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Bright and early the next morning, Buffy was rousted from a restless slumber by the shrill sound of her alarm clock screaming at her loudly. Groggily, she reached from beneath a pile of covers and slapped at the annoyance until the incessant noise came to an end. With a loud and very unladylike groan, Buffy poked her tousled head from its sanctuary beneath the pillow and studied the glowing numbers on the clock to check the time. She realized with a grimace that it had only been four hours since she had fallen into bed with tears streaming down her face.

Since her head was throbbing and her stomach was still churning from the alcohol she’d consumed, not to mention the shame that curdled in the pit of her belly, she decided that maybe a shower would make her feel a better. Pushing herself out of the bed, she staggered towards the bathroom while tugging at the zipper on her wrinkled red dress that apparently wanted to be worn all day because it was putting up quite the fight. With one last effort, Buffy tugged on the zipper and sighed with relief when she was finally free of the garment, which she left on the floor before stepping into a scalding hot shower. She stayed there, water pounding full force on her head and rolling down her back until it turned cold, alternating between washing and crying. She had never been so embarrassed and ashamed of her actions before. The way she had behaved with that man, a total stranger nonetheless, was completely uncharacteristic for Buffy; who was normally in possession of a normal head and a libido that didn’t fly off the wall so easily. The fact that she hadn’t even learned his name just added to the guilt that was eating away at her conscience.

As the water beat down on to her throbbing head, Buffy replayed the moments from her passionate tryst, which had her cheeks flushing instantly and the tingling ache between her legs returning with full force. She turned off the now frigid water, as a fresh wave of tears began and she slowly climbed out of the shower. After wrapping her hair in a turban, Buffy bundled herself in a pink fluffy robe climbed back into her warm bed; her body still partially wet. Before pulling the covers back up over her head, Buffy placed a quick call to the school to let them know she wasn’t going to be able to come in that morning to help with Saturday detention. There was just no way she going to be able to accomplish anything that day other than resting and feeling sorry for herself.

Several hours later, she was awakened again by yet another shrill noise, but this time it was the telephone. Annoyed, she quickly pulled the handset under the covers with her and groggily said, “Hello?” On the other end was Robin Wood, the principal at Hemery High School, calling to check on her. Even though he made sure to assert the fact that he always called and checked on sick employees, Buffy felt sure his actions were due to the mild flirtations they had engaged in since she was hired. She assured him she was doing better and promised to go see a doctor if her condition worsened, thinking at the same time she didn’t know which type of caregiver she would need for this particular illness. Finally, she was able to get him off the phone and retreat back into her haven.

It clock was nearing four in the afternoon when she forced herself to crawl back out of the bed. The band was meeting in an hour to rehearse a new song and she was already running late. She barely glanced in the mirror as she got ready to leave; tugging on some clothes that had been carelessly tossed on the floor and gathered her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck. Unable to function at anything other than a snail‘s pace, she grabbed her keys and headed towards the studio.

As usual, Buffy was the last to arrive. When she entered the room, the aroma of food wafted into her nose and caused her stomach to churn. The effects of last night’s alcohol consumption made her nauseous from the smell, but the lack of food in her system also had her tummy growling in anticipation. Studying the cart, she settled on a croissant and water and wandered over to her band mates. She mumbled a quick hello and settled herself on the couch, waiting for her cue to begin practice.

Faith eyed her cautiously, wondering what had the usually abnormally perky Buffy so miserable. With a gleam in her eye, Faith remembered Buffy’s late dinner date with Riley. Grinning, she asked “B, you look like hell. Did that beast Riley wear you out last night?” She sauntered over to where her friend was sprawled on the sofa and perched on the arm rest. Buffy quietly mumbled that Riley had nothing to do with her condition, and stated that she just didn’t feel well today.

“Uh, yeah, right,” Faith laughed and pointed towards Buffy‘s neck, “Sick, huh? Looks to me, B, like you were bit by something, or should I say, someone last night!”

A look of alarm crossed Buffy’s face. “What are you talking about, Faith?!” She jumped off the couch, her hands covering her neck, and crossed the room to look in the mirror. She gasped in horror when she noticed a red bruise hovering around the area of her jugular. ‘Holy shit!’ She thought to herself as she warily eyeballed the unsightly hickey. Grimacing, Buffy turned back to Faith and asked, “Would you believe it was a hair styling mishap?”

Shaking her head at her shocked friend, Faith chuckled and said, “Not even if pigs flew through the room right now would I believe that a curling iron did that to your neck. So, if Riley wasn’t the culprit, who was?”


“No one you know.” Buffy muttered, thinking to herself that even she didn’t know who was to blame. It was then that Xander and Oz decided to join the conversation, poking fun at her juvenile hickey. Buffy groaned some more, as if the shame she was experiencing wasn’t bad enough now, she had to relive it by having to do a question and answer section. Pleading with them, Buffy begged them to move on to another topic or start practice. Oz noticed her discomfort and helped direct Faith and Xander’s attention elsewhere. For the next two hours, Buffy threw herself into learning the new work and pushed the memories from last night to the back of her brain.

~*~*~ ~*~*~ ~*~*~ ~*~*~

Across town, a certain blonde paced impatiently in his living room while simultaneously cursing himself for never getting her name, then cursing himself for drinking so much whiskey that he had forgotten to act like he was a civilized human being. One glance from the stage and Spike was entranced for the remainder of the night. His dick had taken over, attacking the stunning beauty like he was a cave man. “Hell, it’s a sodding wonder that I didn’t just conk her over the head and drag her back to my bloody flat!” He fumed, kicking his leg out and striking the edge of the coffee table, sending Dru’s magazines scattering to the floor.

After he had gotten home, Drusilla was waiting up for him in the kitchen; he noticed that her bags were still packed and sitting in the foyer. Briefly he had thought that it would be easier if she would just leave, making him feel worse for cheating on her at the bar. They had been together so long that if felt like over a hundred years of fighting and loving one another. Spike had never thought that another woman would ever consume him, until he found his ray of sunlight. Guilt and liquor had him in a rather foul mood when he saw Dru, and it was over before it ever began. Tears were shed, hateful words were screamed. When it was all said and done, his dark princess called it quits and walked out of his life for good. Deep inside, Spike knew he should feel worse about what had happened between him and Dru, but his foul mood was solely focused on the woman he’d let sprint away from him the night before with her shoes clutched against her chest and tears streaming down her cheeks.

When the phone rang a while later, Spike had no problem accepting the job opportunity given to him; needing both to focus on something other than the night before and escape from his life for a while. Bright and early the next morning, he would be leaving for six months to do private security for yet another overly rich individual that had gotten themselves into a fine mess. Lighting a cigarette, Spike flopped down on to the black leather couch, sinking down low to put his feet onto the coffee table like Drusilla hated, and prayed that things would be better when he returned.





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