The slight brush of the paint against canvas was the only sound in the room as the artist made a few finishing touches on his most recent image. Shadowy tones accentuated by oddly fitting flashes of bright color were viewed by a bright blue eye, similarly contrasting darkness and light found within its depths and reflecting the mood of the painting.
“I take it you are content?” The sound of Rupert Giles’ refined voice interrupted the reverie of the artist, who turned his head to face his unexpected visitor.
“Very much so,” the young man said to his uncle. “And you?”
“My opinion isn’t exactly important, now, is it?” With a casual wave of his hand, the British man quirked his eyebrow at the fancily furnished quarters of his nephew. “I dare say I feel a bit out of place in such a posh home, William.”
“Don’t be a git, Rupes,” the young man said, rising from the stiff bench and moving to the couch to appraise his painting from a further distance. “Of course your opinion matters—you were the one to teach me to paint! Stop acting politely discomfited and sit down.” Pulling a cigarette from the pack resting on a small table, he wryly lit it and took in a deep drag of smoke. “And for the last time, Uncle, it’s not William—it’s Spike. Got to keep up the image and all.”
“Well… all right, then,” the older man said, setting himself down on the edge of a large armchair and setting his briefcase on his lap. “As it is, however, I regret to say that this visit is purely business.”
Spike blew a few rings of smoke into the air and looked back towards his uncle with an expectant expression on his face. “Well…?”
The older man looked as if struggling internally for a moment, but then began to speak. “Well, Will—Spike, it seems as if you have an offer from a particularly rich art collector based in Los Angeles.”
“California?” The young man’s ears quirked with interest, but his uncle was still nervously cleaning his glasses. After a moment, Spike finally became fed up and asked, “What’s the catch?”
“Well, not so much a catch, but…” Taking a deep breath, Giles finally met his nephew’s eye and blurted it out. “It seems as if this Liam Angelus has a particular… preference for his art. He has a fondness for… nude paintings.”
The cigarette hung stiffly from the upper lip of the suddenly open mouth of the young artist. “Nude?” As much as he tried to swagger and boast, his charms having proven quite effective in gaining popularity of his work, the true person within the artist was not the highly-confident Spike, but the bumbling, unconfident William—educated, intelligent, and not at all well-versed in the matters of sexual personification.
It was no doubt that the room suddenly began to feel unlike the vast quarter that it was, but a small, crowded closet entirely unsuitable for the conversation of uncle and nephew about such distasteful topics. After a minute or so of pointed throat clearing, Giles finally spoke once more. “I understand that the, erm, qualifications, aren’t exactly what you’re used to, but… Spike, you need to take into account the influence that this collector has on the American art community.”
“He’s that big, eh?”
“Without a doubt,” Giles replied, pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handing them to his nephew. “If you refused, William… I don’t think he would be very pleased, to say the least.” At the inquisitive look from the younger man, Giles shook his head adamantly. “Let’s just say that Liam Angelus has a way of ruining the careers of those who don’t do what he wants. And what he wants is for you to do a collection of, erm, nude portraits, of the woman of his choice.”
Pensive, Spike leaned back once more, taking a few more drags of his cigarette and thinking about his uncle’s offer. Despite William’s protests, Spike was definitely game for the challenge. The fact that the poncy L.A. wanker was just so interested in nudity made the young man question just how secure the investor could be in his sexuality, but if his influence was as great as Giles said, there really was no choice that the young artist could made, was there? His success in England and Europe was widespread and resulted in a rather larger bank account than either of the two had ever had access to, but to have a chance at success in America…
“Alright, Rupes,” Spike said, giving his uncle a cocky smirk and producing a pen from the drawer in the table before signing the contract sloppily and handing the papers back. “I’ll do it.”
~*~
Buffy Summers frantically scribbled the last words of her essay on Van Gogh, the clock on the wall behind her ticking incessantly and reminding her of her neglect to finish the assignment the night before. “That’s what I get for going with Riley to the frat house,” she muttered, her pencil breaking just as the bell rang, a good paragraph left to be desired on the paper as she handed it to her teacher and walked out the door to catch up with the redhead standing outside.
“Wasn’t that a great lecture?” Willow asked brightly, waving her hands in the air to punctuate her excitement over the lesson. “I mean, art history is all so fascinating, but the post-impressionist era was particularly captivating.”
“I’m sure it would’ve been great if I hadn’t been staring at dark little scribbles for the past hour,” Buffy said wryly, rubbing her cramping hand as they made their way out of the building and across the lawn to their dorm room. “I swear, Wills, I’m never going to take a night off again—a lot of great it did for me.”
“You need to take a break sometimes, Buffy,” Willow said, concern etched into her features as she nudged her friend’s arm. “I mean, what with the working and school and… working, you deserve to have some fun in the midst.”
“Fun isn’t fun when you’re being dragged to it by a whining boyfriend,” the blonde said, smirking and rolling her eyes. “I mean, you’d think Mr. Do-Gooder would’ve been a bit understanding when I said I had a paper to finish!”
Willow roller her eyes as well, reaching out to open the door of their dorm room and following Buffy through. “D’you need me to cover for you tonight? Answer the phone and say that you’re not here if he calls?”
“Thanks, Wills, but it’s okay. I already told Riley that I’ve got to go look for a second job today. He thinks it’ll literally be a job hunt, and that I’ll be busy the entire night.” Spotting the bulletin board at the end of the hall, Buffy gave her friend a quick grin, despite the worried expression on the redhead’s face. “Wanna come with and check out the jobs, or do you have things to do?”
“Sorry, Buff, Tara said she’d meet me at the Espresso Pump after class.” She gave her friend an apologetic look and a chastising finger shake for her overworking habits before heading through the door of their dorm room, the blonde heading down the hall to see if there were any job offers.
Making her way through the crowd of students already present, Buffy finally found herself scanning the numerous fliers and advertisements for something, anything that she could fit into her schedule, that could give her that extra few hundred dollars a month that she needed for the inconvenience of feeding herself. After a number of out-of-the-question options, the blonde’s eyes fell upon a simple black-and-white paper pinned in the middle of the board, displaying a seemingly perfect option:
Artist seeking female to paint in series of portraits
Pay: $300 per sitting, $1000 at end of sessions
Call for interview
Could she really make that much money simply for posing for an artist? Something inside her gut made her feel as if that wasn’t all there was to it, but the dollar signs on the page called to her, and there was something else… something that made her know that she had to do this.
There was a number at the bottom of the paper, and Buffy quickly added it to her cell phone, noticing at that moment that she had three missed calls from Riley. Shaking her head exasperatedly, she turned from the bulletin board and made her way down to her room, finding it empty when she entered. She took a few minutes to put her things down and change into her comfy clothes before flopping down on her bed and dialing the number of her boyfriend.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Riley, what’s up?”
“I thought you were working tonight.” The annoyance in the simple statement made Buffy roll her eyes, an action she couldn’t seem to control when speaking with her boyfriend.
Trying her best to keep the annoyance from her own voice, Buffy said, “Nah, I’m not working tonight, I’m gonna look for another job. Remember?”
“You already work so much; I hardly ever get to see you!”
“I’m sorry, Riley, but I need the money.” Impatience began to creep into her; it honestly felt like she was trying to pacify an impatient child. “Anyway, I was just calling you back, but I’ve really got to get going. So many jobs, so little time.”
They said their good-byes, neither exactly pleased with the conversation but knowing well-enough not to prolong the budding argument. It had been three months that Buffy had dated Riley, and although they had fallen for each other quickly, the heat of their relationship had cooled considerably as time had passed—at least to Buffy—and she found herself… smothered.
Willow had told her at least a hundred times to break up with him if she didn’t like how things were going, but the thought of having to deal with Riley’s reaction and his nearly-guaranteed proposals of “working through it” were just too much to handle right now—and with money as tight as it was, not to mention the pressure of classes, Buffy needed some kind of release.
The thought of her financial difficulties sent Buffy’s attention back to her phone, and the number that lay within it. Finding it quickly and pressing send, the blonde waited only two rings before it was answered.
“Hello, Rupert Giles speaking?” The man sounded older, British, and incredibly refined.
“Um, hi, this is Buffy Summers. I’m calling in response to your portrait… advertisement.” Unable to find the right word, Buffy suddenly found herself feeling strangely uneducated and unconsciously sat up straighter on her bed.
“Oh, erm, yes.” She could almost imagine a man dressed in tweed wearing glasses picking up a sheaf of papers. “Well, Miss Summers, the artist requesting portrait subjects is William Pratt, a rather famous—”
“Are you kidding me? His work is amazing!” Buffy nearly jumped out of her seat at the mention of the artist’s name. “Sorry for interrupting you, Mr. Giles, but I recently did a paper on one of his paintings in my modern art class and he amazed me!”
“You’re in school then, Miss Summers?”
“Oh, please, call me Buffy,” the blonde answered, smiling to herself at the kindness and amusement in the man’s voice at her enthusiasm. “And yes, I’m studying art at UCLA.”
For the next few minutes, the two chatted amiably, until Giles cleared his throat and suddenly became ill at ease. “Buffy, before you agree to an interview, I feel that you need to know something about the… nature, of these portraits.”
A strange feeling settled in Buffy’s stomach as she realized her earlier suspicions were indeed correct. “What do you mean, Giles?” she asked carefully.
It was clear that the older man was uncomfortable with what he was about to tell her. “First of all, I feel that I need to make this clear that what I am about to tell you in no way reflects the, erm, artistic preferences of myself or of William. They are, however, what the solicitor of these portraits wishes, and as he is paying us, we must follow them.” When Buffy was silent, the older man took a deep breath and finally said the words that he’d been dreading. “These particular portraits are to be done… nude.”