"Oh.  Yeah."  If he'd had circulation, he would've flushed at the memory of his embarrassing behavior when Dru had dumped him the first time.  "Still, Red should've at least---."

"She offered.  I turned her down."

His brow lifted.  "Since when does patrolling rate higher than hen night?"

Buffy shrugged and resumed walking again.  "Since they arrest you if you start beating up the clientele," she replied.  "I'm not in the most sociable of moods right now, especially where the opposite sex is concerned.  Not sure I can deal with the flirting and small talk without major combustion."

He fell into step beside her.  "That's half the fun, pet."

"Maybe for you."

"And you're sure doin' with the fisticuffs is better therapy?"

"For this girl, most definitely." 

They walked in silence for a moment, the edge of his duster brushing against her leg with every step.  The scent of her skin was much stronger so close, tangy to the point of prickling his tongue in moisture, and Spike had to struggle to keep the growl of his demon under control.  This had been happening more and more as of late, this visceral response to her presence.  Not the Slayer part, although that certainly was a big part of it.  It was the answer of his own body to hers, a tug from someplace inside that he didn't want to recognize and quite often ignored, because considering the ramifications of anything further only made him feel like tearing someone to shreds.  Which was actually why he ended up going out on his own patrols so often.  Nothing like a spot of violence to work through those unwanted instincts.

"Would've thought you'd bagged your limit," he finally commented.  "Not like seven's not a lucky number or anything."

Immediately, Buffy stopped, a frown on her face.  "How do you know how many vamps I dusted?"

Bloody hell.  Should've just kept his gob shut.

Her eyes widened.  "Have you been following me?"

"Not followin'!" Spike protested.  "You have any idea how much of a blather you make when you're on the hunt?  Kinda hard not to know when you're around, Slayer, 'specially when you're in such a snit.  That last one took you soddin' forever to finish off."

The set of her mouth told him he'd lost whatever good will he might've garnered in their few seconds of camaraderie.  "Go home, Spike," she said grimly.  "Before I decide to make you number eight."

His nostrils flared as he watched her walk away.  "Well, not like you should be here anyway," he called after her retreating back.  "If I were Red, I'd be mighty brassed off for bein' stood up for a few stiffs!"  As she disappeared around a bend in the path, not even bothering to look back, Spike grimaced, kicking roughly at a crumbling headstone nearby, disrupting a shower of stone and dust that settled like a fine mist on his boot.  What was it about her that always made him turn into the village idiot? he wondered, rolling his eyes as he replayed his last few words in his head.  He always seemed to come up with the better comebacks when she wasn't around.  It was certain that the perfect wisecrack would come to him as soon as she was out of earshot; he just wished he could time them to show up when she was still in his presence.  Show the silly bint she wasn't all that, that she didn't get under his skin like molten lava rolling down his spine, enflaming his flesh in remembered heat, making him…

Bugger.

Bitch.  How the hell did she do it?

*************

The Bronze was packed, bodies pressed against each other on the dance floor, the air conditioning in overdrive to combat the heat rising from the gyrating flesh.  At their table, Tara and Willow sipped at their drinks, condensation dripping down the sides of the tall glasses, as they watched the band onstage finish up their last number.

"I still wish Buffy had come with," the redhead complained as the music faded away.  "She needs something to distract her from the muddle going through her head about Riley."

"She could still show up," Tara said.  "After she's done patrolling?"

Willow shook her head.  "Nah.  Something tells me she's in a staking sort of place right now, not a dancing sort of place."  Her mouth pursed around her straw as she remembered the closed-off look on her best friend's face after returning from Riley's.  Buffy hadn't wanted to talk about it, and not even the offer of chocolate-y goodness and cute boys clamoring to buy her drinks could elicit a smile from the Slayer before she'd disappeared into the night.

"Then we'll just have to have her fun for her," Tara said playfully, and reached down to squeeze her girlfriend's knee.

The redhead smiled, grateful for the diversion, and turned her gaze to the musicians filing onto the stage.  "Who's this?" she asked with a small frown, watching as they plugged in a keyboard and set up the microphone directly in the center.

"There was a sign up front that said there's a new act tonight.  Some singer.  I didn't recognize the name.  Stella something."

They waited in mute fascination as the musicians took their place, lanky young men almost draped over their instruments.  Only when they were settled did the lights go down, a single spotlight illuminating the space around the mic, and a tall black female stepped into the circle. 

She was a large woman---statuesque would've been the gentle term for it---with skin the color of milky coffee and black hair plaited down her back.  Thin fingers that belied her size wrapped around the stand, her long nails painted scarlet and tipped in silver, catching the light and sending it scattering across the faces of the people waiting for her to start.  She could've been twenty, she could've been forty; the truth was most likely something in between.  She just had one of those kind of faces that defied being labelled, flawless skin waiting in sobriety for the music behind her to start.

It began with a drumbeat, slow, steady, the bass rolling to fill the room, pounding against the occupants' flesh in a tonal reminder of more primal impulses.  Next, came the lazy caress from the keyboard, adding the melody line to create a song bathed in starlight, the call of innate vagaries lingering in its notes like a deep red wine.  By the time thirty seconds had passed, the crowd was breathless in anticipation of the voice that would join them.

It was huskier than they thought it would be, a throaty tribute to the vocal stylings of an Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holliday.  Smoky, reeking of sex, yet breaking from the anguish of an unspoken pain.

Willow was transfixed, her breath coming in tiny pants as she watched the singer take command of her audience, leading them through the paths of her song with a crook of her finger.  Not the Bronze's usual fare, and yet, so, so much better.  Nobody was dancing.  Somehow, it would've seemed sacrilege to disrupt the performance with something as base as that.  But neither were they bored, lost in the woman's voice as she sang the tale of loss and betrayal.

As the last note trailed away, there was a moment of hesitation before the room erupted in applause, shrill whistles punctuating the air as the singer took a step back away from the microphone and smiled for the first time since taking the stage.  Willow's clapping was just as loud as the rest, but as she gazed in wondrous awe at the performer, she felt a flush flood over her skin as their eyes met…held…her heart pounding in her throat when she broke away from the trance to glance at her girlfriend out of the corner of her eye.  Oh goddess, she thought wildly.  That was just too…intense.

But Tara hadn't noticed, smiling and clapping along with the rest, and only turned away to smile at Willow when the singer returned to the mic.  "She's really good," the blonde commented.

Before the other girl could reply, however, a voice drifted in to fill the space between them.  "Actually, she's amazing," it interjected, the lazy twang of a Southern baritone catching both of their attention.

Their heads turned, two sets of eyes gazing curiously at the young man who stood behind them.  Tall, but on the thin side, with an open face that bordered on the bland.  Good-looking in a washed-out Ken kind of way, Willow thought, and affected her polite but not interested smile as she nodded in agreement.

He stuck his hand out as the second song started.  "I'm Freddie," he said.

Tara was the one who accepted his introduction, a welcoming smile creasing her friendly features as years of Southern breeding took hold and she responded in kind.  "You sound like you're from my neck of the woods," she said, doing her best not to stutter over the words.  "I'm Tara, by the way."

He turned expectantly toward the redhead, who inwardly sighed.  "Willow," she offered with a waggle of her fingers.  "Hi."

The words to the next number came then, following the upbeat tempo as the vocalist beckoned to the crowd to get up and dance.  Immediately, Willow was diverted, green gaze riveted back to the stage, the same physical response to this song as she'd had to the previous.  The world seemed to slip away around her, the presence of the stranger behind her disappearing, and she found herself immersed in ethereal arms, pulling and tugging and holding her close as she became sucked into the music.

Her clapping was even more rigorous with the second song's conclusion, growing in enthusiasm with each passing performance, and she was oblivious to the continued conversation that was happening between her girlfriend and the young man who was now sitting at their table.  For some inexplicable reason, something about the singer called to her, a sense of familiarity, of sisterhood, springing from her gut that hadn't happened since she'd first met Tara, and though it was in no way a sexual attraction, there was something there, just…indefinable.

The hollowness in her stomach when the set finished caused Willow to swallow compulsively, shocked at how strung out she felt.  It was just music, she thought as she turned in a daze back to her half-finished drink, sipping at it cautiously as she prayed that it would fill the growing fissure inside her.  This didn't even happen when Oz played.  Who would've thunk it?

"You know, Stel's a friend of mine."  It was the first thing he'd addressed directly to her since he'd sat down, and the redhead turned to look at the young man---Freddie, he'd said his name was---smiling at her.  He nodded toward the emptying stage in clarification.  "The singer."

"You know her?"  God, redundant much, she scolded herself.  He's going to tell her you're a big ol' goof.

"Sure, we go back a long way," he said.  "When she got this gig, I asked if she minded if I tagged along.  I've never been to California before.  Had this whole mess of touristy stuff I wanted to do.  'Course, I didn't realize you weren't exactly on Disney's back door."  He grinned.  "So much for taking a gander at Mickey while I'm here."

"They're from New Orleans," Tara offered in explanation.

Willow brightened.  "Ooo, land of Mardi Gras.  I've always wanted to go there.  The music, the costumes.  All that history and lore."  She blushed at his raised eyebrow.  "I'm kind of lore girl around here," she added and rushed to change the subject.  "How did you end up all the way out in Sunnydale?  I would've thought we were pretty backwater compared to the streets of New Orleans."

"Stella knows people.  A lot of people.  And when she decided she wanted a break from the humidity back home, she just asked around 'til something popped up."