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Buffy's heart was lodged somewhere in the region
of her throat.

A motorcycle! He wanted her to get on the back of
a motorcycle.

The palms of her hands felt clammy at the very
notion of it. She didn't like motorcycles. They were
too loud, and the people who drove them seemed to
be foolishly reckless.

Her mother, a woman who never stopped reminding her
to be on her guard against all the dangerous men who
lived wild lives, had only recently sent her a new batch of
newspaper clippings from the Los Angeles Times. She'd
practically made Buffy a scrapbook of articles having to
do with old friends and acquaintances; who was married,
who was expecting a new baby, who had just been promoted
in a Fortune 500 company, AND who was (as she put it)
"not with us anymore."

Her mom's last batch of 'Here's Who's Dead!' notices had
included the obituary of a boy Buffy had only known in the
most oblique way...a friend of a friend's cousin-in-law.

Parker Abrams, a nice enough looking guy...although a
little pop-eyed...had smiled up at her from the smudgy
newsprint, a cautionary tale bearer from beyond the grave.

It was a simple story. Motorcycle...rainy day...wet pave-
ment...smash, crash, dead.

Buffy had sighed and filed the clipping away with her mom's
other notices of doom and gloom, on every subject ranging
from "Don't pick up strange men in bars or bus stations" to
"Be sure and change the battery in your carbon monoxide
alarm, and what do you MEAN you don't have a carbon
monoxide alarm? Don't you realize how many people die
every year from carbon monoxide poisoning? Do you WANT
to become a statistic?"

So, now she had a carbon monoxide alarm, courtesy of
her mother. Unfortunately, she kept forgetting to buy a
battery for it.

She was perfectly well aware that her mother's overwhelming
concern was rooted in the love she felt for her. Joyce Summers
suffered terribly from "Empty Nest Syndrome" and no oppor-
tunities for excessive mothering perpetrated upon an adult
offspring were allowed to slip by her radar.

In fact, her mother was so good at the job that Buffy was
surprised the woman's early warning system wasn't ringing
it's little head off, letting her know that there was a...'NEW
MAN'...making himself at home in her daughter's life.

And, not just a man....a rock and roll singer. The creative
and artistic type that her mom had no use for, having been
thoroughly burned by one herself as a younger woman.

Buffy had heard the story of "Simon...the Concert Violinist"
more times than she could count. Her mom...an innocent
19 year old student at UCLA, had met Simon in the school
library one sunny afternoon. Tall and slender, with black hair
and stormy grey eyes, the moody young violinist had swept
Joyce off her feet, romancing her with flowers, poetry, and
music.

Unfortunately, Joyce had been too much in love to become
aware of the other three girls who were enjoying the same
attention from good old Simon. Her friends had tried to warn
her about his roving eyes...not to mention his hands...but
she had just brushed their concerns off as jealousy, because
they certainly had no one as "special" as Simon to lay claim
to.

The wake up and smell the coffee call didn't register with Joyce
until she'd invested seven months of her life into the relation-
ship.

She had impulsively shown up one morning at Simon's
frat house, surprising him with breakfast in bed.

Which of them had been more surprised was debatable.

Caught 'inflagrante delicto', Simon hadn't even tried to talk
his way out of the predicament. He'd simply thrown his hands
in the air and announced that he couldn't abide the "inevitable
yowling" that would occur between Joyce and his new sleeping
buddy.

He had then dressed and swept dramatically from the room,
somehow managing to convince both girls that the whole thing
was their fault for being too possessive and clinging.

The moral of the pitiful tale was, of course, watch out for the
"artistic types" that thought the world revolved around them.

The moral of the "Parker" story was far more basic: "Stay off
of motorcycles! No matter what!"

Buffy had already disregarded one maternal ad-
monishment, and was still standing...so far.

Did she dare tempt fate by flouting another?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"Come on, teacher lady. Let me take you for a nice,
long ride."

Spike tossed aside a rag he'd been using to polish
the gleaming chrome handlebars. He grinned at her
like the most adorable little boy she'd ever seen...and
she'd seen a lot of adorable little boys in her job. Show-
ing her that perfect dentition of his, his blue eyes were
practically twinkling in anticipation.

Buffy swallowed hard...and chickened out.

"I...I forgot something. Inside..." she stammered,
pointing over her shoulder to let him know which 'inside'
she was referring to, and feeling like a perfect idiot.

Devlin just nodded. "Hurry back," he said softly, never
breaking eye contact.

Feeling her defenses begin to crumble, Buffy spun on
one heel and headed back to the bathroom.

She had her hand on the door when she heard the creaky
swing of the men's room door open and stop. Two men
stood talking, and Buffy recognized their voices.

"So...when's "himself" planning on leaving good old
Sunny-D?" Andy ventured cheerfully.

"Thursday morning is what he told me," Oz replied,
the most words Buffy had heard come out of him at
one time.

She held her breath, hiding herself just inside the
ladies room.

"Yeah, but that was before he met the little teacher,"
Andy said, sounding amused. "His fucking mind's been
wandering lately."

Oz said nothing, and Buffy heard the faint sound of a
toilet flush.

"Don't you ever wash your fucking hands?" Andy asked.

"Why?" Apparently, Xander had joined them. "My dick's
clean. It's been in my pants all day."

Buffy clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

"Whatcha ragging on about anyway?" Xander spoke again.

"Nothing much." Oz.

"Little Miss Buffy" Andy corrected. "And how air-head's
been behaving lately."

"Oh, man," Xander nearly moaned. "She is SO hot!"

Buffy grinned. This eavesdropping business was fun.

"Or she COULD be," Xander suddenly tacked on, making
the smile disappear from Buffy's face.

"What the fuck do you mean, "she could be"?" Andy
said.

**Yeah! What the...heck...do you mean?**

"Well, she's cute," Xander explained. "Got a great
figure...from what I can tell. But don't you guys think
she's a little...I dunno...prim and proper?"

The other two were silent for a moment, as though
seriously considering Xander's comment.

"It's just," he went on, "her hair is all pulled back
in that tight braid and she hardly wears any make-
up. She looks a little...dowdy."

Buffy's hand automatically went to the top of
her head, her fingers touching the neat French
Braid she'd made there.

"And her blouse is all buttoned up tight. Skirt
down to her knees. I mean...the girl's got potential,
but she's not using it."

"Doesn't look like Spike is real concerned about
that," Oz pointed out.

"Don't get me wrong," Xander said quickly. "She's
real nice. She's just not his usual...type, if you know
what I'm saying."

"Of course we know what you're fucking saying," Andy
chimed in. "We've been playing together for three
fucking years now."

Buffy heard the door start to swing closed, and the
men's voices fade as they returned to the main room.

"....when we get going..."

"....he acts like he's pretty serious about..."

"....that'll be the fucking day..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


She stared at herself in the full length mirror
mounted on the wall next to the sink, feeling dull
and lifeless...nothing like the fresh, neat feeling
she'd had upon leaving the house earlier.

Prim and proper? Dowdy? Not using her full
potential?

The only thing they'd left out was the word "mousy".

** "Not his usual type...if you know what I mean." **

Buffy knew exactly what he'd meant.

Devlin's usual type was, obviously, anything but
her.

So...what did that mean? What...he was just amusing
himself, killing some time before he could get out of
town and hook up with someone of his 'usual type'?

But what about the things he had said? They'd seemed
sincere.

** "You wouldn't believe the fastasies I've had about
teachers..." **

Staring at herself, she pulled her blouse out of the
elastic waistband of her skirt.

** "Give me your name and phone number." **

She slowly rolled the elastic, watching as her "prim
and proper" skirt got shorter and shorter.

** "I've never been more serious in my life." **

Swinging one leg up at a time, she smoothed her
stockings.

** "Get ready for me, darling." **

Buffy unfastened the top three buttons of her blouse.

** "I intend to rock your safe little world." **

She tucked the sides of her blouse inside, baring
her skin and showing a hint of her cleavage.

** "You're what...not used to a man being interested
in you?" **

Bringing her hands to her hair, she began undoing
her braid.

** "...being attracted to you?" **

She shook her head, spreading out the soft waves
the braid had left in her hair.

** "...wanting you?" **

She unslung her shoulder bag, dumping it's contents
out on the counter.

** "You'll need to get used to it." **

Bending at the waist, she brushed her hair
vigorously, then threw her head back. Full and
thick from the back brushing, it framed her face
in a honey colored cloud.

** "Tell me what you want, and I'll move heaven
and earth to get it for you." **


When she was finished redoing her make up, her
mouth was painted a glossy shade of crimson,
and her eyes were heavily shadowed.

** "I could fall in love with you without even trying." **

Her mascara wand lengthened her lashes, and a fair
amount of rose colored blush dusted her cheeks.

** "Do you think you could fall in love with me, too?" **

Oh, yes. Definitely. Without thinking twice.

Giving herself a final once-over in the mirror, she
smiled.

"Prim and proper?" she asked her reflection as she
gathered together her beauty products. "Well, as
Andy would say....Fuck THAT!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


She stepped out the rear door, and into the late afternoon
sun.

Devlin was waiting for her. Leaning back against the
saddle of the motorcycle, he was wearing a blindingly
white tee shirt, a snug fitting pair of jeans, and a short
leather jacket.

He glanced up when he heard her shoes crunching
the gravel beneath them.

When he saw her, his eyes widened and his jaw
sagged. Buffy wouldn't have been surprised to see
his tongue roll out and hit the ground.

Ordering every scrap of her nerve to get her feet
moving, she approached him with her hands clasped
behind her back, a position that thrust her breasts
forward enticingly...she hoped. "I'm ready for that
ride you offered me."

"Bloody hell," Spike muttered, still staring at her. "I've
died and gone to heaven." Standing upright, he
smiled and extended one hand. "Hop on, Miss
Buffy," he said. "I'm about to show you a very good
time."

TBC....

Still with me?





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