It could've been worse, y'know. I just feel I should point that out. Hell, in the end, we didn't even have to file an accident report; the officer called to the scene was none other than one Detective Kate Lockley. She got out of her police car, took one look at us, shook her head sadly, and got back into her car and drove away.
Self-righteous bitch.
We went to visit his car at the junk heap. The mechanic told us, with a touch of sympathy in his voice, that he'd tried everything and there was nothing else he could do. I tried once again to apologize, which is *really* unbecoming on me, and he got all teary-eyed and asked me to go wait in Cordy's car with the others, because he needed a moment alone.
Later, I dragged his still-in-mourning ass to the world famous dealership on Rodeo. It's called The Toy Store. Acres and acres of automobiles worth more than his big poncey hotel. Oh yessssss. I wonder if shouting in manic glee is unbecoming a vampire. Fuck it.
"Do you have a Plymouth Belvedere GTX?" Angel asks the car salesman, with a touch of desperation in his voice.
"Fuckin' hell, Angel, you've already
had one of them. Live a little," I groan. "Come on. Look, mate.
There's plenty of nice
cars over here."
He stares appreciately at the most oversized fucking car I've ever seen. It takes up half the goddamned showroom. "Maybe I should get this one," he muses.
I walk up and down the length of the car and raise my eyes to my Sire. "Is this some sort of-"
"If I hear the words "penis metaphor" emit from your pretty little mouth, Spike, I'll rip your lungs out." He runs his fingertip along the side of the car and gives a nostalgic little sigh. "It's not as shiny as my old car."
You'd think he'd been fucking that car, the way he carries on. "Well, how's about this one, then?" I reply, pointing out a swank little classic red number.
He furrows his brow at the price tag. It's nothing short of adorable, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna tell him that. "That's a very big number."
I glance at the tag. "No, pet, that's the tax." I point. "*That's* the price."
"Seventy-two THOUSAND DOLLARS?" he shrieks, his eyebrows nearly meeting his overgelled hairline. "For a CAR??"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Angel," I sputter, lighting a cigarette. "Don't tell me you're actually thinking of *paying* for it." I swear, I will never understand how his mind works.
He snatches the cigarette from my mouth and tosses it into something resembling a fake potted plant in the corner. "I'm fighting for the forces of good," he hisses from between clenched teeth. "I am *not* going to steal this car."
I shrug. "Suit y'self. Mind if I wander around a bit?"
"Stay out of trouble," he says automatically, his eyes never straying from the salestag.
I respond with a gesture that is considered offensive in some circles. Sure. Trouble. Me. Yeah, right.
Like that would ever happen.
*~*~*~*~*
"Sir?"
I recognize the look on the salesman's face immediately. Half fear, half righteous anger, with a little bit of befuddled amusement thrown in and just a touch of sympathy. "What did he do?"
If I had a nickel for every time I had to ask a perplexed-looking employee that question, I could afford that big shiny car.
He points soundlessly. The room to which he gestures does not have a sign on the door that reads "Where we keep the expensive breakable stuff that you can't afford," but it might as well. I enter with great trepidation.
"Spike," I say, my voice only shaking the merest bit, "please stop jumping up and down on the seats of the '67 Thunderbird convertible that costs more than you do."
He gives me a merry grin and continues to bounce.
"Now," I growl, clenching my fists slightly. I will not gameface in front of the car salesman. I will not gameface in front of the car salesman.
He gets the point, climbing out of the convertible with a pout. "A man with priorities so far out of whack doesn't deserve such a fine automobile," he quips. Off my blank look, he gives me an incredulous stare. "'Ferris Bueller's Day Off,' you sod! Have you learned *nothing*?"
"Guess not." I look around the car dealership, wondering what I'm supposed to do with him. Time was I would've told him to go wait out in the car, but I guess that's off the menu. By the time I look back, he's climbed atop a Harley-Davidson motocycle, grinning maniacally and making "vroom-vroom" noises.
"Spike," I bark, "off. the. motorcycle. Now." He starts to pout but is checked by the audible growl emitting from the back of my throat. I point towards the door. "Go. Wait for me outside."
"Wanker," he mutters.
And I *know* I've pissed him off, and I'm *sure* there's gonna be double guilt coupons for this later, but right now I can't bring myself to care. Spike crashed my car. *My* *car.* My car was big. And shiny. And... mine.
"Do you have anything unbreakable?" I ask the salesman hopefully.
*~*~*~*~*
Hmm.
Yeah.
Well, ain't *that* just a fucking beauty.
I know fuck all about cars, I'll have to admit. The DeSoto, which hasn't run properly since I got to L.A., was my fifth car, the first four having been lost to a series of accidents within the first ten years of my driving career as I tried to get a hang of this whole steering thing. Okay, to be honest, this whole steering while intoxicated thing. I don't remember what sorts of cars the first four were, mainly on account of the drunkenness, but they were pretty cars. Nearly as pretty as this one. Smooth and red and god*damn* this car's getting me hard just looking at it.
"Scuse me," I ask the scantily clad young blond saleswoman, "but what exactly is this?"
She flutters her eyelashes rapidly at me. "That's the 1958 Ferrari 250 GTS California, sir."
Sir. I just love that shit.
"How's about lettin' me take it on a test drive, love?" I say sweetly.
"Well, sir," she says nervously, "it's a very expensive car, and-"
In response, I blink twice and offer her a grin. "Oh, don't be a spoilsport, pet."
Ten minutes later, I approach Angel with a wicked smile, dangling the Ferrari's keys from my hand.
"I'm taking it on a test drive," I say dangerously. "If you want to make sure I behave, you'd best get in."