CHAPTER FOUR
Spike pulled the Desoto through the well-paved streets of his old neighborhood. The “Welcome To Sunnydale” sign was still intact after all these years -- which included the year he had drunk himself into a stupor and proceeded to run it over on his way back into town -- but he hadn’t been back in years. Before this unexpected job, there really was no point in him coming back. His dad had retired from The Magic Box and had taken his step-mom, Jenny, back to the motherland, merry ol’ England, where they have been residing happily since Spike had graduated from college and proved himself a capable adult.
He reached into the back seat and fished his cell phone out of his bag, pressing one, then send. The phone rang only twice when the other end was answered by a small voice, “Tara speaking, how can I help you?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Spike? Where are you?”
“Sunnyhell, USA. Did you hear about the job?”
“Yeah, Cordelia filled me in. Do you need me out there?”
“That would be great, pet. I’m thinking this project isn’t going to come to me, I need a brother-in-arms fighting the battle that is Buffy Summers. If you could note-take for me, that would be brilliant.”
“No problem.”
“You’re the greatest assistant in the world. How much am I paying you anyway?”
“For being the greatest assistant in the world? Not nearly enough.” Spike smiled at the shy girl’s uncharacteristic joke.
“When can I expect you down here?”
“After I finish up the layout we did on Carmen Electra’s wedding? About two days.”
“Lovely. Hurry down.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later Spike.”
“Bye, Luv.”
Ending the call, Spike made the left turn past the laundry mat and pulled to the side of the road, parking the car. He sat a moment, staring down the store at the end of the street. In it now resided the biggest project of his career -- the cover, the story, and the layout. Spike glanced at the clock -- five-fifteen. If the website’s hours were correct, they should have just closed to the public, sparing some unfortunate souls the sight of World War III. With a loud inhalation, Spike gathered his balls and launched himself out of the car.
_______________________________________
“Nothing new or exciting ever happens around here . . .” Dawn fought to untangle herself from the complex veil that was half-way on the ceramic store model.
“Dawn, be careful. You know the rule -- You break it, tear it, rip it, step on it, or breath the wrong way on it; you buy it.” Buffy filed through a pile of papers on the high, cream colored desk. Every so often she would lean down to file something or fumble through a low drawer. “Xander and Anya are getting married and we have a couple months to get Anya a million dollar wedding for a few hundred. How much more excitement do you need?”
“I don’t know . . . It’s always the same. Always the same faces, same people.” Dawn continued to complain as she dressed the mannequins.
“What are you talking about? We have new girls and families in here everyday.”
Dawn ceased her work to address her sister, “But they’re all the same girl. The same blushing bride that claims she has the last real gentleman in the world. She says that she’s found her ‘Prince Charming’ and she wants a replica of J.Lo’s wedding. The only thing that ever changes is which J.Lo wedding she wants to rip off.” She paused and pouted her next sentence. “And every time they try on their dress they cry.” This earned a smirk from her sister before she delved under the desk.
With that the doorbell clanged and instantly, Dawn’s eyes went comically wide and her voice squeaked out, “On second thought . . . .” Wandering awe instantly physically drew her to the hotness in the low slung jeans and gray t-shirt. Through his t-shirt, Dawn could make out every individual muscle group on his body -- biceps, triceps, . . . This man was way more fun to identify body parts on than the model used in her anatomy class. Caught up in daydreams of learning about his pectoral region, Dawn slammed into a low table, silently mouthing her pain.
The customer’s brows furrowed, “You alright, Nibblet?”
Dawn went dizzy at the low rumble of the English accent. “Yeah-huh.” she sighed, her heart speeding spasmodically.
At her sister’s animal-like tones, Buffy raised her head from under the desk to see what she had squealed and was now making low moans about -- noises her sister should not be making at sixteen years old.
Buffy stood up to scold her sister, “I thought I told you to be careful around . . . Spike.”
“Summers.”
“Spike?” This time his name was said in confusion -- as if “what are you doing here?” was implied in her tone.
Buffy didn‘t look much different in his eyes than she looked the last time he saw her in person six years ago -- same long brown hair formed into large, loose ringlets at the bottom and hazel eyes to match. And of course she had the same nose -- the nose that looked like that when God was sculpting her face from clay, he decided to play Snoopy, pressed on the tip of her nose and went “Meep!” -- forever forming the indentation. Not fancying this the best time to assess her appearance or stall talking about the weather, Spike cut to the chase. “I’m here to make you an offer.”
Buffy’s eyebrow arched in confusion of his first words to her in years, “And I suppose it’s going to be one I can’t refuse?”
Spike ignored both her joke and her little sister, who he’d seen in pictures, fumbling around behind him. Little did he know the teen was falling all over herself over the fact her sister was being propositioned by a gorgeous man she apparently already knew! She’d have to search through her sister’s picture boxes later for photographical evidence of this man’s existence to show Janice.
Spike thought the best game plan would be to start out slow and work his way to the real reason for him being here. “You know what I do?”
“Yeah.”
“And you know what you do?”
“Obviously.” Buffy glanced around the store.
“And you can see how,” he proceeded lightly, “in the right setting, our jobs could be connected?”
“Get to the point, Spike. I’m starting to think this has something to do with the mob. Do they have English mobs?” Funny how easily they fell back into snarkiness and bitch-mode after not seeing each other for six years. She wasn’t going with the tempo he was setting, so he said “to hell” with his original plan.
“Let me photograph you for the cover story about your dream wedding.”
He had the sentence out so fast, it took a minute for it to sink in. But when it did, a resounding answer permeated her brain, “No.”
“What!?”
“I said no.” There was the battle cry.
“All you have to do is prance around for a day like one of your little brides and tell me all about what it takes to get Businesswoman Summers hot.” This was all out war.
“No! I refuse to whore myself out to supposedly well-meaning magazines. I am a wedding retail saleswoman -- not a runway model. You are not the first to tread this area and you all get the same answer.” In the tizzy Spike never failed to put her in, Buffy began hurrying around the store, arranging flowers and fixing dresses all while debunking Spike’s pros of the situation without looking at him.
“You did it for People!”
“That had to do with the store, not me personally.”
“Millions read the magazine, it’s great publicity.”
He thought that halted her for a moment in her daisy arrangement, “How did you get the nickname Spike anyway?” She tried to change the subject, moving back across the room.
“By helping little old ladies cross the street. Listen, Buffy . . . .” he plowed, following her but remaining the same safe distance away. He kept away from Buffy for roughly the same reason there are signs at the zoo reading “Don’t feed the animals” -- she might go rabid and bite him.
She whipped on him suddenly, causing him to retreat quickly, hoping there was a shot for the froth that was coming out of her mouth. “And won’t those millions that read your magazine wander how it could be that Buffy Summers -- romance extraordinaire -- can’t find a man of her own? It’s an embarrassment, Spike, and I won’t do it.”
“Buffy, you don’t understand . . .”
“You want me to model in a replica of my dream wedding, without having a real wedding, or a groom, or have any previous modeling experience?”
Spike gauged the question, searching for the booby traps, “Yeah.”
“No.”
“Come on, we’ll give you one of those poofter male models.” The eggshells Spike had been previously stepping on when he first entered the store were now being violently thrown.
“I don’t know whether you’ve noticed or not, but I’m not exactly the kind of girl you photograph on a regular basis.”
Spike threw his head back in frustration, “Ohhhh! Don’t flatter yourself! I’m photographing you, not your body!” The whole scene froze. That was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. It was incredible -- Spike could handle any model that was put in front of him. But Summers . . . Summers was different. That girl got anywhere in his vicinity and he made a complete ass of himself. It was too late to take back what he accidentally implied and had no defense but to drop his jaw at his own idiotic tendencies.
“I can’t believe you!”
Spike decided it was best to move on. “Buffy, I know we didn’t particularly get along while in college, but I though we could put that all behind us and act like adults!”
“Oh! Good, Spike, now I can save many dollars by inviting you personally!” Anya popped out from behind the red curtain, waving a clipboard that read “My Wedding” at him.
Spike squinted, still distracted by his fight with Buffy. She took the moment escape behind the curtain. “This isn‘t over, Summers!” he yelled to the back of the store.
“Oh yes it is!” Answered him.
Spike sighed and turned to Anya, who was impatiently taping her foot, convinced that anything said or thought about within the next two months should only be about her or her upcoming nuptials.
“ ‘M sorry, luv, invite me to what?”
“My wedding!”
“You’re getting married? To who?”
The groom-to-be stepped up beside his bride, “Anya, haven’t we decided it would be called ‘our’ wedding from now on?”
“Whatever,” she answered. “So, will you come? More importantly, will you be Best Man, because I have to make arrangements for tux fittings and I do not want to waste pretty money.”
“Best Man?”
Xander stepped up to his best friend, “I was going to ask you myself, but Anya seems comfortable enough in our month-long relationship to ask you herself.”
Spike was slightly flabbergasted, but not exactly surprised. He had a feeling those two had been sweet on each other for months. “I’d love to, mate.”
This earned smiles from the couple and hugs went all around. Confusion furrowed the brow of the brunette as he pulled away from his Best Man.
“Spike . . . What the hell are you doing here?”
Spike took in a deep breath, looked to where his subject had disappeared -- halted with his answer -- then decided to just tell the truth, “I have no idea.”
TBC
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