I wake up the next afternoon at his side, feeling well-shagged but my head still ringing with the sound of that god-awful stomping. I stretch and sit up in the bed, glancing over at him. He sleeps peacefully, his hair mussed, his lips slightly parted, hands curled around the bedsheets. I gaze at him with one thought in my mind.
*Revenge.*
I roll out of bed slowly, ever so slowly, so as not to disturb him, and pull on the pants that he practically tore off of me and carelessly discarded on the floor the night before. You know Peaches is turned on when he throws clothing around instead of placing it neatly in the hamper.
I sneak upstairs into the office, where I know he can't hear me, and pick up the handset of the phone, perching myself on the edge of Cordelia's desk. I punch 4-1-1 with determined fingers.
"Information," the pre-recorded voice says with false cheer. "What state?"
"California."
"What city?"
"Los Angeles."
"What location?"
"Club Whisky-A-Go-Go."
"Three... one... zero... six... five... two... four...two... zero... two."
Another moment, and my call is connected. "The Whisky."
"Yeah. I wanna hear your lineup for this weekend." I grab a slip of paper from the desk and begin to jot down the details. "Oh, great! Fucking perfect, mate. And that's tonight? What time they go on? Uh-huh..." I pull open the desk drawer and riffle through the contents- pens, pencils, loose change, breath mints. I finally locate one of Cordelia's hairpins and twist it open into a long, thin wire. "Okay, thanks, man." I hang up the phone and walk around to the other side of the desk. Pushing the chair out of my way, I kneel down and pull out the cash box they keep hidden underneath the desk. Picking the lock expertly with Cordelia's mangled hair accessory, I have the cashbox open in a matter of moments and flip through the papers inside. Mostly checks, I observe, invoices, receipts, but there's just enough cash there to get Angel and I into the Whisky. I pull out a handful of bills and close the box again.
I'm sure he won't mind.
He wakes up about an hour later to find me standing over him with a freshly heated cup of blood. "Drink up fast and get dressed," I say cheerfully. "We've got a busy night planned."
He lifts his head slightly, gives me a puzzled look, and then lets it fall back on the pillow again with a groan. "Spike, *no.*"
"No what?" I say, grabbing him by the wrist and trying like hell to pull him out of bed. "You don't even know where we're going yet."
"I don't care. You've got that look. It can't be good." He pulls away and buries his head under the pillows.
"*What* look?" I say petulantly, setting the mug on the bedside table before it can spill and ruin his immaculate silk sheets.
"That stupid grin you get when you've got some sort of dastardly plan," comes the muffled reply.
"No. No dastardization here." I straddle the sheet-swaddled form and attempt in vain to pull the pillow off his head. "Just a nice evening I've got planned." A rip forms in the side of the pillowcase and I hear him growl; I hastily let go before the resulting vampire tug-of-war rips his favorite goose-down pillow into shreds. "A nice evening *just* like the one you planned for me last night."
"Somehow I doubt it."
"Aww, come on, Peaches."
"What is this, payback?" He still won't budge.
Finally I stand up, filthy boots on the expensive coverlet, and begin to bounce up and down like a child. "Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on."
It's juvenile, I know. It's childish even for *me.* But he fucking *deserves* it. I mean, *Riverdance,* for fuck's sake...
"Spike, no!" he shouts, tossing the pillow off his head and sitting up in alarm. "I got that in Spain, it's very rare, and- Spike, *shoes!*"
I leap up once more, landing in a sitting position, and brush nonexistent dirt off his comforter. "Get dressed."
*~*~*~*~*
"You're driving too fast again," I snap.
He glances over at me in mock anger and curls his black-tipped fingers around the steering wheel. "Yeah, well, we're about to be late. If you hadn't taken so fucking long in the shower..."
"And I suppose the blowjob I received between shampoo and rinse had nothing to do with that."
"I thought it would put you in a better mood. Clearly I was wrong." He sticks a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lights it, peering through the scratches in the black paint covering his windows.
"Spike," I say patiently, "where the hell are we going?"
He grins, the annoyance in his expression gone like so many thunderclouds on a bright day. His face is like weather. "Now, if I told you, Peaches, that would ruin the fun."
I sigh and rest my head back against the seat. "I'm already frightened."
He quirks an eyebrow at me, expels a stream of smoke, and jerks the steering wheel to the left, barely missing a little old lady crossing the street. I know perfectly well that if I wasn't in the car he would have just run her over. "You spent five hundred bloody years in hell and you're afraid of one evening with me? You're giving my creativity a bit too much credit, pet."
"Your social life inspires fear in me," I retort.
"At least I have one." He flicks the cigarette into the already overflowing ashtray; ashes tumble out and scatter onto the leg of my tailored slacks. I suppress a growl and brush them off.
"I have a social life."
"Yeah. Right. Fighting evil. Brooding. Sodding *Riverdance.* You're a real party animal, mate."
"That's what this is about, isn't it?" I sigh. "Riverdance."
He swerves the car suddenly and pulls into a parking space. He switches off the ignition and leaps out of the car, tossing his cigarette to the ground. "Come *on,*" he says impatiently as I open the door and begin to climb out. "They're starting soon."
I look up and realize we're at a club, a club from which loud, grinding guitar music pulsates at such a volume that I can actually feel the pavement trembling. "What the hell is this place?" I ask, wincing at the noise.
He stops in his tracks and stares at me in amazement, giving me that familiar you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look. "This is the Whisky," he says, as if he's speaking to a small child. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the fucking Whisky?"
I merely shrug and he rolls his eyes.
"Come on," he says, grabbing me by the elbow and pulling me towards the door. "This is my favorite band."
"Your favorite band is the Sex Pistols."
"My favorite band in which the bass player is still alive." He pulls a wad of bills from his duster pocket and shoves them at the guy at the door.
"Where did you get that money?" I ask suspiciously.
"The cashbox you keep hidden under the desk," he says flippantly, lighting another cigarette. "Come on, mate. You'll love it. This band kicks ass."
He pulls me into the club, where a throng of strangely dressed young people have already assembled. I see a lot of chains, bodily piercings, plaid pants. Hair in shapes and colors that defy nature. And beer. Lots of beer. On the stage, I see a group of young men setting up equipment.
"And that band is...?" I ask hesitantly.
He turns to me with a wide smile. "NOFX."