At first, I rip up Riley Fuckwit’s number and throw it in the trashcan. I try to occupy myself with other things. I check my email, hit the Man U forums, listen to a couple of thrashy records, and reorganize the liquor cabinet. Two hours later, I find myself standing in front of the wastebasket, conflicted and torn. Finally, I give up all semblance of self-control. I dump the contents of the basket on the floor and sift through cigarette ash and some unidentified brown stuff to get to the scraps. It takes me another twenty minutes just to tape the soddin’ pieces together. And then the incessant phone stalking begins.
The first five times, Buffy answers. The third time, she hisses, “Spike, I’m going to kill you”, and the fever in her voice makes me perk up. If she was indifferent, I wouldn’t have anything to work with. But aggravation and hatred?
I can work with that.
The fifth time she says gruffly, “Spike, if you don’t stop, I will personally kick your ass back to the mother country.”
“You just want an excuse to get your hot lil’ hands all over my arse, don’t you, kitten?”
She emits a strangled and frustrated shriek before hanging up on me.
After the rings that follow, she stops answering, but I’m not falling for it. A few times, Riley Fuckwit answers. I feel my heart pound heavy and quick like a machine gun when I hear his bland, deep voice saying “Look, Buffy and I don’t want any trouble, er, Spike. We’d just like to be left alone.”
“Buffy and I”. “We”. Ha bloody ha. This poor pissant is delusional if he really thinks he’s got some sort of claim on my Buffy. If she’s completely his, why would she keep picking up the phone? Why would she be so breathlessly choked up with emotion and dare I say passion when she’s yelling at me?
I’m not done with this, I decide. Not by a long shot.
“Why do you keep calling them?” Willow asks me a week later at the Bronze with Oz. “You’re really starting to freak Buffy out.”
I sip on my beer and smirk. Over the past seven days, I’ve called hundreds of times, at all hours. And it’s not merely induced by rage and desperation the way it was with Dru. I’m amused that I’m causing so much drama between Buffy and her new excuse for a man. Hopefully, Fuckwit will get so tired of it all that he’ll pack her in, knowing that there’s still so much that’s unresolved between Buffy and me.
“That’s not it!” Willow cries when I offer this explanation. “If anything, you’re just pushing them together! It’s like you’re making them form this unit against you and it’s not good.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And why’s it not good, Red?”
“Because Riley sucks,” Oz says simply. “I don’t like him.”
I turn to him in surprise. It’s very rare for Oz to express a negative opinion about anyone, so I’m readily intrigued.
“I knew it! Crew Cut’s a fuckwit, ’init he?”
Oz shrugs, but Willow interrupts before we can start the Riley-bashing.
“Not a fuckwit. Just . . . different.”
“He’s boring,” Oz cuts in and Willow slaps his shoulder, frowning. “What? I’m just being honest.”
“Honesty’s your best virtue, mate,” I say, sidling up to him in hopes of getting more information. “So what’s the wanker like?”
“He’s nice,” Willow states firmly. “He’s a little . . . dull--”
“And controlling. And boring. Did I forget to mention boring?” Oz adds.
“Oz!”
“Okay.” Oz leans conspiratorially towards me, obstructing Willow from my view. “We had dinner with Buffy and Riley two nights ago and all he could talk about was his work.”
“Let me guess. Corporate-yuppie-Brooks-Brothers-wearing-bastard?”
“Basically. It’s like, dude, I got that making partner at your law firm’s a big deal and I’m sure a time-share in Palm Springs is exciting for some people, but do I look like the type of guy that’d be interested in that sort of thing?”
This is the longest tirade I’ve ever heard Oz go on about anything, even longer than the time he got drunk and someone told him the Clash were overrated. In this moment, I’ve officially deemed Oz my best mate.
“Don’t do this, Oz,” Willow fumes through clenched teeth while shaking her head. “You’re only encouraging him.”
“And why’s he so controlling?” I ask Oz eagerly, ignoring Willow.
“He ordered everything for her. Not the mandarin orange salad ‘cause the acid would upset her stomach, not the spaghetti carbonara ‘cause it was too fatty--”
“Guys, stop!” Willow pleads helplessly, but we just blunder on.
“Bastard!” I yell. “Buffy loves spaghetti carbonara! How'd she seem with him?”
“Bored. Uncomfortable. She did ask about you, though.”
A gleam alights in my eye. Jackpot. Bint still wants me. “Did she, now?”
“She wanted to see when the hell you’d pay her back that five hundred dollars you owe her!” Willow exclaims, finally regaining control of the conversation.
I blush, but refuse to let this deter my hope. “But she did mention me?”
Willow sighs melodramatically. “Spike, you can’t keep this up. Did you hear me? Buffy is freaked out. She’s thinking about calling the cops.”
Bugger. The hope starts to wane a bit. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh she wouldn’t? Tell me, what would you do if your ex-girlfriend who owed you money and slept with someone else kept harassing you when you’re a guest at someone’s house? Don’t you think you’ve embarrassed her enough?”
“Alright, alright. I’ll bloody stop. As long as you answer this question, Red.”
Willow looks at me uneasily. “What?”
I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. “What do you think of Riley Fuckwit?”
Her cheeks flush and she opens her mouth to start stammering. I lean back satisfied. That’s all the answer I need.
“H-he’s okay. I-I mean, I just met him, I c-can’t really form any opinions right away--”
Oz shakes his head, amused. “You said and I quote, ‘he’s as exciting as glue on toast’.”
“So?! He’s a little lame, but he’s taking care of Buffy and he hasn’t done half of the things Spike’s done to her!”
“No he’s just an accomplice in helping her cuckold me,' init he?” I rasp back harshly. Willow shrinks and Oz nods in agreement. “It’s not as simple as it looks, Red.”
“Alright,” Willow concedes after a few moments. “I don’t like Riley. And I don’t know what she’s doing with him. But she’s been telling me she’s confused and you’re not making it easier on her.”
“She hasn’t exactly made it easier on me!”
“Spike, you just need to lay off. That’s all I’m saying. Like I said, if you lash out on Buffy or Riley, it’s just going to give them more to like . . . bond over. And since it’s been dragged kicking and screaming out of me, no, I don’t want them to bond over anything.”
I consider this. Red’s got a point. Maybe this was my problem with Dru. Made myself too readily available. Maybe I need to play hard to get.
It’s the one tactic I haven’t tried.
The next week, I lay low. It’s boring as balls, but I do my best to fill up the time I’d otherwise spend annoying Buffy and Glue Toast. I buy loads of video games and play through them in the span of a day. I watch every season of The Shield on DVD. I go through my old Playboys and wank off ceaselessly, avoiding centerfolds of the blonde skinny birds as they remind me too much of Buffy. I pester Xander, Oz and Gunn to go drinkin’ me with more than a couple times, which thoroughly annoys Anya, Willow and Fred. Anya goes as far as to leave me a nasty voice mail about how my influence on her man is resulting in a lack of orgasms since the whelp can’t get it up sauced. I grimace when I hear it, but it’s more at the thought of Xander getting laid when I can’t.
In the back of my mind though, I think of her. All the time. It’s only been two weeks since I’ve seen her, but the memories are becoming increasingly hazy after nights of heavy drinking and self-induced brain damage.
I wonder if she still does that thing where she rubs her feet against her calves three times before she closes her eyes to sleep. Wonder if she insists on making Riley watch those bloody stupid makeover TV shows with her too. Wonder if she – oh God Forbid, not with him, please God, not with him – still half-laughs-half-screams when she cums.
The last bit is just self-flagellation, I know. But ever since she bombarded me with those shrewish lies, I keep turning them over in my head. What if they weren’t lies? What if amidst her harpy trilling, it was all true? What if at this moment, Riley is filling her up with his diminutive little cock and out of pure spite for me, Buffy’s howling and riding it six ways ‘til Sunday?
No, no. Mustn’t think it. The thought drives me too mad. Every time I think of Fuckwit and Buffy bumpin’ uglies, another piece of furniture in the flat gets destroyed. Barely have a coffee table anymore. Must remind myself that there’s no way in hell that Fuckwit would ever be able to imitate the wild, animalistic nights of pleasure Buffy and I’ve shared. There’s no way she’d even try to attempt that with anyone else. Not my Buffy. No way.
I keep telling myself that and go to work.
The store is crowded since it’s a Saturday. It steers my mind away from the sordid Fuckwit-Buffy porno that constantly replays in my head. Gunn, Xander and Oz are all busy for once. From the register, I actually survey the picture with some pride. Oz is gently coaxing a customer into putting down a Green Day CD and picking up the first Stiff Little Fingers album, Gunn is extolling the virtues of Afrikka Bambaataa to some bewildered hoodlum and Xander – well Xander tries his best. Xander is bullying some old lady because she doesn’t know who Lou Reed is.
“You see this?!” Xander yells, waving a Velvet Underground album in the poor git’s face. “This is a part of musical history. It’s as old as you! You should know what this is!”
“Please,” the woman murmurs, near tears. “I was just looking for a Barry Manilow record for my sister. I don’t--”
“Hush!” Xander silences her. “As breathtaking as Barry’s voice is, trust me on this. You want this record instead.”
The lady regards Xander as a terrifying force of musical law and grabs the record just to get away from him. As she scurries up to the register, Xander looks at me above the crowd with a spirited grin and gives me the thumbs up sign. I shake my head.
Around six-thirty, the customers start to diminish in number, but I manage to keep myself distracted by reading some magazines. I even come across an article on Veruca’s band, The Dervishes. After viewing the naughty little picture of Veruca flung over an amp with her tits hanging out of a Lyrca bodysuit, I lose myself in the glossy until the bell by the door rings once more.
I look up and immediately crumple the magazine in my hand. It’s unmistakably him. Riley Fuckwit. He’s wearing an impeccably pressed Italian suit that probably cost more then the store’s profit last year. Wanker.
He marches in with a superior air, but when he finds mohawked, tattooed, pierced and slovenly freaks taking in the tie and the suit, he looks like he’s lost some ballast. I grin widely for the first time today. I watch as he helplessly searches around for something to buoy him back up and he smiles with relief when he spots Oz.
“Oz! What’s up?” He holds his hand up to Oz, who stares at him briefly, then gives him a non-committal shrug before walking away.
Fuckwit’s struggling now. He tries reaching out to Gunn, who passes him on the way to the back. “What’s up, homie?” he asks with an insipid smile. Gunn stares at him for a second, eyes skimming over the cuff links and the Armani dress shirt. He whoops and guffaws and shakes his head.
That’s right, you arse. You think you can just cross into my territory and not expect hostility?
He turns around slowly, as if he can sense my silent satisfaction. I dip my head and resume reading the article, but it’s too late. He recognizes me. He strides over slowly, like a lion inspecting its prey. But little does he know, I’m no fuckin’ gazelle.
“Spike, right?”
I look up with a glare. “Who’s asking?”
He paints on a wide smile and extends his hand. “Riley Finn. I believe we talked briefly on the phone.”
I squint at his hand briefly, then chuckle and look away.
His hand snaps back and true hostility seeps onto his face. “Look, Spike.” He emphasizes my name with scorn. “I think you know why I’m here.”
“Yeah. But sorry mate, we don’t have the latest Kenny G album, so you can piss off now.”
His hands become fists on the counter. “You’ve been calling my apartment a lot. It’s getting pretty close to harassment.”
“Bollocks. Aven’t called your house in a bloody week. Not sure what the problem is.”
“Oh and you don’t think you’re going to try again when Buffy sees through this sorry “playing it cool” game? I’m a man too, Spike, I know how it works.”
It’s my turn to clench my fists. So Glue Toast has a tiny smattering o’ insight. So what?
“I mean, if I lost Buffy,” the fucker continues, “I’d play all my cards too, you know? She’s really an incredible girl. Can’t imagine how hard it must be to let her go.”
The more he keeps prattling on in that patronizing tone of his, the more I envision painful, gruesome scenes involving Riley, disembowelment, rusty kitchen knives and blowtorches. I try my best to keep the bloodlust out of my eyes. “Don’t need to let her go,” I respond coolly. “My girl will come to her senses soon enough.”
He throws his fat head back and laughs heartily. “Your girl? Please.” He stops and leans forward menacingly. “She’s with me now.”
“Using you, mate. You’re just a pawn in this game Buffy and I are playin’. The one we’re always playin’. You’ll find out soon enough.” I twirl a toothpick between my teeth and try to look bored. “Feel sorry for you, in fact. It’ll hurt once you realize you’ve been duped.”
He slams his fist down on the counter. At the sound, I stand up straighter, poised for a fight. My blood is pulsing quickly through my body now. I’m ready for the scrap; I welcome it.
Oz, Xander and Gunn hear it too, as well as the few straggling customers still in the store. They look up and the air becomes noticeably palpable and thick. Riley and I stand face-to-face, both tensing. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear a Western song whistle in m’head. It’s a stand-off. I’m bloody Wyatt Earp and Fuckwit’s . . . the other guy. The scoundrel that’s captured my Buffy.
I’m momentarily distracted by the thought of Buffy in scanty saloon singer garb ala Marilyn Monroe in River of No Return, but then Riley clears his throat and I remember I’m supposed to be stomping his ass into the floor. So I look up and crack my knuckles.
Silence hangs in the store for a few heavy minutes. Then suddenly, Riley appears to relent. He relaxes and resumes smiling innocently.
“Look, I didn’t come here to get into anything. I just came here to make sure we understand each other.”
I understand that you’re a fucking ugly arrogant ponce who’ll beg for mercy and instant death if I ever get the chance to ---
“I think we do, mate,” I say aloud, smirking to myself.
He nods. “Good. Then my work here is done.” He starts to leave and evades the glares coming from Oz, Xander and Gunn. Just as he’s got one foot out the door, I laugh and say:
“I understand that you’re a sorry sack o’ shite that’ll cry like a lil’ chit when he realizes he’s been nothing but a stand-in for me.”
He lunges for me so quickly that I’ve got no time to react. Almost. His fist misses my face by mere centimeters.
My fist, however. It finds its home. Right between his bloody eyes.
It’s like we’re moving in slow motion. He stumbles up and pushes me into the country section. He’s choking me, but I regain footing and get my hands around his neck long enough to drive him into the hip-hop racks. Gunn and Oz immediately come to my aid, although I’m doing just fine by my lonesome. Xander stands on the sidelines with the excitement of a middle-schooler. “Fight! Fight!” he cries as he bounces on his heels with delight.
“You don’t know anything about Buffy. You never will. You’ll never know her like I do. Do. You. Understand. Me. You. Stupid. Motherfucker?” I punctuate each word with another blow as I’m holding him by his newly crumpled and bloody Armani shirt collar. This tosser should be ashamed that he’s getting his arse handed to him by someone he overweighs by fifty pounds.
Riley smiles through two black eyes and spits blood in m’face. “I know that she rubs her calves with her feet exactly three times and makes that sound before she goes to bed. You know that sound, dontcha Spike? That little sigh that makes your toes curl?”
My mouth falls open and I let go of him.
No.
No.
I’m struggling to keep the ragged pants from escaping my rapidly tightening chest. My eyes go blurry and I walk away from Riley and the rest of them.
“Hey, you okay?” I can hear Oz saying, but all I can think of are the words Fuckwit isn’t saying echoing endlessly through m’brain.
I know that she half-laugh-half-screams when she cums.
But. Just because he knew about the before-bed thing, it doesn’t mean – it’s doesn’t mean –
“FUCK THIS!” I roar.
To everyone’s confusion, I turn on my heel and walk straight out the door.
And go out to bed Veruca the very same night.
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Sorry there's been a hold-up with the updates and a big THANK YOU to everyone who's reviewed!