I started this story a while back for the sole purpose of practicing how to write sex scenes because I felt really uncomfortable doing it. Somewhere in the past few months, writing "penis" and "orgasm" has lost it's awkward, uneasy feeling and I realized that I wasn't doing justice to my plot, so I decided to take it down for a little bit and turn what was meant to be a short, whirlwind story into a long, in-depth epic - of sorts. The background was polished, I created a complex storyline, analyzed the characters and human nature, did all sorts of research, and this is what I've come up with.
This was previously under the title "A Deadly Glance," but really, it's turned into something a lot bigger, so if you didn't give it a chance before, I really hope you do now. And if you liked it before, I'd suggest reading the changes because it goes a lot deeper into the characters and their history.
Setting: New York City - if you haven't noticed, most of my stories are always relocated to NY, mainly because I used to live by NYC and I've never actually been to California and would probably suck at describing Los Angeles. =/
Warning: Heavy angst, heavy violence, heavy sex.
Prologue
Bullets and stones can break my bones, but love is sure to kill me.
There were some things in life that could be taught. Things like the fact that the burly, bearded man reading the New York Times two seats down had a solar plexus located under his sternum and beneath his diaphragm just like every other person on the subway. Or things like how his top two vertebra - the atlas and the axis - formed a joint with his skull, keeping his bulky head up and allowing it to turn as his beady eyes skimmed the New York Stock Exchange.
Then, there were those things in life that -- couldn't be taught. No matter how many times someone demonstrated the step-by-step method to breaking a neck, a person wouldn’t be able to do it without intimately knowing the sound of the cervical discs slipping out of place or the satisfying feel of smooth bone cracking beneath their fingers.
Her steady gaze was fixed on the man’s sweaty, red face, his pudgy cheeks drooping down into a thick chin. Maybe he thought being fat was a benefit -- that it meant more cushion to protect his bones. Too much flesh to maneuver out of the way. He didn’t know it yet, but it was already too late. In a matter of minutes, he’d be sitting in the same position with his head slightly bent at a crooked angle.
He has no idea, she thought, still staring at him as he swatted a fly away from his ear. The man might know what a solar plexus was and where it was located, but he probably didn’t know how to punch somebody so they staggered and had to fight for the sweet salvation of one single breath. Even if he did, there was absolutely no way he could know just how much force and just how far back he had to draw his arm to knock a person out of consciousness.
He might know that the atlas of his spine made it possible for him to nod, but did he know the swiftness and precision it took to push the joint to it’s limit and permanently sever his skull from his neck? He might know that when he slapped somebody, their axis allowed their head to swing to the side, but did he know just how hard he’d have to hit until their neck snapped?
Those were the type of things nobody taught in school. Those were the little things in life that went whispered from person to person, an excited breath traveling from ear to ear. People imagined it in their heads, the satisfaction of an ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s bones shattering, the scream of pain, then the silence of death.
It went unspoken. There were no classes to take. Unless, of course, you were training a killer…
The subway pulled to a jerking stop and the doors rolled open. Two people walked out, but nobody walked in. The fat man rubbed his wide nose and moved around to adjust himself to a more comfortable position. When the train was moving again, it was just him and her. Him, a bad guy, and her, an even badder guy.
In one swift motion, she got to her feet, leapt over to where he was sitting, grabbed his head in her leather gloved hands, twisted and snapped his neck. His eyes had time to widen, but his last words died in his open mouth.
When she let go, his head fell down over his massive chest and she stepped away. From an observer’s standpoint, he looked like he had fallen asleep -- with good reason too, the stock exchange didn't make for very exciting read.
At the next stop, she got off and didn't look back.
The Assassin
Assassins. Killers. Society's outcasts and society's keepers - they were the ones that people feared before closing their eyes at night and they were the ones that haunted every father and mother's dreams. They were the ultimate police and in this world, there was no such thing as a good cop.
It was a dangerous business. Some of them were sent to jail and others went to sleep and never woke up. Most of them never stayed in one place for more than a few weeks at a time. The grungy motel, smells of cigarettes and beer, smoky hazes above poker tables, raspy voices over payphones, black and white pictures sent classified through the U.S. postal service - that was the life of an assassin. Wadded up bills slipped discreetly into the seams of suitcases and bags; it wasn't glamorous, not like the briefcases stuffed with fifties and hundred dollar bills.
They all had to have a death wish. There was no reason not to. But something always happened; some grew tired of the sagging beds of Motel 6 that smelled of week-old urine, some were sick of looking back at their own dead reflection in airplane mirrors as they traveled far, far away from their last job. Others changed sides, had epiphanies, adopted Christianity,… fell in love. Love changed everything. Links changed everything. A successful assassin had no connections, nobody to tie them down to one place. They were less like the glorious free bird and more like the dark, lone wolf.
Most importantly, though, was calculation. Everybody and everything was a factor, from the victim to the boss, the amount of the commission to the number of bullets in the gun. Everything was measured, every footstep, every flutter of an eyelash, every swirl of a coat. The clicking of the heel on the pavement was timed, every smile and look was registered.
Some people grew bored. But others - others like her - saw it as a light. Life drifted away from mundane routine and everyday drill… to her, life became a thrill.
It was Thursday morning, September 7th, and the silver Fossil watch that she hadn’t had the heart to part with since college read 10:45:05. Exact. Buffy Summers looked up at the Subway sign in front of her. As always, she was right where she needed to be, down to the very second.
It was that time of year when the weather was indecisive, not wanting to leave summer, but not wanting to push away winter. The wind threatened to turn icy, but the sun beamed down at New York City, warming the city and the people in it. A gust of cool air blew across the street, making her cheeks tinge pink, but it left as swiftly as it came and soon, it was warm again.
She wore a mess of designers. Valentino, Marc Jacobs, Armani. Her beige trench coat, petite and slim around the waist, fell mid-thigh, an inch or two below the frayed hemline of a worn denim skirt. Two buttons were done up over a low-cut, satin tank top. The stiletto boots digging at her toes pushed her 5'3'' frame up another two and a half inches. They reached up just shy of her knee, warming her lean calves. A few joggers in spandex and nylon breezed passed her and she couldn't keep the smug smile off her face as she looked at their disappearing backs. If she had to, she could outrun them - in her boots. It all came with the job.
Another gust of wind blew, tousling her hair and making her shiver involuntarily. She stuffed her hand in her pocket and curled her fingers around a little Swiss knife, a birthday gift from her father. The sleek, silver pistol with her family emblem carved out in the wooden handle strapped high on her thigh was also a gift from daddy, along with the small, black gun tucked into her right boot. The first present she ever remembered receiving from him had been a machete sized water gun on her fifth birthday. If there was a message he was trying to send through his choice of gifts, it was being received, loud and clear.
A couple of teenaged boys brushed against her as they passed. She checked her watch again - 10:48:29 - before going down the stairs into the Subway station. The heels of her boots clicked on each step down. By the time she reached the ground, her toes were aching.
People hastily pushed by her as she walked to the ticket-office. A businesswoman in a sharp-looking suit and thin heels tripped over some invisible spot on the ground and her briefcase cracked open upon impact with the floor. Buffy walked on, not slowing down to help, gaining a glare from the woman. She felt like rolling her eyes, like she even gave a damn.
The line snaked around the ticket-stand and was getting longer by the second as hordes of people simultaneously migrated towards it's end. And there, walking briskly along the outskirts of the horde was the man in the picture that had been lying in her fax machine earlier that week. The target.
Something set him off from the rest of the crowd. It could've been his platinum blonde hair or his angular face drawn in a tight frown. He had a slight swagger in his gait and though he was walking quickly, he made it look like he had all the time in the world.
She silently measured his steps and slowed down to match them. It took twenty-three seconds and fourteen steps for her to finally reach the end of the line behind an elderly couple. They stared a little too long at the plunging neckline where the blades of her trench coat met and she gave them both a saccharine smile. The woman flushed and turned around, embarrassed, as the man just glared a little harder at her before facing front again.
As calculated, her target stepped into the line a few seconds after she did. He was yelling at somebody over his cell phone and she noted the impatient edge in his voice. There was so much one voice could convey. For instance, any bystander would be able to tell that he was frustrated, it was evident in the way he stressed his consonants, spitting them out as if they were vile. She read deeper into it and heard a slight tense infliction in his tone: not enough sleep and definitely not enough sex. That, I can work with, she smiled, realizing that her job had just gotten significantly easier.
Her index finger and thumb felt the light weight of a fountain pen in her pocket and for a brief moment, she relished that feeling of power. It was a sweet, satisfying sensation that started deep in the gut and she wondered how it would feel for him if he knew that the rest of his life depended on that single fountain pen.
Her fingers squeezed the pen and she took one more deep breath. In two seconds she would let go and the pen would tumble to the ground. Her target would bend over to pick it up and in that exact moment, his life would take a dramatic turn towards what probably would be hell. Control had never felt better.
One.
Two.
The Lawyer
The irony was absolutely brilliant.
The senior partners had called his new case "one that could potentially make your career skyrocket to the heavens and above - if you win, of course." Heaven being the ironic part, what with all the illegal and immoral cases that he had loop-holed and manipulated his way out of, he probably already had an assigned seat in hell. Nevertheless, if he won this case, he would have permanently made a name for himself and upped his career by countless points. If he won. The funny thing was that they never told anybody what would happen to them if they didn't win, but then again, it wasn't much of an issue because nobody in Wolfram & Hart had ever not won.
Those special "make your career skyrocket" cases were only handed out once in a while, usually meaning once in a lifetime so when the opportunity presents itself, you bloody well better make a grab for it. About ninety-nine percent of the time, the subject of those special cases deserved to be locked up - at the very least - but Wolfram & Hart couldn't care less. Though sometimes he felt a feather-light weight of guilt at releasing the monsters back to the world, being a lawyer under the Wolfram & Hart firm was highly lucrative. All underground, secretive, and illicit material aside, the benefits were endless if you played your cards right.
Playing your cards right, meaning that when the senior partners assigned you a slightly questionable case, you made it the new objective of your life to pay that particular client the attention he deserved and then some. Which meant that when they made an appointment, you had better catch it.
But, those assignments only came once in two blue moons. And, fortunately for Spike, those blue moons seemed to rendezvous at least once every week, as he had already divided and conquered more than his fair share of “questionable” cases.
It also just so happened that at this particular moment, Spike had an appointment to catch - one of those very important appointments - and right now, his wife was badgering, screeching, and pushing him, his patience, and her vocal chords to the absolute limit. He winced as her voice hit a particularly high note, making his eardrums shudder.
For the most part, Spike tolerated his wife. This was probably because she spent most of her time at the opposite end of the country, which enabled him to philander with slightly less headache-inducing and less commitment-wanting women than she. But at this exact, infinitesimal second in time, he wanted to kill her. Quite literally.
“No, Dru!” he tried reasoning, knowing it was going to be futile. He tightened his hand around his leather briefcase, pretending it was her long, pale neck he was strangling and tried to imagine the satisfying choking sound she would make as the life drained from her body. The line at the ticket booth was growing and he quickened his pace. “I can’t make it to California in two bloody days, okay?! I’ve been telling you this for the past twenty min - Are you daft? I have my job! - Oh, really! It doesn’t matter, does it? Well you can bloody well say good bye to those pretty things you like so much, the little - Oh, I get it! You’re completely off your bleedin’ nutter, you stupid, sodding bint! I’ve got clients to see, I can’t just --"
She cut him off again and he rolled his eyes, biting down on the string of curses he was about to spew at her. He stepped in line behind a woman in boots. Out of habit, he tilted his head to the left and checked out what the short trench coat she was wearing had failed to hide. Spike smiled appreciatively at her long, muscled thighs.
Drusilla’s voice rose again, dangerously approaching a sound that only dogs would be able to hear. People walking around him turned their heads so they could raise annoyed eyebrows up at him, like it was his fault that the raspy tones of his wife’s voice over the phone sounded like a mesh between a barmy witch and a sports-announcer on crack. He held the cell phone three inches away from his ear and glared at them. They turned around, obviously deciding that it was none of their business.
“No! How many times do I have to --" his voice was growing exponentially louder. The blonde in front of him twitched her head to the side and clear-polished nails reached up to scratch her hair. He caught a faint scent of citrus and vanilla… very nice. “Well, I’ll send your father some champagne, alright? That should do it -- Then tell me what the bloody hell it is that he wants!? … Are you out of your soddin’ mind? – “
Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of his nose taking in a non-too-discreet whiff of her perfume and her lips curved up in a knowing smile. She was already in control. Her hand crept out of her pocket and she let the heavy, fountain pen dangle casually from her fingers.
Her fingers went slack and the pen plummeted to the cemented floor of the subway station with a smack. Oops! She smiled and turned her head slightly to look at the pen lying listlessly on the floor, it’s jade color standing out from the muted brown and grey of the worn cement.
She didn’t have to look at him to know that he had put his briefcase down and was reaching for her pen with one hand as he shouted over the phone with the other. Buffy kept her eyes lowered and fixed her eyes on the freshly shined tops of his Gucci shoes. Slowly and deliberately, she raked her eyes over the pants of his black suit--Giorgio?--lingered at the yellow, Versace tie before flickering her eyelashes up and catching the cerulean blue of his eyes.
She had seen his face in the black and white photo that had been faxed to her apartment so she should have known that he had perfectly sculpted cheekbones, an eloquent, chiseled out hollow beneath them, a firm jaw,… but it seemed all different. Buffy inwardly slapped herself and it was all business again.
The man--Spike--seemed to have frozen with her pen in his hand. His mouth was still wide open as if he was in the middle of a sentence, but when he met her gaze, the sound had stopped coming out of it.
Acting shy and demure, she lowered her lashes and focused on the knot of his tie. “Thank you,” she smiled weakly, taking her pen back. Their fingers touched and she nearly jumped at the little electric shock that jolted her.
He moved his mouth but nothing came out and Buffy stopped the triumphant smile from making an appearance. She had done it. Everything from this point forward would be smooth sailing, there was absolutely no question. The side of her lip lifted slightly as she gave him a small smile. Then, she walked away from the line and towards the stairs that led to the soft white glow of hazy outside lights.
Spike’s eyes followed her figure as she walked away, switching her hips with every step, confident as … some kind of big cat. A lion. No, a tiger. Her hair glistened and fell over her shoulders like a golden waterfall of waves. Before she completely disappeared, she turned to look at him one more time and he felt his mouth go dry. He widened his eyes. What the hell just happened?
Buffy couldn’t help the silent giggle that erupted from her throat as she scampered up the cement stairs of the dark, subway station and into the bright daylight of New York City. It was all part of the job.
His wife was throwing a fit on the other line, but his ears tuned out her voice. A man behind him started having a coughing fit, but he drowned it out with his thoughts. Some saint in boots and a trench coat had just walked out from under his nose and his head was still frozen in place, eyes still rooted to the stairwell where he had seen her last. Who the fuck was that?
If he really thought about it, he’d wonder why she upped and left the line, he’d wonder why she was there to begin with. He’d even wonder why the pen that she held was the familiar Wolfram & Hart fountain pen that decorated every surface of every desk in the building. But something about that sex-goddess had made his brain stop functioning and all he could register was that her citrus-vanilla scent was still lingering in the air and he stepped forward to immerse himself in whatever was still left of it.
“Hey, line’s moving,” the coughing man behind him had suddenly stopped coughing and was now tapping his foot irritably. Spike blinked and realized that there was now a nice-sized gap between him and the person in front of him.
“Sorry,” Spike muttered, startled and shaken. The man behind him grumbled and Drusilla said something that sounded like You’d better be sorry!, but his mind was still fixated on that one piece of heaven who had just disappeared.
There was no question about it. He was truly and thoroughly buggered. That, and he was going to hell.
.............
Hope you're liking this so far... remember... reviews make the world go round!
I'm juggling WIP's right now... I'll be posting this once or twice a week, hopefully. "At Your Doorstep" should also be posted once a week or so. I DO plan to finish my other WIP's but... right now I'm having this really bad case of muse-failure. It's like I KNOW what's going to happen, but the scene's just not... coming out right.
Anyways... yeah. I just sent in my Early Decision application to Columbia a few days ago... so wish me luck!