Spike gave the Harley's engine just enough power to glide to a stop perfectly parallel to its larger, younger, far shinier cousin. As always he had to suppress a twist of envy.
"Hey, Johnny. What's the crowd like?" he greeted the owner of the other motorbike.
Johnny stood a good six inches taller than Spike. His mother had been Native American though even Johnny didn't know which tribe and his father had been a Russian miner, who became a longshoreman when he arrived in the States. Johnny had lucked out and got the best of both genetic worlds. His skin had a bronzed glow that contrasted sharply with his ice blue eyes, even if he didn't see the sun for months on end. His shining black hair reached down to his waist in a smooth curtain and his broad shoulders and general muscle tone owed as much to his father as to the hour that he spent in the gym most days. Johnny could have made far more money inside 'The Fabulous Ladies Night Club' than he did on the door, but it wasn't his style. Besides, the club's manageress would never have let him work the floorshow wearing a wedding band, and nothing would make Johnny take it off. "Busy. There's a coach trip in from up north somewhere. Gina's been out here lookin' for you a couple of times already. She wants you to work the booths until the crowd gets warmed up. And she told me to polish up the chrome on the bike so you can do the 'Wanted' routine at the end of the night."
Spike gave a sigh and reminded himself again of a certain pint-sized blonde and the expression that he hoped to see when she opened her Christmas gifts. Spike didn't like the booths. He could make as much as he needed in tips by waiting tables in between his sets and get to keep his jeans on. The booths were too personal, too intimate. Even with half an inch of plate glass between him and the customer, it came too close to whoring for Spike to be completely comfortable... Johnny knew it and his tone was sympathetic, and Gina knew it too, but she wouldn't be. Spike found himself patting down his pockets, craving one last ciggie before he faced the music.
Upstairs, the show was harmless fun. Women came in in groups for the most part. They joked with each other about what they would do if they got to take home one of the dancers instead of the men they'd been married to for fifteen years, but it never happened. They partied and got drunk, and though the guys on the stage were their excuse for being there and they would queue up to tuck neatly folded bills into their waistband, most of the time they enjoyed it more because it was a night of womanly camaraderie, a risqué evening away from their men folk where they weren't wives or mothers or even girlfriends. Yeah, if you wanted to make money you'd flirt and give the women the sort of looks they hadn't got from a stranger in twenty years. Five seconds later, when it was their best mate's turn to present their offering, you'd be giving their friend the same look while they'd be laughing and teasing her about her trembling fingers.
The booths were different.
Down in the basement there were a dozen rooms, though except on the busiest nights Gina would only open two or three. If she was prepared to piss off one of her most popular acts by making him work the booths, the club must be heaving. Each room was divided in two uneven parts by a waist-high counter at which there was just room for a customer to sit. Above the counter, there was thick safety glass that stretched all the way to the ceiling. On the dancer's side of the glass were heavy metal shutters. Until someone began feeding tokens into the slot at the side of the counter, the screen would only rise for long enough to give any browsers a brief glimpse of the hidden dancer. Once the customer started putting their tokens in the slot the metal screen would stay up for a couple of minutes at a time at the end of which it would come crawling down to remind them that it was time to put the next token in. So long as the tokens flowed, a "busy" sign would light up above the customers' entrance to the room and anyone who opened a door displaying such a light would soon find themselves in the alley out back of the club. Sometimes, they would bring notepads and pens and Spike would not only have to dance or strip but they'd start writing little notes telling him which way to turn or that he should stroke himself or whatever else happened to fit with their little fantasies... And though he was allowed to take his time about following their instructions, since the longer he dragged things out the more tokens went in the slot, and club policy at least stated that that last piece of tortuous, cheese-wire-between-the-cheeks underwear stayed on no matter what, Gina's final word on the subject was that if you pay the piper, you pick the tune.
The customer's side was dark enough and the counter wide enough that some of the customers would convince themselves that he couldn't see them fumbling under their skirts as they watched him, their eyes glassy and their mouths open as their arm moved faster and faster. Some were less inhibited and would kneel on the counter to make sure he had the clearest possible view of what they were doing. They paid for one on one attention because they were looking for a connection. Spike didn't want to connect with any of them. They paid for one on one because that way they got to feel like they owned him even if only for ten minutes at a time. Spike would give of himself unstintingly for love, but he'd never set his price as low as mere money. He would sell his time. He would sell information. He had fought for money, risked dying for it, even, but he wouldn't sell himself.
Upstairs appealed to his vanity. He was the star of the show, women wanted him and with his flair for the dramatic there were actually few things he could do and get paid for that he would enjoy more. Upstairs was about fun and flamboyance, taking the moves and flexibility from years of martial arts and adding music to make a routine.
Downstairs came pretty close to his own personal idea of hell.
"You gonna play along or what?" Johnny asked him.
Spike scowled, lit the cigarette that he had finally found and eventually, after a couple of long deep draws, he shrugged. He had already given Joyce the money for all the presents for her and her girls, but he was still about fifty bucks shy of what he needed to give a certain demon later tonight to get Glinda's present... more by the time he put petrol in the bike if he went home without doing his shift. He'd been going to pick up a bottle of single malt for Old Rupes and something, though he didn't yet know what, for his demon bint as well and then there were the little things like the gift wrap and cards and a couple of bottles of wine for Joyce to say thanks for the invite... an' he'd had his eye on a new leather jacket, not for all the time, but maybe for Christmas Day and New Years and if he was taking his girl somewhere a bit more special than The Bronze... maybe a couple of new shirts. Basically, however, he already had everything he needed for the holidays. "I'll see what the deal is. She better be offering a damn sight more than sixty percent though, or she'll be looking for another cowboy to ride that steel horse of yours at the end of the night."
Johnny gave him a wry smile. "Good luck with that!"
Spike grinned wolfishly in reply. Cigarette still in hand, he turned down the alley that led to the back of the building and typed in his entry code. The door unlocked with a click and Spike slammed it open to its widest extent before he stalked off in the direction of the manageress's office. He didn't knock. He just walked straight in.
"What's all this about you puttin' me down for those damn booths again?"
Gina, an almost matronly looking woman, except for the tailored black trouser suit and low-key make up which she wore, looked up as he reached the front of her desk and held up a stalling hand. "I'll call you back. I've got to deal with some temperamental talent... Right. Bye!"
"An' I'm not soddin' temperamental!"
Gina raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Says the man who won't share a dressing room. The place is absolutely packed. One hour. Sixty percent of the take."
"If the place is so full, then you wouldn't want to keep people waiting for their drinks. I'll stick to the tables."
"The agency's already sent over four extra bar staff and if you don't do your hour in the booths like everybody else you won't be working anywhere tonight."
"Wouldn't that be just a mite inconvenient seein' as how the place is so full...? Especially if some of them was to get a bit rowdy if they turned up thinking I'd be working..." Spike lifted his cigarette to his mouth, inhaled deeply and then blew a smoke trail that went on for an inhumanly possible length of time straight toward his boss.
"One hour. Seventy five percent of the take. That's my final offer."
"Forty five minutes. Eighty percent... or I walk out right now."
"Done," Gina grudgingly conceded. "And make sure you brush your teeth and wash the cigarette smell off your hands before you come up on the main floor. Booth five. Kevin will be down when your stint finishes," she added as Spike made his way to the door.
"Then Kevin had better bloody be there when my forty five minutes are up or you'll have an empty booth," Spike threw back as he strode from the room, not bothering to close the door behind him.
Spike leaned sideways against the wall of the booth and languidly lit a new cigarette. At least, sealed away in his own little aquarium, he could smoke freely. It was one minor plus point that he intended to make the most of, even if it didn't come close to making up for spending three quarters of an hour straight wearing a cock ring. The idea was that before the dancers went on stage or into the booths they would coax themselves to the point of semi-rigidity and then add the cock ring... or, in the case of his first week here, rubber bands, but Spike had been glad to replace those with the real deal as soon as opportunity allowed. They were likely to ping off violently in unpredictable directions when you cut them off at the end of the set. This state of limited arousal ensured two things; firstly it gave the customer rather more to look at, not that he had ever had any complaints; secondly, it prevented any overly favourable reactions to the customers. It wasn't unknown for a pretty girl's hand to 'slip' when she was presenting his tip, and while he wasn't interested in any woman other than his golden angel, there were certain reactions that were automatic.
His normal heavy boots had been exchanged for a dressier pair in fine leather. They had elasticated sides, were designed so that they could be kicked or pulled off in one easy move and they came just high enough to avoid a gap between their tops and the bottom of his jeans. The jeans were jet black canvas, so dark that they looked as if they had yet to see the inside of a washing machine. They clung tightly to his thighs and lower body, though the high lycra content in their weave made them slide off and on more easily than his own battered 501s. His black jacquard shirt was open far enough at the neck to hint that there were muscles under it rather than skin and bone or a layer of excess body fat and had been tucked into his jeans so that it didn't obstruct the view. A silver skeleton dangled on a chain by his collarbone, robed and carrying a scythe. Death was indeed his constant companion. Gina had originally offered him a cross entwined with silver climbing roses to go with the outfit, but she hadn't seemed to be thrown too much by his refusal of it, or by his insistence that he couldn't prepare in the dressing room shared by the other dancers, with its wall of mirrors. She'd just shown him an empty storage closet and told him he'd have to bring in his own mirror if he needed one. Spike was fairly certain that he wasn't the first vampire to work here. A biker-style leather jacket, which was about half the weight of the real thing, acted mostly as a way of delaying the point where the shirt came off. His hair had been spiked into a style he'd last worn regularly thirty years before, his eyes were outlined with dark blue kohl and his fingernails were painted with a matching glittery shade.
He didn't need a mirror to know that he looked good. There were more gay and bisexual men dancing here than the customers might expect, and the warmth in their eyes as they passed him in the corridors had told him all he needed to know about his appearance.
The shutters began to rise, but he didn't move from his sinuous pose, just waited to see what type of girl was watching on the other side. The jeans were a muddy-looking green, and the beige and cream printed acetate blouse was too fussy and had too many ruffles. This one wouldn't stay. For some reason, Spike found that he seemed to attract either the 'bad girls' or the 'oh so innocent' who wanted to touch the dark side but couldn't get closer than this. Given the choice, Spike preferred the ingénues.
The screen went higher. For just a fraction of a second Spike had a feeling that he knew someone with a similar pendant and then he saw her face.
His mouth gaped unflatteringly open, dried spit holding the filter of his cigarette to his lower lip. His first thought was, 'Why the hell isn't she in Sunnydale?' His second was, 'What the blazes is she doing in a club like this?' and the third was, 'Who in hell brought her here?'
By the time this all flashed through his head the shutters were thankfully closing once more. He ripped the cigarette from his mouth and it came away along with the topmost layer of skin. He gave his senses free rein. It wasn't a comfortable thing to do in a place where the air was full of excited heartbeats, pounding with the heightened rhythm of sexual longing, where so much desirable female flesh ached to be touched and where even his lethal embrace would be welcomed by so many. Instantly, he could feel her, pinpoint her exact position from the hair-raising frisson that she always gave him and the pull of his heart. He could imagine her leaning against the pillar nearest the door that separated the staff only area from the club itself, pretending disinterest while she waited for him to make an appearance.
By the time the shutters went up again, he was ready for what awaited him on the other side. He straightened up and walked toward her, his hips swaying with snake-like grace, and when the woman-girl looked up in confusion as if she had found it difficult to draw her eyes from the movement of his pelvis, he raised a sardonic eyebrow and mouthed two words so clearly that even from her side of the glass the redhead couldn't fail to make them out.
"Gay now?"
His laughter echoed off the glass wall as one of the most powerful magic users on the planet retreated from the room like a rabbit bolting for its burrow at the first sign of danger.
The shutters rose again and he breathed a relieved sigh when there was no one there. Less than a minute later they came back up and instead of doing his best to look alluring, he pointed at his bare left wrist and shrugged, miming, "On a break," to the leather-clad vixen on the other side before he took last deep inhalation of tobacco and dropped the stub into a small jar that was tucked away behind the curtain that hid the performer's door. Gina would go mental if she'd happened to be looking at his security camera and saw what he'd done, but there was only one paying customer that Spike wanted on the other side of that glass for the next forty minutes and she was near. So near that he could imagine Jake trying to flirt with her as he swapped her a bundle of tokens for the money she had brought with her. Even if he made sure she got back every penny that she spent, Spike knew he could still get enough money in bartending tips and from his stage routine to cover what he needed for Glinda's Himalayan by the end of the night. There was no way that any other woman was going to park her arse in that chair before she got there.
He could feel her presence before the shutters went back up again, hear from her panting breath that she had rushed to find him and he sighed in contentment as the metal creaked its way upward to reveal the face that he'd been in love with for what seemed like an eternity.
His hand reached out and pressed against the glass, her own much smaller fingers spreading out as if the barrier weren't there and they could press their flesh together. He watched as she finally tore her eyes from his and looked him up and down, her eyes gleaming with laughter because he was even more the 80's reject in his current attire than she normally accused him of being. She made a shooing gesture with her hand, urging him to step back so she could view the overall effect and, when he did, she made a twirling gesture with her index finger.
Spike grinned and turned his back to her, giving his behind a teasing wiggle. There was a hiss from the speakers and then a slow sultry bass line filled the air. He guessed that she had found the controls for the jukebox and he began to let his hips sway in time to the sensuous beat.
He eased the leather jacket from his shoulders as he moved, but kept it wrapped around his biceps until he twisted his head to look back over his shoulder. His eyes asked the question, made it her choice whether he let it fall to the floor or shrugged it back into place.
Her pert red lips mouthed the word 'off' as she stroked her own arms and swayed to the same beat that he did.
The leather slid toward the floor, pausing for an instant supported only by his fingertips, before it tumbled to a heap by his feet. He turned his head away from her again and for several minutes, he let the music guide him, his body languidly moving to its erotic beat. His fingers traced the outline of his upper arms, mirroring her actions of moments before as he imagined that it was her delicate digits that caressed him through the silky fabric. Beneath the throbbing bass he caught the mechanical rumble of the shutters and he turned to face her again, his eyes mutely pleading with her to add more tokens, willing her to stay with him.
She scrambled frantically to add more of her meagre pile of metal discs to those already collected in the tray beneath the slot and he breathed again.
He pressed the fingertips of his left hand to his lips and rewarded her with a blown kiss before he eased the hem of his shirt from under the stiff cotton at his waist. He made believe that they were far from here, perhaps in the privacy of his bedroom and that when this dance finished they would move on to another more intimate one.
He imagined her hands unfastening the buttons of his shirt instead of his own. When the material parted to leave his chest open to her gaze he dipped a fingertip between his lips before he used it to trace each of his nipples to the same erectness that they so often reached under her questing tongue. He let his eyes drift closed, imagining that if he opened them and looked down that her pale tresses would be right there, close enough for him to twine his fingers in them and draw her head back up until her lips could meet with his again.
With a sigh he came back to the present and flicked open the buttons at the shirt's cuffs, his eyes fixed intently on her expectant features as he let the flimsy fabric glide down his arms to join his jacket on the floor, watching for the familiar catch of her breath when he stood before her, his upper body unadorned except for the pendant that he wore, the line of every muscle hers and hers alone.
He moved back, still swaying to the beat, her thick-lashed eyes meeting his, and he didn't want to look away though his eyes seemed to drift closed of their own accord. His hands reached upward, their movement as sinuous as those of his hips. He knew that the motion stretched the muscles of his abdomen and gave her an unimpeded view of their firmly ridged lines, that it created a tantalising shadow as his waist narrowed, one that promised that there would just have been room for a feminine hand to slip between fabric and skin. Nevertheless, he wondered if she also realised that this was how he had watched her that first night before she even knew he existed and how he had often dreamed of her in the intervening years.
With a rumble the shutters began to close once more but when Spike looked up he found that this time she had been poised, token at the ready, her hand over the slot, and she followed up with several more until only one more remained on the counter. He turned as he danced until he was forced to take his eyes from hers and she could only watch the play of his back muscles and the taut flesh beneath his jeans. The music was quickening, its pace becoming more frantic. His hands reached higher over his head, grabbing at one of the pipes which criss-crossed the room's ceiling. The melody of the music faded into the background, the spoken lyrics in their mixture of French and English became panting screams and Spike thrust with his hips in time to the quickening breaths, wishing that she were here, on this side of the glass with him, her legs wrapped around his waist as, supported by his toes on the ground and his fingers' death grip around the pipe, he prevented them from falling. It lasted for seconds and then with one final scream the melody washed back like the warm glow of orgasm after the frenzied final stages of union. Spike let himself sag there, his back bowed as if he were spent, until once again he could pick up the slow promise of the music, like a man waiting, cradled inside his lover's body, for his flesh to harden once more before their sweat-slicked bodies slipped against each other again, passion being kindled anew from the smallest of movements.
He loosened his grip on the pipe work but allowed it to support him for a few seconds, his hips once more swaying gently, until he had kicked off his boots, leaving his feet bare. Turning to face her again, he wondered whether she had been aroused, amused or shocked, watching him dry hump someone who wasn't there. He knew that he couldn't have done it if he had been able to see her reaction but her eyes met his with unmistakeable warmth when he dared to raise his gaze.
She had seen him like this a hundred times, but her tongue slipped out to wet her lips as he unfastened the button at his waist.
He paused, a picture of decadence, with the fabric gaping just enough to show a glimpse of something dark in the V of the opening. He slipped a thumb through the belt loops at either side and allowed his long fingers to stretch out, their paleness against the black fabric pressing the material back against his stomach and providing a frame for his partial erection so that her eyes were drawn to the way it moved as he continued to sway to the hypnotic rhythm of the music. When he thought she appeared transfixed by the motion, he turned his hands over sharply. His thumbs were still through the belt loops and the sharp action forced the zipper down as low as it would go. He prowled up to the glass, so that if she pressed close to it she could almost have looked down to see the scrap of black lycra that preserved his dignity and possibly, given the right angle, what it concealed.
Reaching down, with exaggerated care he unhurriedly pushed the material down just beyond his knees. He leaned into the glass, placing his palms above and one to either side of her face. In time to the music he let his elbows bend and straighten, the motion mimicking that of his body over and inside hers as they made love. Not knowing if she would read the words on his lips through the glass but bound to say them anyway, he whispered his love for her as he slid first one foot and then the other free of his jeans, her line of sight blocked by the counter.
The machinery thundered again and his golden girl placed the last of her tokens into the slot even before the screen began to move. Her gentle smile was filled with regret and he pressed a kiss to the glass before he stepped back and moved with the music, his hands alternately raised in the air or stroking over his flesh, as he moved for her, promising himself that as soon as circumstances allowed, he'd do this for her again... without the glass, without the security cameras or the people in adjacent rooms, and definitely without the cheese wire underwear.
The machinery hummed back to life and this time there were no more tokens to stop it. His girl stayed hidden behind a screen of metal. Spike grabbed his jeans and put them back on and had already got his arms into the sleeves of his shirt when Kevin knocked at the door. His girl had saved him again.
