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Beta'd by KnifeEdge and Ryn. Special thanks to Puddinhead for her continued encouragement and feedback.
“Hey, Spike. What’ve you been up to? I haven’t seen you in, like, weeks.”

Spike closed the car door and looked over the DeSoto to where Dawn was standing next to the Land Rover. She gave him a bright smile and a cheerful wave as he headed towards her. He glanced around for any sign of the not-so-pleasant Summers sister. Buffy was nowhere to be seen, and he returned Dawn’s smile. “Been busy,” he said. “How’re you doing, Dawn?”

Dawn shrugged and the smile slipped a little. “Okay, I guess.” She kicked at the rear tire of the SUV. “I’m still grounded. That’s super lame.”

Spike nodded. He’d seen her around, of course, but he’d been keeping to himself, not wanting to rock the boat and hack off the blonde menace next door. The whole situation was starting to irritate the hell out of him. Was his own fault, though, for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Well, you take care, Dawn.” Spike turned to go into his house. Then he remembered something. “You gonna be here for a minute? I’ve got somethin’ for you.” Dawn nodded, and he didn’t miss the way her face lit up at his words.

Spike rummaged through the collection of papers, writing utensils, and computer disks that littered the kitchen table. His hand closed on a slim, purple jewel case that held an unmarked CD. He grabbed a Sharpie and scrawled a few words on the disc.

Spike gave a mental groan when he saw Buffy standing with Dawn upon his return. “Morning,” he said. Didn’t hurt to be polite, even if it was wasted effort. Buffy ignored him—much as she had every time she’d seen him since their breakfast together—and got into the car. Which suited him just fine as the Doublemeat Palace uniform she was sporting was god-awful, and the less he saw of it the better.

“Come on, Dawnie. We’re going to be late.”

Dawn flashed an expressive look at him. Spike imagined she meant ‘Sorry my sister’s such a bloody bitch.’

He might have been projecting just a touch.

“Here you go,” he said, and held the disc out to her. “Told you I’d get you some good music.”

Dawn took it with another bright smile. “Thanks! I can’t wait to listen to it!”

Spike grinned and dared a glance at Buffy. She sat stiffly in the driver’s seat, very carefully not looking at him or Dawn. “No time like the present, right?” he said quietly.

The girl grinned back at him. “Right.” She waved good-bye as she ran around the vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat.

Spike leaned against the fence and lit a cigarette. He could hear Buffy haranguing Dawn as the younger girl fiddled with the radio. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, when the sounds of The Ramones drifted from the open window.

Now I wanna sniff some glue
Now I wanna have somethin’ to do.

He tapped his foot in time to the music and smoked his cigarette. Buffy shot him a deadly glare as she backed down the driveway in a rush. Spike didn’t bother to suppress his responding smirk.

Then the wrenching sound of metal squealing against metal tore through the quiet morning. Spike looked up to see the Land Rover’s rear bumper embedded in the front grill of his DeSoto. “Bloody buggering fuck!” He pitched his cigarette away and rushed down the driveway.

Buffy looked up at him, shock written plain on her ashen face. Her eyes were huge as they met his. Then she reached for the gear shift, put her classic-mangling death trap into drive, and peeled away with screeching tires. Spike saw Dawn swivel around in her seat; he briefly caught the flash of sympathy in her eyes as the car sped down the block.

“You ... you bloody cunt!” he hollered at the receding taillights. It was a good thing Buffy’d taken off because at the moment, he would gladly have strangled her with her own stupid hair. Spike turned to look at his car. “What’d that bitch do to you?” He crouched down to examine the damage; on first inspection, it looked to be mostly cosmetic. Spike sighed heavily and trudged around his house to the garage, muttering imprecations against Buffy Summers under his breath.


***


Dawn stared in disbelief as Buffy drove away from the scene of her crime. After only a few blocks, Buffy pulled to the side of the road and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” she muttered.

Dawn could see the way Buffy’s hands trembled, and she felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her sister. She remembered the time she’d been in an accident with her mom, back when they lived in L.A. It was scary, but that didn’t mean Buffy should have just ... run away.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Dawn said. “You have to go back and—”

“No!” Buffy said. “No, you’re ... you’re going to be late for school.”

Dawn gave a little snort of laughter. That was the lamest excuse she’d ever heard. “I don’t care. Buffy, you have to talk to Spike! You just, like, killed his car. Do you know how much he loves that car?”

Buffy took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded slowly. “I know,” she whispered. “But I can’t. Not—” Then, to Dawn’s great surprise, she started crying. Buffy was quiet about it, but those were definitely tears tracking down her flushed cheeks.

Dawn wasn’t sure what to do. Buffy cried so rarely; even at their mother’s funeral, Buffy’d been sad, yeah, but very ... stoic. If she’d shed any tears, she’d done it in private. Maybe that was why Dawn was so unnerved by the sight of Buffy crying now.

“Buffy?” Dawn said hesitantly. “Are you okay?” She reached over and patted Buffy’s hand where it clenched around the steering wheel.

Buffy turned and looked at her with a ‘duh’ expression. “No, Dawn, I’m not okay.” She sat up and wiped her face. “Oh, shit,” she said again. “How am I supposed to afford this?”

Dawn pulled her hand back. Just when she’d thought Buffy was being, you know, human for a change, she went and proved otherwise. “That’s what you’re worried about? Money? Don’t you care at all how Spike feels?”

Buffy sniffled. “Of course I care, Dawnie! God, he probably thinks I did it on purpose.”

Dawn raised an eyebrow at that. “I’m sure he knows you’re just a terrible driver.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the stunned expression on Buffy’s face. “Oh, come on. The day we moved in, you almost ran me over. Hello, that’s a huge clue right there.”

Buffy smiled through the last of her tears. “Yeah, I guess.” She sighed and stared blankly at some point in the distance. Dawn waited for Buffy to look at her or to say something, but she just went on staring with that empty look on her face. Finally Buffy shook herself and put the car in drive.

“Are you going to talk to Spike?”

Buffy glanced at Dawn quickly, then back at the road. “I ... yeah. I have to, right? Just ... not right now. You need to get to school, and I can’t just skip work.”

“I know that,” Dawn said. She sat quietly for a minute, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Maybe, uh, maybe Dad could—”

“Could what, Dawn?” Buffy’s words were bitter.

Dawn shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I just thought, if we called and told him we needed help ...” She trailed off. Right. Stupid idea. If he was going to help them, he would have done it already. Dawn swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat. Until this very moment, she’d had this thought—fantasy—that her dad was ... maybe being held captive somewhere, but fighting desperately all the time to get back to his girls. “He’s not ever coming back, is he?”

Buffy shook her head slowly. “Dawn, you ... do you miss him a lot?”

They reached the school before Dawn felt ready to answer that question. “No, not like I miss Mom, you know? Because he’s been gone for a long time. Even when we were all at home together, it was like he wasn’t really there.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “I know.”

They were both still for a moment, then Dawn reached for her back pack. “I better go. Don’t wanna be late.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at home later.” Buffy smiled—a little sadly, Dawn thought. She slung her bag over one shoulder and opened the car door. Just as she was getting out, Buffy grabbed hold of her arm. “Dawn, uh, if you want to go to Janice’s or anything ... well, you can be done being grounded, all right? Just, please, stay out of trouble.”

Dawn looked over her shoulder, grinning widely. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Dawn hopped out of the car. “Thanks,” she said. Almost as an afterthought, she added, shyly, “I love you.”

Buffy’s smile widened and looked more sincere. “I love you, too, Dawnie.”


***


Buffy dropped a basket of fries into the deep-fryer and thought about Spike, and the way she’d felt the collision with his car vibrate through her entire body, and the balance in her checking account. She mentally added and subtracted numbers, but couldn’t come up with any way to make them work out in a way that meant Dawn would still get three meals a day. Not if she had to cover the cost of repairing Spike’s car. His baby, she thought, a little despairingly. She had to offer, she knew that. Maybe insurance? But no, even if she used her insurance policy to pay for it, her premium would go up, and she was right back to not being able to pay for something else.

The smell of something burning distracted Buffy from her thoughts. She looked down at the deep-fryer in dismay and realized she’d forgotten to set the timer for the fries. “Crap,” she muttered and pulled the basket out of the hot oil.

“Is everything okay?”

Buffy looked up to see Gary, the one person who’d been nice to her on her first day and so was her favorite co-worker, watching her from his station at the grill. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She dropped a fresh basket of fries, making doubly sure to punch the button that set the timer to two minutes.

“You’re sure? Because that’s the second batch of fries you’ve killed in the past half-hour.” Gary flipped the burgers expertly before looking at her again. “Better watch it with that, or Manny’ll make you pay for them.”

Buffy peeked around the fry station to confirm that Manny was safely ensconced in his office. She turned back to Gary with a grimace. “I had a car accident this morning,” she said. “My neighbor has this classic car, and I backed right into it. I’m ... I’m sort of a really bad driver.” Some of the tension drained from Buffy’s shoulders at this confession. Maybe if she said the words to someone, she could get the scene to stop replaying itself in her head. She just had to get out the worst part of what she’d done. “And I just ... drove away.” Her voice was hushed, and she wasn’t sure Gary could even hear her. “I didn’t apologize or ... or anything.”

“And it’s bugging you.” Gary’s voice was quiet, too. Then the conciliatory look went out of his eyes, and he turned to the uniform beef patties sizzling on the grill. Buffy knew the change in his demeanor meant Manny was on the prowl. She hurried to dispose of the ruined fries before he could catch her.

She didn’t quite make it. Manny stood next to the garbage can, his myopic gaze trained on the mess of greasy black strips. “Is there a problem with the fryer?” he asked. His tone made it plain he knew there wasn’t.

Buffy glanced over at Gary, hoping for some clue as to the best way to handle their boss. She knew telling Manny she’d been less than vigilant was not going to fly.

“The temperature was set too high,” Gary lied. Buffy flashed him a grateful smile. “We’ve got it taken care of now.” As if to prove his point, the timer shrilled at that moment, and Buffy retrieved the basket of perfectly golden fries.

Manny fixed them both with a measuring stare. “Well, see that it doesn’t happen again. Inattention to your equipment is the same as stealing directly from the company.”

Buffy nodded solemnly, then stuck her tongue out at Manny’s back as he moved to patrol the service counter. “Thanks,” she said to Gary once Manny was out of earshot.

Gary shrugged. “No problem.” He arrayed a fresh batch of burgers on the grill. “You know, Sophie’s looking for some extra hours. You could take the rest of the day off, take care of that thing with your neighbor.”

Buffy nodded, considering. She’d worked overtime three days already this week, so taking a day off wasn’t going to kill her paycheck. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said. “I’ll give her a call.”

Sophie was more than happy to cover for her, and Buffy mentally adjusted her ‘co-workers who don’t suck’ list so Sophie was right up there next to Gary. Okay, so they were the only two names on that list. That didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the gesture.

Buffy clocked out with a sigh of relief and yanked her awful chicken-cow hat off as she walked into the parking lot. She eyed the back of her Land Rover. That doesn’t look so bad. There were a few scratches, and a streak of black paint marred the trailer hitch. There was small dent in the bumper, too. But if she hadn’t been looking for it, she might not have even noticed the minor damage. Maybe Spike’s car had gotten off just as easily. That thought put a little spring her step, and Buffy drove home feeling more at ease than she had all morning.

Spike’s car wasn’t in its normal spot in front of his house. Buffy didn’t see it or Spike anywhere when she pulled into the driveway. She killed the engine and tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Maybe he was asleep. He seemed pretty ... nocturnal, always coming home in the morning, and then blaring his music till all hours of the night. Buffy decided she’d take a shower and change before going to talk to him. She didn’t want to wake him up any earlier than she had to; she knew from experience that was a recipe for a grumpy neighbor.

Once inside her house, Buffy dared a peek through the window with the view of Spike’s room. The big bed was empty, though the dark red sheets were rumpled. Oh, and there went her stupid brain again, supplying her with the image of Spike’s pale, muscled form stretched out against those sheets— Buffy dropped the blinds and backed away from the window.

Okay, not sleeping then.

Buffy enjoyed a leisurely shower and then took the time to blow-dry and style her hair—because it was nice to feel girly once in a while, not because she was procrastinating the inevitable talk with Spike. After she finished up in the bathroom, she strolled into her room and stood in front of the closet. What said ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘please don’t make me pay an arm and leg for your car’? Buffy toyed with the notion of wearing something skimpy that would appeal to Spike’s inner pig. Then she dismissed that idea and pulled on the first thing that came to hand. It was just coincidence that the first thing she grabbed was a cute little sundress. Of course, then she had to find a cute pair of sandals to go with the sundress.

Finally Buffy ran out of things to do. She couldn’t put this off any longer. She took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her carefully constructed curls, and stepped out of her house. “Okay, you can do this,” she told herself as she walked across the lawn. “Just remember not to hit him. No matter what.”

Buffy stood on Spike’s doorstep. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pressed the doorbell. She could hear the chime echoing through the house. After a full minute—she counted—she rang the doorbell again. Still nothing. Buffy scowled at the door. She’d come to apologize, dammit, the least Spike could do was be here to get apologized to. She turned to head home. She could always come back later. Maybe after Dawn got home. He wouldn’t be mean to her if Dawn was there, right? Well, yeah, he probably would.

Just as Buffy stepped off the front step, she heard a warbling, discordant voice backed up by a steady guitar rhythm. She recognized the song as one of Frank Sinatra’s—her mother had had all his albums. But Old Blue Eyes had never sounded this ... angry and unharmonious. Buffy winced at a particularly sour note. At least now she had a clue to Spike’s location. Buffy followed the noise around the house and into the garage, where his big black car was parked.

Buffy took in the damage done to his car. So much for her hopes that the damage had been minimal. No wonder he’d looked so angry this morning. She supposed he would have been upset regardless of how badly she’d wrecked his car, but this ... it looked just terrible. The passenger side headlight dangled from its socket, and the chrome trim on that side of the car was missing. The hood was dented in in the center, and the hood ornament was gone altogether. Buffy walked closer to the vehicle. She didn’t see Spike anywhere, but there were tools spread out on the cement in front of the car, so she figured he was around.

“Hello?” she said in the pause between songs. Buffy heard a squeak and rattle. She turned to see Spike roll out from beneath the car on one of those wheel-y things guys used to work under cars. He glared at her from his position on the floor. Oh, crap. This was not going to be easy.

“Um, hi.” Buffy smiled tentatively.

Spike levered himself off the ground and reached for a rag to wipe his greasy hands. He was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a black tank top. Buffy gulped. Why, hello, muscles. There was a smear of grease along his collar bone and another streak down his right bicep.

“What d’you want? Come to finish the job?” Spike tossed the rag down on the workbench that ran along the wall of the garage and then turned off the music. Buffy was momentarily grateful for the ensuing quiet. That was, until Spike turned back to her with angry eyes, and the silence became almost unbearable.

“I wanted to say, uh, I’m sorry?”

“That a question? ‘Cause if you’re asking me if you should apologize, the answer’s yes.” Spike leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms, which did nice things to his really kind of impressive muscles. Buffy closed her eyes. That was a mistake—the Spike in her head refused to wear a shirt. Her eyes popped open again.

“I’m sorry! Okay?” Oops. Probably shouldn’t be yelling at the man with the injured car. “I mean ... I’m really sorry I hit your car, Spike.”

“Wanna give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police?”

Buffy’s jaw dropped. “The ... are you serious?”

Spike shrugged. “You know hit and run is a crime, right, pet?”

“Hit and run—! Well, you know, maybe if I hadn’t been distracted by the incredibly inappropriate song about doing drugs on the CD you made for my fourteen-year-old-sister, I wouldn’t have …”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?” Spike pushed off the workbench and took a step forward. Buffy backed up. “That’s bloody rich, you—”

“No, it’s not your fault!” Buffy interrupted. She really shouldn’t say words. It was just making the situation worse. “I … look, I panicked, and I know I shouldn’t have taken off like that, but I’m here now, and I’m really sorry, and ... is it really bad? It kind of looks really bad.” Okay, breathe, Buffy reminded herself. “We don’t have to get the police involved, do we?” She looked at Spike. She might have batted her eyelashes and crossed her arms to amp up the cleavage.

She wasn’t proud of herself.

Unfortunately Spike remained immune to her charms. If anything, her display only served to make him angrier. “D’you have any idea how much work I’ve put into this car? You got any idea how much it’s going to take to get her lookin’ back the way she’s supposed to?”

“She? Your car’s a girl?”

“Of course,” Spike said. He ran a possessive hand along the side panel of the car. “Told you, she’s my baby.” He glared at Buffy again. “Would rather you’d just thrown up in her if you were so dead set on—”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Buffy wailed. “I ... I know I’m an awful driver, everyone tells me that, and I’m sorry, but I was in a hurry and sometimes I’m not very good at backing up and, and ... I’ll pay for it if you want, but can we do a payment plan because, because—” She wanted to explain about all the bills she had to pay and how hard it was to keep going to the Doublemeat every day and how much she worried about being able to provide for Dawn. But he wouldn’t care about all that. Not the way he was scowling at her and thinking she had run into his precious car just to ... get back at him or something. All the things she wanted to say but couldn’t stuck in her throat, and suddenly her breath was coming in huge, uncontrollable gasps.

“Bollocks,” she heard Spike mutter. Then his hand was on her shoulder. Buffy let him push her into the driver’s seat, unable to catch her breath long enough to formulate a protest. There were iron bars around her chest; every breath was a struggle. A painful struggle. She was only vaguely conscious of Spike kneeling on the floor in front of her. His hands slid up her thighs until he held her hips in a firm grasp. That breached her awareness. His touch shivered along her nerve endings. It felt proprietary, an echo of the way he’d stroked his car.

“Look at me, love.” Spike’s deep voice rumbled through her, and Buffy was helpless to do anything but obey. She fixed wild eyes on his cool, blue gaze. He nodded slightly. “Good.” Buffy thought she should push him away—he had insinuated himself between her legs, and his elbows pressed against her bare knees—but she was frozen in place. She dragged in another rasping, gasping breath and wondered if she was going to suffocate. She felt like she would.

Spike moved his hands to her arms. The palms were ticklish-rough against her skin as he gently stroked her arms up and down, up and down. “Gotta slow your breathing,” Spike instructed. “Breathe with me, now, okay? Deep breath in through your nose.” His nostrils flared as he demonstrated. “Now out through your mouth.” Spike pursed his lips and exhaled, and his warm breath fanned against her throat. She concentrated on his voice and mouth as he repeated, slowly, “In. And out.” His hands continued to move on her arms in rhythm with his words and breathing.

Finally her breathing evened out. Buffy took a shaky breath that didn’t make her chest ache, and some of the panic melted away. She was suddenly intensely aware of Spike’s proximity. His blue eyes blazed up at her. Buffy realized with a start that despite his gentle demeanor and the way he’d so calmly talked her down, he was still furious with her. What the hell must he think of me?


***


Spike watched Buffy for a long moment; his hands were still now, cupped around her elbows. When he was assured that her breathing was under control, he released her and sat back on his heels. He didn’t feel altogether safe touching her—big green eyes and that vulnerable look aside, he still sort of wanted to throttle her for what she’d done.

As if wrecking his car weren’t enough, she had the balls to show up in a skimpy dress and try to flirt her way out of taking responsibility. Spike dragged his eyes over her and revelled in the way she blushed at his perusal of her body. Don’t put the bloody wares on display if you don’t like a bloke taking a gander, he thought. He stood up abruptly with a muffled curse. It didn’t mean a thing that he was tempted to drive his fingers into her long, golden curls, to hold her head still so he could kiss her senseless. Simply meant she was a pretty girl, and he’d been too long with naught but his hand for company.

Spike growled and turned toward his workbench. He pressed play on his iPod, and Johnny Rotten’s voice burst through the speakers.

There’s a problem, problem,
Problem, the problem is you.

Yeah, that about summed it up. Spike looked back at Buffy. She was still in the car, watching him with wide eyes. Her fingers twisted together in her lap. She looked scared; for some reason, that got his dander up.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not gonna bite, you know.”

Buffy jumped visibly at his harsh tone. “I’m sorry,” she said. How many times did that make now? And here he’d been thinking those were two words she didn’t know—or at least not to string together.

“Yeah, heard you the first time, sweetheart. But ‘sorry’ doesn’t put my car back to rights.” He scowled at her and pointedly ignored the way her lower lip trembled.

“I ... I said I’d pay for it,” Buffy said. “I just can’t afford it all at once.”

“And how much do you reckon you owe me?”

Buffy shrugged her shoulders and glanced at him. “I don’t know. Um, a couple hundred dollars?”

Spike laughed. “Try again.” He reached for the mangled hood ornament he’d picked up off the street earlier. “You know how much this piece runs?” Buffy shook her head. “Two hundred dollars, easy. Closer to four hundred to replace the headlight bezel. And then you gotta consider all the trim you managed to rip off, and that big fucking dent I’m going to have to hammer out. I’m guessing by the time it’s all said and done, your tab’s going to be closer to two grand.”

Buffy mouthed his last words silently. Spike took a mean pleasure from the stunned look on her face. “That’s parts alone,” he added. “Wasn’t figuring in the cost of labor. I can do a lot of the repair myself, but she’ll be going to the shop for some of it.”

Buffy’s big eyes filled with tears.

Fuck. He really hated seeing a woman cry.

“Tell you what—we can make a deal.” Spike smirked when Buffy turned hopeful, watery eyes on him. “When she’s all fixed up, you owe me a car wash, and we’ll call it even.”

Buffy’s expression went immediately from verge-of-tears to narrow-eyed suspicion. “A car wash,” she repeated.

“Yup, that’s right.” Spike leaned against the workbench and watched Buffy mull that over.

“Right. And you think I’m going to buy that, why, exactly?”

Spike shrugged. “You don’t wanna believe me, that’s your prerogative. But I’m dead serious, love. You wash my car in your skimpiest bikini and your highest heels, and I’ll wipe the slate clean.”

Buffy was about as far from crying now as he’d ever seen her. Much better. It was easier to be brassed off at the chit when she wasn’t going all soggy. She stood up in a rush, and fury colored her cheeks. Spike eyed her warily; he didn’t miss the way her hands curled into fists as she stepped closer to him. Knowing her, she was one more jibe away from using those fists on him. And he thought he had a short fuse? Compared to this girl he was the very picture of reason and restraint.

“Oh, my god, Spike, you are the most vile—” Buffy closed her eyes and muttered something under her breath. After a few moments her hands relaxed at her sides, and she opened her eyes. “I’m going to stick with the payment plan, if you don’t mind. How does, um, twenty dollars a week sound?”

Spike did some quick mental arithmetic. “Sounds like you’ll be paying this off for the next couple years. You sure you wouldn’t rather be shut of it in one afternoon? I’ll supply the sponges, even.”

Buffy glowered at him. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Spike smiled, not at all surprised when her scowl grew more pronounced. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a buddy in the auto-parts business. Not going to cost me near as much as you’d think. ‘Sides, I don’t want your money.”

“You don’t—” Buffy took one step closer to him. If looks could kill, he thought. “What exactly do you want, then?”

Spike succumbed to temptation and reached out to twirl a long lock of hair around one hand. He let her silky-smooth hair slip through his fingers. Christ, but that felt good. He trailed one finger down her cheek before letting his hand drop back to his side. “Run on home, Goldilocks. We’ll figure out later how you can make it up to me.”

“You .. you are such an ass!” Buffy kicked him in the shin. Well. Hadn’t seen that one coming. He’d been too busy watching her hands—and her perky tits, if he was being perfectly honest—to be on guard against an attack from another quarter. “If you think I’m going to ... to ... sleep with you, you’re—”

“Think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you? Trust me, you’re not my type. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.” Spike turned his back on her. After a second, he heard the clack of her sandals as she stomped out of the garage. He let out a heavy breath, relieved she’d taken off before he’d done something they would both regret. He hadn’t been lying: scrawny blondes weren’t his type—especially not pushy ones prone to violence—but fuck if there wasn’t something alluring about the bint.

Bollocks.

Spike punched up the Misfits, cranked up the volume on the stereo, and rolled back under the DeSoto.





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