[Reviews - 110]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 3463 times

- Text Size +




CHAPTER 2 --

A/N: So here’s the deal on the other twin. Yes, Kellie, I used him. Using two Dawns wouldn’t work, and neither did making up a random person. I like the idea of using who I did because they are the same age and look alike. I hate Angel, and never watched the show until the fifth season, so I have no emotional attachment to the wanker and don’t mind ripping his son away from him. Enjoy.




“Dad, I’m gonna be late!” the teen hollered from somewhere in the vicinity of the upstairs.

“Well, with as much time as you spend on that bloody mop of hair of yours, it’s no wonder!” his father answered from the bottom of the staircase, flipping through a legal pad scribbled with notes from his most recent interview with the Prime Minister.

“Says the man who’s head can’t go near open flame!” his son shot back.

Spike raised his eyes to Heaven, praying for patience this morning.

A voice interrupted him from behind, “Come on, man. Don’t you remember those days? When every day was a brand new chance to meet some hot chick?”

Spike sighed wearily, turning to face his best friend, “No, Harris, I don’t.”

“That’s right, you weren’t playing the field with the rest of us. While I, myself, was seeing to Sunnydale’s female finest, you were too busy making moon eyes with the lovely Bu . . .” He switch thought mid-sentence, “She who shall not be named.”

“You can say her name, whelp.” Spike answered, his brow shooting up, “And I don’t exactly recall any female giving you the time of day.” Checking his watch, he sighed again, “Connor Giles, move that arse of yours! NOW!”

Connor bounded down the stairs, grabbing a tattered hoodie off the banister.

Xander took in the early riser, “Con-man, where you off to this early?”

Spike studied his son, “I’m letting him give tours around the city for extra cash as long as he stays out of trouble.” He directed the last four words pointedly at his son.

Connor gave the two men in front of him a cocky smile, “How was I supposed to know they put security cameras in pie stores. Julie was hungry and I didn’t have any cash.” He shrugged.

Spike was not amused. “You stay away from Julies and pies, you hear me boy? And any Sues, Marys, or Kates for that matter. Just because I work for the newspaper doesn’t mean I can keep your name from getting plastered all over it. Steal one more thing and that’s it!”

Xander chuckled, “I don’t know, Spike. I remember you nicking some pretty serious . . .” His voice pittered out at the look his friend was giving him. “Shutting up now.”

Connor, meanwhile, was storming out the door.

“Hey,” Spike barked out, stopping his son in his tracks. Connor pivoted on his heels to face his father and Spike crooked a stern finger at him, “Come here.”

He trudged over to his father, head hung low, waiting to be scolded for his smart mouth. But Spike, smirking at his son’s teenage angst, reached a hand out to ruffle his hair, “Behave yourself.”

Connor returned with a matching smirk of his own while backing out the door, “Don’t I always,” he replied, before hopping onto his motorbike and kicking up gravel as he sped down the driveway.

Closing the door behind his godchild, Xander turned to Spike, clapping his hands together. “So, what’s on the agenda for today? You know, before we have to go bail your kid out of jail,” he joked.

Spike merely shook his head, “All I want to do is write up this article,” he said, waving his notepad. He addressed his friend squarely, “I’m serious, Harris. I don’t want any surprises today.”


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -



“Lisa Canter. Brad Drake. Michael Fester.”

Conner leaned against a fence on the other side of the sidewalk, waiting for the American school group to get their act together before he began their tour. As the chaperone called out each name, the corresponding student would raise their arm, solidifying their existence.

Connor wished he had a cigarette. He had been smoking. That was until his dad had caught him and effectively put the fear of God in him -- telling him that if he planned on seeing sixteen he better not ever step into a smoky room, let alone be seen with a cigarette in his mouth. Connor hadn’t the guts at the time to bring up the fact that he’d seen his dad, on more than one occasion, out on the balcony, a Marlboro between his lips.

“Karen Gable. Dawn Giles.”

That name had his head jerking up. “What . . . What did you say your name was?”

The whole group turned to the stranger’s outburst, who hadn’t even introduced himself yet.

Noticing the question was directed at her, Dawn furrowed her brows, “I didn’t.”

“That lady, she called you Giles.”

“Yeah, that would be my last name,” Dawn replied nervously, glancing down at the hand he had clamped over her arm.

“That’s my last name!” he exclaimed accusingly.

“Lot’s of people have the same last name.”

“But it’s not exactly Smith, now is it?” he ground out. Knowing damn well his father and grandfather had no brothers, he was almost afraid to ask his next question: “Who’s your dad?”

Dawn ’s face shaded red. She didn’t know who her father was. She had his last name and that was it. It had always been a delicate subject with her mom. Around the age of thirteen it had really started to bother her. Dawn had even threatened to try and find him but her mom had gotten so upset that she had never brought up the subject again. But because so many other people she went to school with had screwed up family trees, it didn’t bother her most of the time -- that piece of her that was missing. And she’d always had such a strong support group around her with her mom, Willow, and Tara, that she had never gone wanting for affection.

“What’s that on your arm?” Dawn was ripped out of her thoughts by the boy’s voice and tug on her arm, flipping it palm-side down and studying the discoloration on her skin.

Dawn jerked the appendage away self-consciously. “A birth mark,” she ground out, cursing her mother for her refusal to let her get it removed years ago.

He stretched out his left arm, motioning for her to do the same with her right.

Hesitating, she did. Pulling up her sleeve further, she lined up her arm with his. The off coloring design, which ended abruptly on her arm, continued onto his.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked softly, her eyes never leaving the matching formation on their skin.

“January 8, 1990.”

“That’s what I thought,” her doe eyes widening further.

Both startled and confused. Connor finally broke the silence: “I think you need to come with me.”


TBC





You must login (register) to review.