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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Chapter 12 is beta'd and completed and I will post soon! *hugs* Thanks to Christine for the beta job on this! You rock, babe! =D
“Spike! Can you make it to New York right now?”




“Uh…yeah, mate, see… I’m in L.A., remember?”




“Fuck. I forgot.”




“Yeah…what’s going on, Rich?”




“You can’t make it to Lakely?”




“’m in *L.A.*. ‘s like a three day trip by bus. There’s no way I can come, not now.”




“Dammit.”




“Rich, what’s goin’ on?




“Oh, fuck it. Spike…my God, why was I such a fucking jackass?”




“What the hell? Rich! Rich, talk to me! What the fuck happened?!”




“God, Spike…it’s Connor.”




A pause. Then, “Richard, what happened to Connor?”




“He’s…he’s d-dead, Spike.”




******




Spike had made it back to the hotel late at night, around seven-thirty, skipping dinner and heading straight to his room to mull things over. After a good “thinking session”, regarding Buffy’s magnificent skill level and adaptability, he had additionally entertained Connor-related thoughts. He couldn’t say that he was completely rid of his guilt from their talk that afternoon.




Connor’s behavior had been unsettling, to say the least. Spike knew that if he were in Connor’s shoes, he would be scared shitless. Getting on bad terms with a guy like Ace was just begging for trouble; even worse, not being able to pay up and disappear until Ace forgot about you (which was *highly* unlikely) meant your death was not far. Spike was troubled and he felt an unreasonable surge of hatred go through him, all of which was directed at Connor. He knew that he couldn’t *really* blame Connor; after all, the boy had only asked Spike for help because he thought Spike was his friend and he could be trusted. It was unfortunate that Spike had been unable to assist him. Before he had left for L.A., his uncle had warned him that if he headed to New York with any intentions to gamble at Vi’s, the hub of crime, sex, and violence, Spike’s second home, he would immediately be sent home




Then, around one a.m., Richard McGuffin had called him. Spike recalled that Connor had spoken to him at lunchtime, which meant that in the last twelve hours, God knows what may have happened. Ace wasn’t known to be a patient guy, especially when it came to money. When he had spoken to Rich, he had sensed that something bad had gone down that night; the tone of Richard’s voice was incredibly unlike him. Richard McGuffin was the co-owner of Vi’s, the result of being the all-famous gambler in their basement, and was known to be cool, controlled and calm. He was like a snake; conniving, smart, smooth and slick.




And then, Rich had said the words that had slammed the lid on Spike’s coffin with a loud finality: ‘He’s dead, Spike.’




After another half hour of comforting, on Spike’s part, he finally managed to calm Rich down. Spike decided that now, lying in his bed with an incredibly loud snorer of a roommate, was never a better time to think about what had gone down.




*When Connor asked me for money, I refused; he never even told me it was Ace, or that it was money for a debt. I knew it had to do with drugs, but I misunderstood him; I thought he needed money to buy drugs, not to pay off a debt.*




Spike remembered Connor talking about how his father had refused to give him the cash to pay off his debt with Ace. He figured that it probably explained why Rich had said no; trust Connor to fuck up explaining why he needed the money. Spike knew for a fact that had Connor been honest and told Rich he needed the money for a different reason, his father would have probably, if not grudgingly, handed over the cash.




*Connor was pissed at me; he told me he’d be in L.A. for a few days. I asked him why, he said he needed to see a friend. He left before I could tell him anything. I think I have to take the blame for his carefree attitude with his life; I never really paid attention to him, not *really*. I should be ashamed; I’m his fucking *father*, for fuck’s sake!*




Spike felt a pang of remorse; “he needed to see a friend…” Spike snorted inwardly, some friend *he* had turned out to be.




*While he was gone, I began hearing these weird stories floating around Vi’s. I don’t usually heed the rumors; they are, if not always, silly gossip that the gamblers like to spread about one another after a shitty game. It was different this time, though. God, I heard his name. Connor’s, you know. They were talking about how the “Ice King’s pretty boy son” had signed his own death sentence. I beat up a guy or two, asking for information. They told me that Connor was involved with Ace, buying drugs and stuff, which I already knew. I just didn’t know it was *Ace*, of all people. It takes *my* fucking son to go to the most dangerous dealer in all of New York. I mean, there are some pretty lowlife dealers out there, who just care about the cash. They’re not into the whole power rush; Ace, on the other hand, well, I used to help Ace. I got him started, getting the drugs imported and all that. I helped him with accounting, since I’m damn good with numbers, you know. It kicked off like a rocket; we ended up selling really cheap at first, and people came. You know, the usual target crowd; street kids, alcoholics, laid-off workers who were looking for a way out of this world without *really* leaving it, because they still had a kid or two to support.*




The irony of the situation was near painful; Connor had been murdered by the very man who had, essentially, been supported and encouraged by his own father!




*No wonder he feels like shit. I mean, it’s one thing to lose a kid; it’s another to lose a kid to the guy who you used to work with*, Spike thought, a grimace upon his handsome features.




*Then, I get a call from Ace. He tells me that he killed my kid and that he’s ‘real sorry’, ‘cause he didn’t know Connor was my boy. He told me what went down; Connor went down to a youth shelter, where a couple of his friends, who bought from Ace as well, stayed. He tried to get the money from them, but obviously, they couldn’t help them. That’s not to say they probably didn’t *want* to; these kids spent their money on drugs. Any other expense would have seemed an utter waste to them, I suspect. Anyways, he told me that he and his gang cornered Connor on Sixth Avenue. They beat him, and eventually, Ace pulled the trigger. I didn’t even get to say anything past the expected obscenities before Ace hung up on me. He fucking *knew* that Connor was my kid, he *knew*, Spike! He knew, the minute Connor bought from him, that he was my kid! He led Connor on, getting him into drugs, spreading bullshit about me and how I’d raised a “crackhead” for a kid. Then, I stopped gambling at Vi’s for a bit, taking care of business elsewhere until I came back, you know? I guess Connor didn’t have the cash, and God, Spike…my *son* is *dead*…”




Then came the crying, the inevitable weeping that broke Spike’s heart. He was yet again the reason for another death, for the end of the life of a loved one. Sure, he hadn’t “loved” Connor, but he had been the son of the man who had saved him, who had protected him from thugs and dealers. That meant a lot, and Spike suspected that deep down, the “pretty boy crackhead” did have a good heart. It was just a shame that he had taken the wrong path in life.




Spike had done his best to soothe Rich, until he calmed down. They agreed they’d talk in a week or two, after arrangements were made and other business was attended to. After hanging up, it was nearly half-past one and Spike was dead tired. But he knew he would get no sleep tonight, oh, no, he definitely would not. The guilt and grief that filled his entire being was overwhelming, too much to bear. Like his mother, he had disappointed yet another person, and it had resulted in their death. Spike hadn’t realized the wetness on his face, until he lifted his fingers to touch his cheek in a tentative fashion. Wet, salty tears ran their course down his face until Spike angrily wiped them away, furious for his lack of control.



He couldn’t risk leaving the hotel, but he was so tempted to. The room was suffocating and, glancing over at Doyle, while he was assured that his roommate had not eavesdropped on his conversation, he *could not* be assured that Doyle wouldn’t awaken to his broken sobs. Besides, he was a man. He could hold his own without breaking down like a blubbering little child.



Taking a deep, calming breath, Spike willed control over his bursting emotions. He closed his eyes, but did not sleep. He simply lay on the bed, the room filled with deafening silence, as he could only hear the pounding of his heart.



And the disappointing words of his father…



*All you do is bring pain and suffering to the people around you.*




*Truer words were never spoken*, Spike thought miserably.




******




Buffy was *exhausted*. It was one o’clock in the morning, and she was still in the process of finishing her calculus homework. It was the last of the work, but it was so tedious, it felt as if she had been working on it for hours. She had to admit, she was rather proud of herself for finishing her homework. Although she didn’t quite grasp some of the concepts because of lack of focus and attendance during today’s classes, she found that most of it was pretty simple. She was a smart girl, when she chose to apply herself.




She snorted inwardly at her Joyce-like thoughts. Her mother always said that about her, as if implying that she didn’t take her life seriously enough. Her thoughts drifting from calculus, she recalled an argument that she and her mother had engaged in, about two years after Faith’s death. She had been sixteen, just finishing grade ten at Sunnydale High…




(Flashback)




*Sunnydale, California: June 14th, 2006**




“Buffy Anne Summers, explain yourself! *Now*!” Joyce shouted, her face red from the exertion of yelling at her daughter. Clutched tightly in her left hand were Buffy’s exam results. Her marks ranged from low sixties to early seventies and her mother was furious, to say the least.




Sixteen year old Buffy stood in front of her mother in the living room, her eyes darting from her mother’s face to the paper in her hand. Then, she drew herself up to her full height. “Mom, I did my best! I studied like crazy for those exams, you know I did!”




Joyce merely laughed, a horrible sound laced with bitterness and disappointment. “Please! Your *best*?” she sneered, then continued, “What *is* that anymore? Not moping around like you used to? Not failing every damn course?”




Buffy flinched at her mother’s harsh words. It was true; after Faith’s death, she had changed dramatically. She had taken a much more serious perspective on life, learning early on that even those that loved and supported you had to leave at some point, whether you liked it or not. “I did! I tried! I just…I didn’t understand-”




Joyce exploded. “Then you ask questions! When you don’t understand something, you ask questions! You don’t hide it within yourself, waiting until your lack of understanding reflects upon your marks!” She waved the exam paper for good measure.




Buffy sighed. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said miserably. “Soccer just got in the way of things, I guess.”




Joyce clenched her jaw tightly, throwing the paper down roughly. “It always does, doesn’t it?” she said bitterly. “But what would it say about me, if I took my daughter out of the one thing that made her happy?”




Buffy looked surprised at the sudden change in Joyce’s mood. She seemed suddenly morose. “You complain about me, about my marks. Why don’t you just take me out of soccer, then?”




Joyce’s eyes welled with tears as she stared at her daughter unhappily. Her expression was one of regret, mixed with disappointment. “Because,” she said, turning for the stairs. “If I did, what difference would it make?”




“W-what do you mean, Mom?”




“You’d fail, anyhow.”




Buffy watched, shocked, as her mother travelled up the stairs. Hearing the bedroom door slam shut, she collapsed on the couch, not yet realizing the tear tracks on her face. She was too busy thinking about the condemning words of her own mother, who had no faith in her succeeding in *anything*, be it soccer or school.




*Oh, Faith. I need you. Why did you have to die? I need you…* Buffy’s thoughts of grief mingled with her tears as she wept silently on the couch, before leaving for the park, hoping to relieve some stress with some personal soccer practice.




(End of Flashback)




******




After another half-hour of excruciating problem solving, her calculus homework was finished and Buffy was elated. Then, she deflated accordingly when she realized the time. What could she possibly do for fun at this hour? Then, a brilliant idea came to her and her mood instantly brightened. Grabbing her sweatshirt, she pulled it over head and shoved the hood onto her back. She glanced fleetingly at Drusilla, who appeared to be sound asleep in her bed. Although it occurred to her that if Drusilla actually was awake, she could *easily* rat Buffy out to Ethan about leaving the hotel after hours, which was strictly forbidden, she really couldn’t find it in her to care. She knew that her soccer career was greatly at stake, but she really needed time away from the Arena, Ethan, Drusilla, Spike, *everything*.




She tiptoed to her bedside table and reached for her hotel keycard, iPod and cell phone, sliding them in the pocket of her hoodie before quietly turning off the lamp. She shoved her feet into her low-top Converse sneakers and reached for her favorite Nike soccer ball in the closet before silently exiting the hotel room. She shut the door gently when she was outside and carefully made her way down to the elevators, hoping she hadn’t awoken anyone with the sound of her exit. She punched the “down” button near the actual elevator and quickly stepped inside, allowing the doors to close before she pressed the button that would lead her to the main lobby. Despite her case of claustrophobia, she found herself rather calm as she waited to be lowered to her destination. Today’s practice had been strangely satisfying and her mood had been relatively good all evening. She knew it wasn’t wise to leave so late, considering it meant she would only earn a few hours of solid sleep before practice ensued.




*Duty calls*, Buffy thought wryly.




She pushed the worrisome thoughts out of her head and strutted across the floor of the main lobby with confidence; pushing through the revolving door, she made her way out into the city of L.A. Ignoring her mother’s warnings about travelling into the city without Mallory, she strode down the sidewalk. She clutched the ball tightly to her chest as she made her way further into the throng of the L.A. crowd. She wondered idly why so many people were up and about at this hour, and almost laughed out loud at the irony. She supposed many of them were like her; people who were just trying to get away from the awful confusion of daily life.




And then, as she turned down a darker sidewalk, hoping to find a deserted street to kick the ball around, she yelped as a sharp sensation reverberated throughout her skull. With a suddenly violent fight to remain conscious, she found herself failing miserably. Her eyes slowly closed, but not before she saw the leering man staring over her with a sleazy smile on his face…




TBC


Chapter End Notes:
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