split second before refocusing her attention to the situation at hand. At first glance, everything appeared normal: cars parked unevenly along the sidewalk, barely within their meter slots, various artists furiously painting elaborate names and sketching the city skylines for the tourists grouping around them, businessmen with cardboard insulated coffee cups, post-modern arts students in oversized plaid and oversized portfolios under their arms, families all swarming around, talking and laughing. The traffic was slow; taxis tried to squeeze into impossible spaces, cars lined up bumper to bumper, a MTA Transit bus lumbered slowly through the intersection behind her, and everything seemed as it should be -- but something was off. Buffy furtively slipped behind a newspaper stand, keeping her eyes trained on the road and the buildings across from her.

Parked along the opposite end of the one way street was a blue Honda civic, two motorcycles squeezed in one spot, a battered Volvo, nothing too questionable, and a …

There it was.

She spotted a black Lincoln parked in front of a fire hydrant. To anyone else, it would've been just another illegally parked car, but to her, everything clicked. It wasn’t so much the fact that the parking job was illegal as it was the way the car was maneuvered. For one, the only people who parked illegally like that were people who only expected to be away from their cars for no more than a few minutes. But the Lincoln was carefully situated in such a way that it was perfectly aligned with the sidewalk, meaning that it wasn't just some regular civilian who didn't want to deal with meter parking. The parking job was deliberate and whoever was driving apparently had been waiting in it for a long time. She looked closer and noticed that it's windows were also tinted passed the legal seventy percent light transmission in the state of New York. Definitely not a coincidence.

Following me again, huh? She sighed inwardly, weighing her options. Finally, she decided to walk on and ignore the Lincoln. Angelus's men weren't doing a very good job if their object was to pursue her. The way they were positioned into the space made it difficult for them to follow her, especially if she was walking amidst a crowd of other people.

Which probably meant that somebody was following her on foot…

Buffy turned her head and sure enough, there were two tall men lingering a few yards behind her. When their eyes met, the men quickly turned their heads in a sad attempt to stay hidden. They each wore a sports jersey, dark aviators, and a New York Mets baseball cap - Angelus's team of choice - it was supposed to hide the sound wire embedded in their ear. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Amateurs.

Her cell phone rang in her pocket and she pulled it out. Caller Id: Angelface. Before picking it up, she checked back on the entourage of the so-called "spies" following her. Sure enough, the Lincoln was trying and failing to pull back into traffic and the men behind her were too close to each other and trying too hard to look discreet. Shaking her head in exasperation, she flipped up the phone and brought it to her ear.

"You know I hate being watched," she greeted, speaking sharply into her cell phone. She was already contemplating an easy way to take out the three people trailing her. A rough laugh seeped through the earpiece.

"I like watching you," the smooth, tenor voice chuckled. "It's so, I don’t know, … refreshing."

She spared another glance at the Lincoln that was steadily gaining on her. The imposing presence of the sleek black car and the hulking, awkward men behind her was irritating. "Well, I'm glad you feel refreshed," she snapped, noticing two more men on the sidewalk, one on a bench pretending to be reading a magazine that happened to be upside down and another leaning against a potted tree, smoking. Raising two eyebrows disdainfully, she added, "It wouldn't hurt to be more discreet."

"I'm not trying to be discreet," he answered, "Not entirely."

"Oh, yeah?" Buffy sighed. A Starbucks was beckoning her from a few stores down and she quickened her pace, eager to disappear into the coffee shop, knowing that they wouldn't follow her in.

"Think of it as your safety crew," Angelus said simply. The connection faltered for a split second as she stepped through the threshold separating the city and the coffeehouse, making his voice crackle. He laughed over the other line, "Hiding away, huh, Buffy? Your father trained you well."

She bristled a little bit at that. "My father didn't train me," her voice tightened and she could almost hear him shrug over the other line.

"It doesn't matter-"

"And what the hell do you mean by safety?" she cut him off and he laughed again. There were three people in the line before her and two of them turned around at the dangerous tone in her voice. She lowered her volume and turned a ninety degree angle so she wasn't facing them anymore, "You do understand that I can take all of them out right now without so much as breaking a nail, right?"

"I don't doubt it," he told her, hesitating for a few seconds before finally admitting, "They're in training. I'm teaching them the fine art of spying."

"Training! What do I look like, Angel? A teacher? A subj-"

"Angelus," he stopped her rant. His voice turned from a casual, light joking quality to a serious tone. "You had a job, Buffy. Did you do it?"

Buffy nodded, stepping up in line and digging through her pockets for her wallet. "Contact's been made. The target's as good as mine."

He chuckled softly, "You never cease to impress me. How do you know you really have him?"

"Oh, I know," she shrugged, "Either way, he's in for a pleasant surprise tonight." - it was her turn in line - "Tall Caramel Macchiato."

She handed a Starbucks card to the cashier, who took it and swiped it through. $2.98. Angelus sounded amused over the other line, "Sweet tooth, huh?"

"Of course," she stepped away from the counter and sat down at a circular table as she waited for her drink to be made.

After going through the details of exactly what she was supposed to do, Angelus paused and said, "Don't be too hard on my guys, okay? They're practicing their stalker technique. Think of it as additional training - they'll keep you on your toes."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at a random spot on the table, and replied flatly, "I'm not going to remind you that I've already had years of training from the best. I've been doing this since high school, okay? If you value your men's lives, you wouldn't try to keep me on my toes anymore. Spies don't suit me, try back next season when polka-dots replace plaid."

"Caramel Macchiato!" the voice behind the counter called out and her drink appeared on the round pick-up counter.

"Fine, I'll tell them to pull off," he relented as she got up to retrieve it.

"Good," she smiled. "The target will be cleared by sundown."

She snapped the cell phone shut with a satisfying click.


~*~*~*~*~

The Lawyer

The conference room was cold like everything else about Wolfram & Hart. It was one of the two fundamental things about the firm: everything was large and everything was cold, both of which referring to more than just a size and a temperature. Many times, the cold had absolutely nothing to do with the ridiculously cranked up air conditioning and the large wasn't an indication of the vast, long tables kept in the center of every conference room, enough to fit ten people on either side.

Currently, five people were in the room and none of them were making a sound. The second hand of the clock ticked on unceremoniously and those five people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. There was Spike and his partner, Penn, sitting on one end of the table and across from them sat Parker Abrams with his parents.

Parker Abrams, accused of the rape and murder of two fourteen year old girls. His father, proud Texan, oil tycoon, and a drug trafficker on the side. His mother, former Miss Teen Texas back in the day, submissive homemaker, and persistent Botox addict. Penn rubbed his goatee and the scratching sound of bristly hair scraping against skin joined the ticking of the clock. Soon, he picked up his pen and started busily taking down notes.

The room was on the fortieth floor of the tall building and from between Parker and his father, Spike could see the skyline of the business district through the glass that made up the outer walls of the entire building.

He found his mind wandering back to the five seconds in the subway where his skin had come in contact with that captivating girl's fingertips. Her eyes were green, emerald green in the shadows, specked with blue and violet rays, probably from the bright lights of the signs on the wall. Something down below stirred as he remembered the golden, lean thighs and imagined what they would feel like wrapped around his waist… Fuck.

At noon, the grandiose grandfather clock at the end of the room chimed exactly three times. He ripped his attention forcibly from the image his mind had concocted of what that girl would look like naked. It wasn’t an easy task. Finally, Spike sat up, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and leaned forward. The meeting had officially begun and there was no time to entertain fantasies about beautiful girls with toxic eyes and lethal boots.

"So, tell me exactly what happened," he instructed the teenaged boy who was passively slouching in his chair. In his head, the girl smiled shyly at him, her long lashes lowering and demurely fluttering back up to glance at his face. Stop it. Stop it. Concentrate… he repeated to himself.

Parker lifted two eyebrows and his lips curled into a sinister smirk. Next to him, his mother's brows twitched and his father opened his mouth to speak, sitting up straight and nodding to his son, "Go on, Parker, tell the man what happened."

"You want details? It's wicked hot," the cocky look on his face persisted and Spike's hands tingled with the urge to punch the boy's face. Next to him, Penn made an irritated sound with his throat and covered it up with a cough.

"You want to go to jail?" Spike shot back, narrowing his eyes. Parker's smile just grew wider and he shrugged. His expression was cold, indifferent - not something out of the ordinary. Most of the criminals Wolfram & Hart took under had the same blank sneer and the empty eyes.

His mother gasped and brought her hand to her mouth, "Wait! I thought you were going to - "

"Relax, Margaret. Parker's not goin' anywhere," her husband cast her a sidelong look before focusing his attention on Spike. "Look here, mister, I read through that contract I signed with Wolfram & Hart. I know everythin' that's supposed to go down, alright? Now, me and my boy didn't travel all the way up to New York to get him locked up in any ole' cell again, you hear? Parker here done nothin' wrong, he had nothin' to do with those little harlots that turned up off I-45, okay? Now, you tell the judge that and - "

"With all due respect, Mr. Abrams," Spike's voice smoothly shifted from his usual laid-back drawl to a tight, cordial British accent primarily used to keep his temper in check. The brisk tone was affective in preventing the annoyance from spilling out of his mouth. "If I'm not aware of exactly what happened, and I do mean exactly, then how should I get him an alibi? Who should I call to cover trails? Do you see where I am going with this?"

There was a short pause and it finally dawned on Mr. Abrams, "Oh. So what you're sayin' is if you know what went down, you can create another story, right? One that's much more better."

He shared a look with Penn, who let out a soft, nearly imperceptible chuckle, before nodding, "Precisely."

The older man looked over at his son, "Well what are you waiting for? Tell him what happened!"

The boy's mouth stretched to a sadistic grin and he began his tale. His voice lacked his father's southern drawl and he pronounced each syllable with a certain sick enjoyment, like he was reliving his most glorious moment. Neither of the lawyers flinched, stories like this were normal for them. Spike listened carefully as Penn scribbled down names and places.

"You see, it was the Friday night right after my birthday. Dad just bought me that brand new truck I've been after since forever," - his father smiled proudly at that - "so I was just cruising down I-45, you know? Minding my own business, maybe breaking one or two traffic laws, no big. I'm about to exit to the feeder when I see two girls walking along the shoulder of the highway, and I'm thinking 'Damn, that's dangerous, I better go help them.' So, like the good citizen of America that I am, I pull over and ask if they need a ride.

"They're like, 'yeah!' and they hop in - "

At this point, Spike held up a hand to pause him and asked, "How old were these two girls?"

"Well, at the time, I thought they looked about, oh, sixteen and eighteen? Turns out they're both fourteen, but hell, how was I supposed to know that? Can I go on?" Penn jotted the information down and Spike waved at him to continue. "So, anyways, we're driving for a little while and I realize that these girls are super drunk. That, and they're pretty fucking hot, if you know what I mean. Obviously, they were probably too out of it to be allowed out again so I decide to pull off. There's this small motel off the feeder… Duncan's Inn or something like that. So, I thought it'd be real cool to just stop and let them sleep it off.

"So I take them into the motel and I was about to leave them there when I realize 'oh, they can't stay here alone!' since Duncan's Inn is kinda towards the darker side of sleazy, if ya know what I mean. So, I decide to stay with them. And fuck, these girls are really, really sexy. I mean, like Paris Hilton sexy, right? So, like, what am I supposed to do? They had it coming to them, anyways, since they were, like, wearing practically nothing." - at this point, the excited smile on Parker's face was spreading along the lines of insane bliss - "I thought it wouldn't be right if I didn't teach them a lesson because girls really shouldn't be going around in those short skirts like that. So, I take one of them into the bathroom and she doesn't really complain - you know, drunk, stoned, shit like that. I ask if she needs to pee and she's like 'yeah,' so I ease her out of her skirt real nice-like, you know? She's just fumbling around and stuff, so I decide to kiss her because, wow, she was just so pretty.

"She doesn't seem to mind so much and she even starts kissing me back, so I'm lying her down across the sink and she's grabbing at me, so there's only one thing I can do. I take off my belt and it kinda gets me thinking - boy, this girl really needs a lesson! She was such a whore, just letting some stranger like me take advantage of her. So, I decided what she needed was a good whipping and a good fuck."

Parker's eyes glazed over and he paused to sigh at the memory, "I took off all her clothes first. I wanted her naked and lying across that counter with the sink's faucet digging into her waist. She's like, touching herself and spreading her legs for me. So, I knew this was what she wanted, it wasn't like a secret or anything, right? She's inviting me in! The first time I brought my belt down on her, it slapped right across those big tits. It left this beautiful, absolutely gorgeous red mark on her skin - it was so cool! Like, at first, it'd be all white and slowly, it'd get redder and redder and turn into some sort of welt. Oh yeah, and she screamed at that. Boy, that turned me on real good. She's just screaming and I want to make her scream louder, so I bring the belt down again, between her legs.

"I keep hitting her with the belt because it's making her voice go up and it sounds so awfully beautiful, you know? She keeps bucking and jerking, so I use my hand to pinch her clit. Oh god, the sound. She tried to hit my hand, so I just gave that clitoris of hers a good old twisting. I kept twisting and she'd screech. Music to my ears! Finally, she was so red, I decided it was time for her fuck, so I rolled her down to the floor. She looked so beautiful, all black, blue, and red, red, red. I take her ankles in my hand and shove myself into her - "

Spike, slightly sickened, raised his hand to stop him, "Okay, so you beat and raped the girls. How did you kill them? And what did you do, specifically, to their bodies?"

"Oh, I broke the cabinet off the wall and beat both of them on their heads with it until they didn't move anymore. Are you sure you want me to skip all the good stuff? I can tell you about how I made them touch each other - that was so cool."

"Skip it," Penn spoke up for the first time in the meeting. Spike looked over at his partner, appreciatively. Usually, Penn was the one who could take the description. He was ruthless, taking in death and torture without so much as a blink of an eye, but when he had enough of something, it meant that whatever it was that was being said was… bad.

Parker started talking again and Spike found his mind drifting back to the girl in the subway. As the boy talked about how he had dumped their bodies under the overpass of I-45, Spike thought about what was under that trench coat she had been wearing and shuddered.

Her golden hair had been wind-tousled and the way a few locks of long gold thread had dipped down her front into the crevice of her breasts led his imagination astray. He imagined what it would be like to feel the curve of her collarbone and follow them to the center where her clavicles met, trail his fingers down until it met the V of her coat… he would slowly pull it off, feeling the skin under his palms, round his hands past her arms and to her back… He thought about what it would feel like to press both hands against her shoulder blades and feel them clenching together as she shrugged the coat to the ground…

Penn's sharp voice brought him back to reality half an hour later, "So first, we need to contact the forensics team in charge of the Abram's case, see if there's anything we can do there. Then, we need to contact the manager of Duncan's Inn - "

Spike sighed, sitting up and adjusting his pants. He needed to get the girl out of his system and he needed her out fast.


~*~*~*~*~


As they headed back towards their office, Penn handed him Parker's case folder. "I'll make a few calls, this should be a piece of cake."

Spike took the folder, "I'll get in touch with the Duncan's Inn manager, look into our files, try to find the history of Abram's family. From what I saw back there, they're a bloody lot of fucking sadists…"

"Yeah," Penn agreed and disappeared into the copy room. Spike kept walking down the hall, passing the rows of cubicles until he reached his secretary's desk.

"William! What can I do for you?" she asked brightly, stopping mid-type. "Good meeting?"

"You can call it that," he shrugged, then drummed his fingers on her desk. "Look, I need a reservation for the Marriott Marquis tonight. It's a bit of a last minute thing, but - "

"Sure! For what time?"

"Uh… 8:30 should be good."

Lynn nodded and eagerly whipped out a notepad and a pen. "Okay, 8:30, certain type of room?"

"Any business suite will do."

"Okay, Marriot Marquis, Time Square, 8:30, business suite, any particular view? Orientation of room? Color of rug?" She streamed out a list of particulars that made Spike want to just forget the entire … ordeal.

"Bloody hell, woman, just get me a room, okay?"

"Okay, okay," she muttered and picked up the phone to call in his reservation.


~*~*~*~*~


When Spike was seated at his office again, he took a deep breath. The digital clock on the wall read 3:15. That meant that he had about five hours until he could relax and take care of his little problem. Or obsession. That singular touch from a complete stranger had forced him to do something he had never had to do before… call a brothel.

In a few moments, he would give Glory's Fun n' Pleasures a ring and pray that they had a short blonde with green eyes who could help take care of his more-than-mild fantasy.


~*~*~*~*~

The Hacker

The perpetual whirring of computers and other various machines was the norm for the dark apartment, otherwise known as The Office of Operation, otherwise known as The Doom Room, otherwise known as Buffy and Gun's Home Base. The office was heated by the vents of all the machinery and was the regular dugout for Buffy and her … associate.

Generally, people who specialized in killing others, among other things, always worked alone, but Buffy found that having somebody watching her back gave her multiple advantages. Firstly, it made her line of work less lonely knowing that there was always somebody to fall back on, secondly, she didn't know shit about computers and, of course nowadays, computers were key in obtaining information, decoding locks, and all that fun stuff, which Gunn happened to be an expert at. Thirdly, she trusted Gunn with her life, seeing as how they had been best friends since, well, forever.

And right now, Buffy was waiting on the other line while Charles Gunn was staring at his computer screen. His fingers were moving at Olympic-speed, typing in multiple strings of code at a time in an attempt to hack into Wolfram & Hart's database.

"Are you there yet?" the impatient voice that streamed through the radio on top of his main computer had taken on a whiny quality.

"Almost, Lil' Slayer. Relax." he rolled his eyes as Buffy made a huffy little sound over the intercom. "You know, seeing as how I'm tapping into the largest, scariest, slimiest law firm's system for you, I'd think you would show a little more love and gratitude. You do realize that if I get caught, my ass is theirs, right? Theirs' to play with, theirs' to mangle, theirs' to torture with sharp objects…"

"Okay, okay," Buffy mumbled, "I get it. You're the best! I'm ever so grateful that you're my partner in crime and I would be nothing without you, oh lord of the computer thingies."

Gunn smiled as he pressed enter, "Me gusto. Mucho mejor."

The screen in front of him flashed and soon, he was staring at a ever-growing list of green numbers and letters. A smile spread across his face and he shouted triumphantly, "Gotchya!"

"What? Got what?" Buffy sounded eager and in a hurry, "Are you in?"

"Yep," he scrolled down the list.



[Lilah Morgan: 10:39am - Assigned Valecruz, Miguel case. Move to 37th floor office.]

[Lindsey McDonald: 2:30pm - Arrived in LaGuardia airport from Cancun, Mexico. Vacation over. Assign new secretary.]

[Penn Smithson: 2:45pm - Phone call made to The City of Houston's Forensics Team - Abram, Parker's case.]

[William Pratt: 2:52pm - Reservation for Marriott Marquis, 8:30 pm, Rm #: 6911 - personal]

[Lilah Morgan: 2:58pm - Phone call made to Barcelona Airport - Valecruz, Miguel case.]

[William Pratt: 3:15pm - Phone call made to Houston, Texas information for Duncan's Inn - Abrams, Parker's case.]

[William Pratt: 3:38pm - Phone call made to Glory's Fun n' Pleasures - personal]



"Holy shit, girl," Gunn laughed, "You did it again. So, you're playin' call girl tonight, little miss Glory's Fun n' Pleasures?"

"Shut up, Gunn," she giggled a little, too, "It's for the job. I need to go in, get information, kill him, get out. Where's he going to be?"

"Marriott Marquis at 8:30 tonight," he said, scrolling up a little bit, "Room 6911. Want me to wire it? Place some bugs here and there, it shouldn't be too hard."

"Thanks, you're the best!"

"Don't I know it," he chuckled, saving the page, "Later, player… or, should I say, slayer."

"You're lame. Bye."

They hung up at the same time.