Spike was the kind of guy who prided himself on being the friend who you could trust and rely on. You know, the one you went to for all your little problems and worries. It wasn’t that he wanted to actually deal with his friends’ personal issues, it was just the principle of it. He was a good friend, and he liked that.
Well, except for times like now.
A hard tap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie, and he whirled around in swift anger, his cigarette dropping from his fingertips.
What he saw surprised him.
“Connor,” he said, his casual voice belying the obvious question in his crystal blue eyes.
Connor nodded briefly at him, running a hand nervously through his already bushy brown curls. He refused to meet Spike’s eyes as he said, “Can we go for coffee or something?”
Spike frowned and studied the boy. Connor McGuffin was the son of Richard McGuffin, one of his closest and well-trusted poker friends. Richard and he met one stormy night, after Spike had been kicked out of his father’s house, for the first and final time. Spike had needed the extra cash, since he clearly didn’t have a resume. His street gang friend, Ice, had told him about an underground poker club that could easily earn him a few bucks. Spike had gone, played, and won. His outstanding skills in gambling made him an easy target to eliminate, but Richard, for whatever reason, had respected and protected him, ensuring that he would continue to play as long as he wanted to. Connor was a year younger than Spike, and Richard had forbidden the boy to play in the club. Connor was the kind of kid who was a rich preppy, taking daddy’s earnings and spending them nicely on himself. Richard had been fairly relaxed with this arrangement; after all, what did *he* need with the money?
What Richard hadn’t known was something Connor was about to reveal to Spike.
****
“Where is he, you rats?” Snyder’s voice was like a cold splash on a hot summer’s day. All three teammates were more than surprised to hear of Spike’s disappearance.
“We don’t know,” Angel tried to explain. “He must have skipped or something.”
Snyder’s grey eyes flicked to Buffy, his suspicious glare causing her to lift her chin defiantly, as if in challenge. His nostrils flared, her eyebrows rose. The standoff was obvious.
“You two can leave. Summers!” he barked, when he saw the lithe brunette exiting the room with Angel and Drusilla.
Buffy halted in her pace, her back to Snyder as she had been *so* close to making it out of the door. She glanced at Angel before turning away, taking comfort in the soothing brown of his warm depths.
She folded her arms protectively across her chest and watched as Snyder paced across the floor with amused eyes. “I want to know where Spike is!” he complained, his voice bordering on just plain childish.
Buffy shrugged. “Well, I don’t know where he is, sir. And, I’m not quite sure why you’d want to know. You don’t seem to like him very much.”
Snyder turned hatefully cold eyes on her figure. “You bet I don’t,” he said, in a low voice that threatened to send shivers up and done her spine. Buffy refused to be intimidated by this rodent-like man, however. It would be an utter disgrace for a Summers girl to fear such an insignificant creature.
Buffy raised questioning brows in his direction, her arms tightening across her chest as he began to walk toward her slowly. “So, why do you care where he is?”
Snyder stopped when he was directly in front of her, too close for comfort. “Because,” he breathed, watching Buffy through suddenly appraising eyes. “I do not tolerate delinquency and utter lack of respect for rules.”
Moving away from him towards the door, the distance provided her with newfound confidence. “Look, Mr. Snyder,” she said, her confident voice belying the discomfort that was reflected in her hazel eyes. “I honestly don’t know where he is. And even if I did…” she trailed off, not sure if she should have even continued.
The withering look Snyder threw her was enough to send her strolling out of the room, her head held high with the determination to fight off any drifting thoughts about Snyder’s ulterior motives for keeping *her* behind specifically.
Buffy knew that it was unwise to cut class, *especially* since her mother had warned her to keep her average up in the 90s. But, it was almost lunch time and she was desperate to escape the suffocating environment of the high school. As much as she enjoyed going to school, Hemery High just wasn’t cutting it. Plus, she was curious, like Snyder, about Spike’s whereabouts. She knew that the chances of her running into Spike in a city like L.A. was more than unlikely, but it didn’t really matter; this wasn’t really about Spike. She just needed some time to think things over. Between school and practice, she was always dead tired and never really had the opportunity to go over things. She fondly recalled her old team mate back at her Sunnydale Team, Cordelia, scolding her for being too “broody and stuff”.
Well, now was just one of those times when Cordelia would have to stuff it, because Buffy sure as hell needed to reflect over recent events in order to get her thoughts sorted. Besides, it was a beautiful day and she *was* in L.A. What could possibly go wrong?
****
Sitting in the coffee shop with his body leaned back comfortably in the chair, Spike reached into his pocket for his package of cigarettes. Catching the warning expression on the barista’s face, he sighed and occupied his fidgeting hands with a small pack of sugar in front of him. He looked at Connor expectantly before checking his watch; seeing that it was almost lunch, he figured he should probably get back to Hemery. He had been forced to take afternoon classes, despite the required three per semester, since he had been averaging a 60% back in New York. He knew that skipping class *probably* wasn’t the best way to rectify his failing grades but what did it matter? Soccer was his future; it always had been. He had no other options if the Slayers didn’t work out. If he didn’t make it, what would he do?
“Look, man,” Connor was saying, and Spike was pulled abruptly out of his gloomy thoughts. His attention snapped over to Connor, whose eyes were wide and panic-struck.
“Shit’s happened, dude. A lot of it.” Connor ran a hand over his hair, and though Spike was tempted to snap at the boy for calling him “dude”, the serious expression on his face caused him to reconsider.
“Yeah? What of it?”
Connor leaned forward, his hands folded together, his knuckles a rebelliously white hue. “I’ve been buying from Ace,” he said, his voice low and his tone solemn.
Spike’s eyes widened. “What the *fuck* is wrong with you, boy?” Several heads turned in their direction, but Spike merely glared at them in response.
Connor gave him an annoyed look. “Don’t be so goddamn loud about it, Spike,” he snapped. Then, he added, “And don’t call me ‘boy’. I’m only a year younger than you.”
Spike looked bored. “Look, mate, ‘m not the one who’s making friends with chaps like Ace.” At this, his expression grew very severe.
“What are you doing with people like Ace, anyhow? You’re a rich boy, you seem well-off. Why fraternize with that sort?”
Connor sighed. “Okay, so you know Blaize Jeffrey?”
Spike nodded. “Yeah, he was in my tenth grade English class.” He paused, thinking a bit. Then, he continued, “But he moved from New York around June.”
Connor stared down at his coffee with blank eyes. “Turns out,” he said, in an oddly flat tone of voice, “He’s Ace’s adopted baby brother.”
Spike gaped at him. “Seriously? Wow, I did *not* see that comin’…” his voice trailed off as he recalled the funny, hormonal guy that everyone loved. The girls fawned over him, the guys wanted to *be* him. Not only was he great comic relief from the hectic world of high school, he was simply comfortable to be around. His presence calmed you, somehow; it also occasionally caused you to laugh your ass off. Blaize was the best thing that ever happened to New York High. And then, before school had even ended, he had disappeared. No one had heard from him since.
Connor nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I can imagine your surprise.”
Spike furrowed his brows, giving Connor a strange look. “How would you know? You didn’t even know him.” He paused, then added, “Hell, I didn’ even know *you* and your da then.”
Connor’s expression became distant. “Dad was traveling a lot then,” he explained, his tone indicating that he had not enjoyed “traveling” with his father. “He was doing some…” He paused. “…business, and I ended up going to this street bar, off of Fifth, with him. He needed to talk to some of his old clients. You know how Richard is.”
Spike smiled wryly. He had met Richard in his grade eleven year, when his father had kicked him out. At that state in time, both father and son were still mourning the death of his mother. His father, Carlton, had blamed his son heavily for the death of his wife.
(Flashback)
“She called *you*, of all people, to say goodbye. Un-fucking-believable,” Carlton Pratt sneered, his dark features twisting in an ugly fashion.
Spike drew himself up to his full height. He was sixteen years old and recalling the reckless days of his fourteen year old self was not only painful, but humiliating. Still, he was a different person now; he didn’t need the crap his father had abused him with for the past two years. After his mother’s death, Spike had been convinced it had indeed been his fault. Submerged in this belief, his father had taken advantage and did his best to make Spike feel as guilty as possible for his wife’s murder. Spike and Carlton had never gotten along, even when Anna had been alive. Anna had served as a barrier, being the one to stop a dangerously progressing argument. Now, with Anna gone, no one was here to stop the two from erupting into a mass of hurtful blame.
“Look, Da,” he said, his voice low. His eyes were trained on his father’s sapphire ones.
“I don’ know where you get off tryin’ to do this to me. I know what I did-”
“Do you? *Do* you, Spike? Do you *really* know what you’ve done?” At this, his father’s voice cracked and his eyes welled with unshed tears. The vulnerable expression that crossed his face disappeared, the instant it came when he realized Spike was still present.
“Tell me, Da! Tell me what I could have possibly done!” Spike shouted, his hands waving about. “We know she called 9-1-1 and I was drunk! *Drunk*! Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Why the *fuck* were you drunk, anyhow…” Carlton did not phrase this is as a question.
“I-I don’ know, Da…” Spike’s voice was cracking now, too. The emotional stress was becoming too much for either male and Spike found himself staring deeply into his father’s eyes, willing him to help him get through this pain. The silent pleading his father ignored; his words, on the other hand, he did not.
“You don’t know!” His bitter laugh filled the strangely empty living room.
Spike flinched and lowered his eyes. “I already said I was sorry. What more do you want from me?”
“Leave.”
Spike’s head snapped upwards, his eyes wide and his expression a mixture of shock and hurt.
“W-what?” Spike *never* stammered. Ever.
“Do us both a favor and leave,” he replied, collapsing on the couch and raising his eyes to his son’s figure.
“Why?” Spike’s voice was barely a whisper.
“My son has more honor than what you’ve so eloquently proved to show me. You are not my son and you never were. I never want to hear from you again, Spike. All you do is bring pain, suffering and hurt to the people around you and I’m sick of it. Like I said, do us both a favor and quit while you’re ahead. I won’t love you; I never did.”
Spike’s shoulders dropped, his stance faltered. His father’s words hurt worse than any possible blow; no torture device could inflict as much pain in comparison to what he was currently feeling.
Shoulders slumped and head hung, ashamed, Spike shuffled out of the house alone.
(End of flashback)
His uncle had eventually taken Spike in, when he had discovered his exile *and* his gambling career. Although Spike was dimly aware that Giles still resented him slightly for what had happened to Anna, he knew that it couldn’t be helped. Anna had been his sister and it was only natural to feel everlasting resentment. But Giles had been the better man, unlike Carlton, and had taken in the lost, damaged, and troubled boy who had no place to call home.
Spike gambled a little bit sometimes, though he had “sort of” promised his uncle he would stop. It was only to re-establish valuable connections, like Richard McGuffin and Lawson McAvenue, and the monetary gain was purely productive.
“Spike!” Connor’s annoyed voice brought Spike out of his thoughtful reverie with a bang. Spike’s eyes snapped over to Connor and he nodded slightly.
“Look, mate, I don’ know wha’s goin’ on with you, but you either tell me now or find another pal to chitchat with. I don’ have all day to hear about Blaise’s life story.”
Connor nodded hastily, his expression turning panicked, as if fearful of the thought of Spike leaving. “I didn’t know who else to go to,” he whispered. He placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his upturned palms. “I have a debt with Ace. Six thousand dollars. I need it…well, I need it as soon as I can get it.”
Spike nearly choked on his own saliva. “What the bleedin’ hell did you go to him for? What have you been spendin’ Daddy’s money on, boy?”
This time, Connor did not dare to correct Spike, for he knew his actions were purely childish and irresponsible. “Drugs,” he replied meekly.
Spike let out a laugh that resembled a bark. “Right,” he said, standing from the table.
“No, no! Don’t leave, man! Hear me out! Please!” Connor desperately tried to persuade Spike to remain.
Spike gave the boy a withering look. “’m on a national team, Connor. I can’t risk gettin’ involved with drugs and all that rot,” he paused, seeing the withdrawn look on the kid’s face. “Look, if ’s money you need, I don’ see what the problem is. Daddy’s loaded, in’t he?”
Connor shook his head. “Dad knows what I’ve been doing,” he confessed ashamedly. “He refuses to even *talk* to me, Spike. He can’t believe his son, the son of Richard McGuffin,” Spike noted the faint resentment on Connor’s face, “Is doing drugs. It’s like an embarrassment to him or something.”
Spike sighed. “I can’ give you money like six thousand dollars, mate.”
Then, for good measure, he added, “Even if I *did* have six grand, ‘s not like ‘d be givin’ it away, or anythin’. ‘s jus’ a lot of money.”
Connor nodded in agreement, a bright smile in place. “I know,” he agreed. “That’s why I want you to *win* it for me.”
Spike groaned and raked a hand through his hair. “I can’t do that, Connor. You need the money now,” At this, he shot Connor a pointed look. “And winnin’ six grand in one shot is risky, mate. My ass is on the line, too. The people I gamble with, I don’ rightly know their tempers yet. I win a good amount each night and it adds up. But ‘d never be stupid enough to try it one night.”
“But-”
“’m still a street kid, okay, mate? Rich may like me, but that doesn’t mean he’ll go to great lengths to protect me, or anything. I can’t help you, Connor. Period. ‘m sorry.”
Connor slammed his fist down on the table, a light of hysteria in his dark eyes. “Whatever!” he shouted, attracting the attention of several people seated nearby. “I can do this on my own, then! Since no one wants to fucking help, I’ll find my own way!”
Spike sat back, slightly surprised at Connor’s actions. He knew that Connor was being over-dramatic as a result of withdrawal from whatever drugs he was taking, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely scared shitless. He had the biggest drug dealer in L.A. out for his ass, and his money, and that didn’t really qualify as a good day. Spike sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a minute.
*Don’ feel guilty. ‘s his fault, anyhow, for getting himself into this shit, anyways. Six grand is a helluva lot to ask of someone.* He struggled to convince himself that Connor’s situation had nothing to do with him and that he really had no reason to worry about the kid. Unfortunately, the undercurrent of dread rolling around in his stomach didn’t go away.
Sighing again, Spike stood from the table and exited the coffee shop. He had to get back to school; he had about ten minutes before he would be late for fourth period. Glancing once more behind him in the direction he had seen Connor stalk off, he crossed the street in the direction of Hemery.
As if public education meant anything these days, especially to an aspiring famous-to-be soccer player.
****
Buffy was vaguely aware that being in a dangerous city like L.A., unaccompanied was unwise and quite frankly stupid. Still, she felt compelled to roam the streets and explore every inch of the city. Back at Sunnydale High, she had had a 70% average, which was rather remarkable for an athlete. “Jock, she remembered being called. She knew that a 70 would probably get her into a low-class community college, nowhere near an Ivy League, but what did she need school for? She was a jock, an athlete, who didn’t need trigonometry. Her mother, who seemed to be convinced that Buffy would not make it, though she refused to admit this, demanded she take courses like calculus, chemistry, etc. They were tedious, pointless, and complete wastes of time for a person like her.
She knew that, in ten minutes, fourth period would commence and she would be missing her art class. She had had to take the extra class to earn the extra credits that her poor average failed to provide. She knew that she was definitely capable of pulling a 90, but time was restricted and scarce.
Rolling her eyes at the moody direction of her thoughts, she struggled to enjoy her afternoon before practice. Her mood officially ruined now, she sighed and decided that her first “real” day in L.A. should be spent on a better occasion. Turning back, she headed to Hemery for art.
Whoopee.
TBC
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Author's Chapter Notes:
So sorry for the delay in updating; my writing has been all screwy lately and I've had some trouble getting through a bad case of WB but alas, here is chapter 9 of my favorite writing project!! :D I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and it would be *very much* appreciated if you left a review!
Thanks to Christine for beta-ing this! *hugs*
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I own only the plot.
Thanks to Christine for beta-ing this! *hugs*
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I own only the plot.
Chapter End Notes:
Reviews anyone? *wink wink* Hope you enjoyed! Oh, yeah, just to let all know, chapter 10 is almost finished! There will be an update as soon as it's finished and beta'd! :D