Smooth Criminal

DVD Commentary

Part 1

indie and tango

The text of our fic is in black.

All of indie’s comments are in red.

All of tango's comments are in blue.

So, Tango and I are finally sitting here in Perkins, having wandered all over this god forsaken fucking town trying to find some place where we can sit for a long period of time, preferably while looking tortured and bohemian and not get kicked out. Three hours and five coffee shops later, here we are having coffee and diet coke at Perkins at ten thirty on a Saturday evening. Excitement, thy name is twinfic.

indie started this fic. Although we had talked about it ahead of time, when I saw the beginning, I immediately fell in love with it. She cracks me up. Anyway, so on with the commentary…

To set the record straight, the idea was Tango’s. She said she wanted to write a fic set in high school where Angel was the bad boy. A couple of weeks went by and she hadn’t started anything yet, so I finally asked her if she was going to write it. I asked because there was this one time that I STOLE one of her fics. ::shame shame shame:: Okay, so I asked her if she wanted to write it with me and she said yes.

[insert: SOME people cannot let bygones be bygones. She did not steal my plot line. She simply borrowed the idea, but whatever….]

What. Ever.

So, uh, commentary …

Buffy stared down at the little, blinking light.  “Check Oil” flashed off and on, as if mocking her.  It had only been on for a few days.  Okay, weeks maybe.  What was she, a mechanic?  How was she supposed to know that it meant the car would stop working?  And it just figured that her cell phone was dead.  Maybe she shouldn’t have given Cordelia a play by play commentary of every single purchase she made.

So in none of the multitude of feedback we got did anyone ever ask how the hell Buffy was affording her Prada and Chanel and Gucci when Daddy was a librarian. We did have this whole scenario worked out where Joyce had been really wealthy and left them all this money, but somehow it never actually made it into the fic. Apparently it wasn’t missed.

With a growl, she smacked the steering wheel.  At least she was close to town.  She’d spent all day shopping in L.A. and had almost made it home to Sunnydale.  Almost.  Now she was broke down on the side of the road on the outskirts of town, right in the middle of the slums.  She could see two separate trailer parks and a bar from where she was.  None of them looked even remotely appealing this late at night.  Though honestly, they wouldn’t look much better at high noon. Maybe she could just walk back to town.

In the original version, I had used the term “whiskey tango” WT White Trash. Tango edited it out because she thought I was being an asshole. I stand behind my original description.

She WAS being an asshole. She only used the phrase “Whiskey Tango” cause she knew it squicked me out. I deleted it and I’d do it again. *BG*

Can I point out that during the writing of this fic, she continually accused me of going back and changing her parts. Did I? No. But did she change my part without asking me? HUH??

I never claimed not to be a crackhead. Honestly, some of this was so good, I really thought indie must have written it. LOL. What can I say? Anyway, she makes it sound like we didn’t talk about it or anything. We did. Really.

I also want to let everyone know that for a lot of this indie and I cannot tell who wrote what. I know some of it but not all. We really thought we meshed well in this on style and ideas. A lot of times she would write a part and it was exactly what I envisioned and vice versa.

Walking was easier said than done.  The shoes were certain to turn Cordelia green with envy, but they weren’t much good for walking in the loose gravel next to the highway.  She cursed, stumbling for what felt like the thousandth time.  Her skirt was fashionably short and the last thing she needed was to take a spill and end up with skinned knees, especially with the Halloween dance only a couple weeks away.  She forced herself to go slower and watch her footing.  The walk into Sunnydale was looking longer by the minute.

She heard a low rumbling noise and turned around to look behind her.  With a scream, she managed to skitter down into the ditch in time to avoid being hit by the obnoxiously loud pickup truck.  She heard catcalls and whistles as it zoomed by.  Picking herself up out of the mucky ditch, she saw the truck’s brake lights.  They were coming back.  She screamed again, running as fast as she could towards the sketchy little bar down the road.

As soon as she pushed through the door, she knew she made a mistake.  The bar’s occupants looked every bit as undesirable as the animals chasing her in that truck.  Self-consciously, she tried to smooth out her appearance.  One of the heels had broken off her shoe and she had lost at least two buttons off her shirt.  There were twigs and gravel in her hair and she was certain she looked filthy.  Both knees were skinned and aching, along with her palms from where she caught herself.

indie has a great love of Buffy being all jacked up. The more broken, dirty, and preferably scarred our beloved characters are, the better.

Slowly, Buffy limped over to the pay phone in the corner, all too aware that every set of eyes in the room was riveted on her.  She reached for her purse and almost burst into tears.  She had left it in the car.  She didn’t even have change to call her dad.  Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to be calm.  Falling apart wouldn’t solve anything.  She held her head up as she turned around.  Addressing the room, she asked, “Can any of you spare some change?”

One guy stood up and sauntered over to her.  Buffy couldn’t tell if he thought he was being sexy or if one leg was significantly shorter than the other.  Either way, it was a bad deal.  His face looked like those fruit rollup things she used to eat as a kid and he had about three teeth.

Hee. I love Murray.

God, this part KILLED me with the one leg shorter than the other. I actually laughed out loud when I read it. That was all indie.

“How’re you plannin’ ta pay me back?” he asked, chewing on a wad of tobacco.

Buffy cringed, plastering her back against the wall in an attempt to get away from him.

“Murray, leave her alone.”

Buffy glanced over and saw the bartender watching them, but immediately turned her gaze back to Murray.  She wasn’t about to let him out of her sight.  He stepped closer.

“Murray!” the bartender bellowed.  Murray turned to look.  Buffy watched as the bartender pulled out a baseball bat and set it conspicuously on the bar.  “I said, leave her alone.”

I find the idea of Angel in a wife beater (note: I can use the term wife beater with no problem, but whiskey tango, oh no …) brandishing a bat extremely sexy.

It was the fact that “whiskey tango” has the word “TANGO” in it and no other reason. Sheesh.

Murray scowled, but retreated slowly.  Buffy took a deep breath, all too aware of how badly she was shaking.  She turned to face the bartender once again and realized he looked vaguely familiar.  She watched as he put the bat away and pulled out a telephone, motioning for her to come up to the bar.  She did so, very hesitantly, her gaze skittering around the room.

She levered herself onto one of the grimy, duct tape covered barstools, wincing as she put pressure on her hands.  As an aside, my grandfather owned a bar when I was growing up. I spent a lot of time there. Picking up the receiver, she dialed home.  Biting down on her lip, she waited.  The phone rang and rang, with no answer.  Reluctantly, she hung up and tried Cordelia’s number.  It too rang endlessly.

Tears were welling in her eyes as she finally put the receiver down.  She didn’t know what to do.  She had no one else to call. The idea that she has no one else to call is *so* contrived. Ask me if I care.

“Buffy, right?”

Buffy lifted her gaze and looked at the bartender.  He was tall and lean with spiky black hair.  He was wearing the standard wrong-side-of-the-tracks uniform of a white wifebeater and stained jeans.  The tank top emphasized his deeply muscled shoulders, along with the myriad of tattoos covering most of his arms.  He had a chain-link dog collar around his neck.

“wrong side of the tracks uniform …” That was Ms. Thang taking out my whiskey tango again … Oh and Angel in tattoos and a dog collar. :: drool:: I got flack for the dog collar, but really everyone can just kiss my ass. I love boys in dog collars.

Even though I hated whiskey tango, I did love the dog collar. I had absolutely no problems with that or the tattoos. I second the *drool.*

Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember his name.  Oh gods, it was something really strange and kinda girlie.  “Uh ... Butterfly?” she said lamely.

I couldn’t think of what the hell she should mistake his name for. I really don’t think butterfly works, but eh …but I loved that she didn’t know his name.

He cocked an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed.  He pointed to his left shoulder, to the intricate tattoo.  “Angel,” he said firmly.

She winced.  “Yeah, right. Sorry, Angel.”  She tried to think of something to say.  Anything.  “You’re in my chemistry class, right?”

“English,” he corrected.

She smiled tightly.  Dammit.  She really didn’t want to be making chitchat with some thug.  She was glad that he chased off the mouth-breather, but she really wasn’t into giving out favors.  Besides, he looked like the kind of guy who thought a romantic date was a carton of Generic Ultra-Lights, some Slim Jims and a twelve pack of Pabst.  Just because they had a class together didn’t mean they were friends.

For what it’s worth, I love the line about the Generic UltraLights, the Slim Jims and the Pabst. Margriet fucking KILLED me. She’s from Holland and she didn’t know what those things were, so she had to look them all up. After looking them up, she decided that American losers and Dutch losers really were pretty much the same.

Oh gods.  What if he didn’t want to be friends?  What if he was going to try and corner her and attack her?  She wasn’t certain, but she had vague recollections that he was in trouble a lot.  She was pretty sure he was the kid who beat Riley Finn unconscious freshman year.  What had she gotten herself into?

“She drinkin’?”

Buffy turned and saw a big guy step behind the bar.  He was staring at her with undisguised animosity.  Buffy paled.  He was huge.  His neck had to be as big around as her waist.  His hair was clipped short, graying at the temples and he was wearing a Harley-Davidson t-shirt that showed off his enormous arms.  “I’m just using the telephone,” she squeaked.

Angel’s dad (at least visually) is the dad on “American Chopper”. The guy who does the AOL commercials now. I fucking love that man.

I never know who anyone is if they are on television recently. indie makes fun of me for it. She had to tell me who that guy was so I’d know what she was talking about.

Well, that guy was my original inspiration, but honestly, tango’s writing of Jake in this fic and several others is so fucking genius. She manages to capture the character so completely perfectly. I love Jake, even if he is a fucking asshole in this fic.

It was indie’s original writing of Jake that inspired how I wrote Jake later, who is actually mirrored after one of my uncles.

“This ain’t a goddamn shelter,” he snapped.  “You want to use the phone, there’s a payphone in the corner.”

“She’s fine,” Angel said smoothly, turning his gaze to the big guy.

“Don’t you try and fuckin’ tell me how to run my own goddamn bar, you little shit,” the guy snapped.

“She’s fine,” Angel repeated firmly.  “She’s just leaving.”

The big guy didn’t look convinced, but he snorted and turned away.  Buffy watched as he made his way over to a table where a bunch of bikers were playing poker.

“That your boss?” she asked.

“Nah,” Angel replied, absently drying a beer mug.

“Thank gods,” she said, “he seems like a real jerk.”

“He’s my dad.”

Buffy stared blankly at Angel.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I didn’t mean ...”

Angel held up his hand.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.  “Your first impression was right on.  He’s a total asshole.”

She smiled pathetically and then looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Nobody home, I guess,” Angel offered.

Buffy shook her head, trying not to cry.

“I get off in twenty minutes,” he said.  “I can drop you by your house.”

Looking up, Buffy bit down on her bottom lip.  “I’m not sure ... “ she trailed off.

“What?” he asked.  “You don’t want to get in a car with a strange, tattooed guy who may or may not go to school with you?”

Buffy swallowed thickly.  “I’ve seen The Accused,” she said.

Angel looked around the bar and then leaned in conspiratorially.  “We don’t have any pinball machines,” he said seriously.  “I could try and rape you on the fooze ball table, but I’m not sure about the logistics.”

I’m not sure that anyone even got the Accused line. I don’t know how many people have seen that movie. And actually, everything up to this point was written solely so I could use that line.

This whole part cracked me up. Sarcastic, asshole Angel written by indie never fails to amuse me. I loved the Accused line.

Buffy frowned at him, but he smiled unrepentantly.

He slapped the dishtowel over his shoulder as he picked up the phone and dialed.  “Oz.  Yeah, man, is Willow still over there?  Cool.  Can you guys swing by the bar?  Yeah.  See ya in a few.”

He hung up the phone.  “The chaperones are on their way,” he said.  “I could still go ahead and rape you in Oz’s van with an audience, but every now and then I get performance anxiety, so you’re probably safe.”

“Funny,” she said, dead pan.

“I’m a funny guy,” he replied, just as serious. Angel’s line here, of course, is taken directly from “Earshot.”

Angel took a glass off one of the shelves behind the bar and filled it with soda.  He set it in front of Buffy.  “It’s diet,” he said when she frowned.

With a sigh, Buffy took the glass, wincing when she picked it up.  Absently, Angel touched her hand, looking at the scrapes with detachment.  He bent down behind the bar and came back up with a little first-aid kit.

Buffy almost had her first band-aid on her knuckle when the thug…er…Angel took it out of her hands and finished the job.  He shook his head at her as he peeled off the crooked bandage and put it on again neatly.  She started to protest but closed her mouth again as she watched him work with the items in the first aid kit with deft, yet gentle efficiency.  While he worked, she looked up at his face.  For the first time, she really saw him.

How could anyone resist sexy, tattooed, collared, wifebeater Angel?

He had generous mouth with full lips that seemed decadent and sensual all of a sudden.  Sharp features accentuated a sort of male beauty she really couldn’t believe existed before she got a closer look at him.  He was eighteen and miraculously still in school; obviously a loser by the way he dressed and where he lived, but the touch of his hands on her skin made her forget what it was about him she thought unattractive before.

She was shocked when he came around the bar and cleaned her knees out with antiseptic too.  He seemed to take the catcalls and whoops from the male audience in stride, nearly pretending they weren’t there.

“He-ey,” a chipper female voice said lightly from behind her.  Buffy jumped, turning away from Angel quickly.  She swiveled on the crooked stool to see two teenagers walk into the bar.  She recognized the redheaded girl as being one of the nerd herd.  She always seemed pleasant in a softer-side-of-Sears sort of way, but harmless.  The guy, who she knew to be Oz, was expressionless.  She smiled weakly in recognition.  Oz was a musician, but forgiving that, he was fairly popular and rarely in trouble.  For the first time since she left her car, she thought she might just make it home safely.

“Angel, you ready?” Oz said, tightening his grip on Willow’s hand and looking around.  “Will hates this place.”  Willow nodded nervously, darting her eyes around.

“Fuck, I hate this place,” Angel said under his breath.  “Hey Pop,” Angel said, shouting across the bar, “I’m gone.”

I loved Angel calling his dad “pop”. I thought it just completely worked for this incarnation.

Without waiting for an answer, Angel tossed his towel under the counter, grabbed a black shirt from behind the bar and slipped it on.  He waited patiently for Buffy to painfully limp to the door.


The next morning, Buffy took a cab out to her car in broad daylight to assess the damage.  She was sure that her father would somehow make this her fault, as if she were irresponsible because she ignored that irritating little light.  Wasn’t it like a warning anyway?  Shouldn’t there be another really serious light to let her know the car was going to stop moving?

She hopped out of the cab and asked him to wait when she saw that someone had his head stuck under her car.  Someone with an extremely firm ass and a muscular tanned back.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that it was Angel.  What she couldn’t figure out was why he was going to the trouble of trying to fix it.

“Your spark plugs are shot and it looks like you haven’t had an oil change since 1953, Buffy,” Angel said without looking up or turning around.  He continued to dig around under the hood for a few minutes and then grabbed his white wifebeater to wipe his hands on.  He looked at her sternly.

“The car is a 2000, Angel,” she said dryly.  “And I’ve had an oil change.”

“Oh yeah?” he taunted.  “When?”

“When I ruined my Todd Oldham original,” she explained patiently as if he knew what that meant.  He stared blankly at her.  With a huff, she added, “Oldham went out freshman year.  Do the math.”

I fucking love that line. It was all Tango.

I had to ask indie if Todd Oldham was a real designer. You all are going to think I am a complete moron before we’re through. Truth is, indie just knows more than me, about – at last count - everything.

I fake it a lot. She just hasn’t clued in to that yet. I’m totally full of shit.

He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.  Buffy couldn't help but notice just how nice his arms looked.  And his chest.  She really loved the way his shoulders were so cut that you could see every bit of muscle definition down his entire arm.  And his hands.  Damn, he even had nice hands.  Sure, they were a little dirty at the moment, but the hands - definitely of the good.  It was half a minute before she realized he had said something.  "Huh?"

"I said it's not going to start," he repeated.  "You're going to have to have it towed into a shop."

Buffy bit down on her bottom lip.  Her dad was going to freak so hard when he found out she killed her car.  "Is it going to be expensive?" she asked.

"For a new engine when you've clearly voided the warranty, nah," Angel said.  "Ten or fifteen bucks?"

Buffy perked up instantly.  "Really?"

"No," he said dryly.  "It'll probably cost you about five grand to have it replaced." I think Tango mentioned earlier that I have this thing for sarcastic Angel. *G* Sarcastic Angel and scarred Buffy, two great tastes that taste great together.

She looked at him like someone had just run over her puppy and Angel muttered under his breath, looking back at the car for a moment.  "If you could find someone to rebuild the engine, it would be cheaper."

"Are there people that do that?" she asked, tentatively hopeful.


"Like who?"


Buffy looked at him warily.  His humor was so dry that she had no idea if he was telling the truth or not.  "I thought you worked in the bar."

I loved that she didn’t believe him here. She’s so skeptical of this thug boy. *G*

"My dad owns the bar," he said.  "I help out sometimes.  My real job is at Sunnydale Autobody."

"So you really could fix it?"


"What's the catch?"

Angel smiled.  "You have to help me."

Buffy stared at him for a moment.  Thoughts of Ghost popped unbidden into her mind.  Only instead of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze with the pottery, she had visions of Angel and herself putting in a car part.  It really didn't matter what part.  What mattered was that she was leaning over the hood of the car and he was behind her, wrapped around her, with no shirt on.  You could see his muscles flexing as he reached for  -  Buffy shook her head.  "S-s-sure I could help," she said.

The second movie reference of the fic and we’re only about five pages in … it’s a thing with me.


On Monday, Buffy told all of her friends about the scary event, including every single detail, but stopped with the parts about Angel, who she referred to as “the bartender.”  She left out the parts about Willow and Oz, her visit to the car the next day and Angel’s offer to help.  She had no intention of telling them that she was going to spend her evening under the hood of a car with a grease monkey.  She could already see Cordelia’s nose in the air and her look of disdain.

She hoped it wouldn’t take long.  She wanted to give herself a manicure tonight.  Thankfully, her father hadn’t said anything about the absence of her car yet, but she had to tell him eventually.  Maybe the rebuilding of an engine would take just long enough for her to get home after he was already in bed.

She walked to Sunnydale Autobody, wishing she had told Cordy.  At least then she could’ve gotten a ride.  Her shoes, brand new Prada, were too precious to waste on a long walk and damned uncomfortable.  But they went well with the new Gucci outfit she’d picked up in Los Angeles.

When she arrived, a large man covered in grease and reeking of cigarettes blocked her path.  He wore a shirt that boasted his name was “Bud.”  “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, chomping on a wad of gum.

“I’m here to see Angel,” she said, peeking around the man into the dark garage.

“Angel!” he shouted over his shoulder, “got a purty lil thing out here waiting for ya.”  Angel came out in a gray uniform shirt that was much cleaner than the other guy’s, but still streaked with grease.  He had a smear of oil or something on his cheek.  He was so damn sexy, she thought her legs were going to give out from under her.

“Thanks, Bud,” Angel said, nodding at the man who stood before her, but Bud didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving them alone.  Instead, the man’s blue eyes were focused on the low cut Gucci top she wore.  “Hey Buffy,” Angel nodded. “You’re late.”

“Well, I had to walk in heels,” she answered.  “Besides, Cordy and I were talking.”

“You can’t have a date here,” Bud said, tearing his eyes off her breasts to look at Angel.  “You have to work.”

“She’s my new assistant,” Angel answered grinning at his friend.  “Come on, Buffy.  You need to get changed.”

“Changed?” she asked.  She trotted after him in her high heels when he turned into the garage, stepping over the tools that stood in her path.

“Unless you want to get oil on your expensive clothes, I’d say it’s a good idea.”

“But…” she said, biting her lip.  “When said you wanted me to help, I thought you really meant that I would be watching you work and like, handing you tools and stuff.”

“Um, no,” he laughed.  “But thanks for playing.  You’re going to get dirt under your nails today.”  He ignored her gasp of disgust and went to the back office where there were a couple of lockers, a desk and a cot.  She followed him in and watched as he dug around in a bag and pulled out a black wifebeater and a pair of sweatpants.  He tossed them to her.  “I was going to go lift weights after school but decided to take the engine out of your car instead.  Put those on.”

“Are they clean?” she asked, sniffing them delicately.

Angel turned back to her before he walked out of the office.  Smirking, he said, “Nope.”

This gross out was brought to you by Tango, thank you very much. *I* did not do it. For once.

Hee. I was going with the asshole theme here.


Buffy couldn’t believe she was doing this as she carefully folded her shirt and looked at the tanktop.  One day, she kept telling herself.  One day of this.  Tomorrow, she would bring her own clothes.  Actually, she was hoping that by tomorrow he would realize how bad she was at this and change his mind about her helping.  Yep.  That was the ticket.

Scrunching up her nose, she pulled the tanktop over her head.


Angel had his head buried under the hood when she finally exited the office.  He heard her walk up behind him and said over his shoulder, “Hand me that nine-sixteenths.”

“The what?”

Angel scrunched his eyes shut in exasperation.  Why was he doing this?  Did his life not suck enough that he had to go out of his way to find new and exciting methods of torturing himself?  Buffy was a princess.  She would always be a princess.  Yes, she had potential, but it was buried under so many layers of designer clothes and “I’m a blonde” giggles that he had no real hope of ever reaching it.

He knew when he spoke to her that there was more to her than the rest of the snooty airheads she called friends.  Buffy had substance, hidden though it might be.  For some reason, he felt compelled to try and bring it out of her.  For whatever misguided reason, he felt like if he could expose her to different ways of life, show her that she was capable of being more than just a trophy wife, that it would somehow make them both better people.  Sighing, he pushed himself out from under the hood and turned to face her.

His jaw didn’t actually drop open.  And really, he deserved credit for that. This is the kind of line that I love about my indie. She manages to capture so much in just two short sentences. *sigh*

This also called to mind the other reason why Angel had been so amenable to helping Buffy – she was without a doubt the most beautiful female he had ever seen.  He stood there, staring at her like a moron whose brain had short-circuited.  Actually that wasn’t so much of a simile.  It was quite possible his brain had stopped functioning.  Now if other parts of his body would just get the memo.

He coughed dropping his hands in front of his crotch, hoping she wouldn’t notice the ever-increasing bulge.  “Buffy ... I ... uh ... “  he sighed again.  “Where ... exactly ... is the rest of the outfit?”

She looked down at herself and shrugged.  She was wearing nothing but the black wifebeater, which hit her just above the knee, and her new Prada heels.  “The pants were too big,” she said matter-of-factly.  “They wouldn’t stay on.”

Actually, if she kept this up, the odds of his pants staying on were looking worse and worse.  He forced himself away from those thoughts.  He bent over and picked up the wrench in question and turned around quickly to face the exposed engine rather that let her see his arousal.  He waved it in the air for a second before using it.  “This is a nine-sixteenths.”

I’m talking about “his arousal” in one sentence and then use the phrase “waved it in the air” in the next sentence. Yee-ah. Okay, he’s supposed to be waving the wrench, not his dick. Just so we’re all clear on that.

Actually, I wrote that. Uh…he wasn’t waving his dick? lol.

BWAH! You wrote that? Hee. I had no idea. Like Tango said earlier, half the time not even we know who wrote what.


Hours later, Buffy was certain every single part of her body was covered in grime.  Thank goodness Angel had made her wear his tank top or her outfit would have been completely destroyed.  All she wanted was a long shower, followed by a long bath and food.

Angel, despite his looks, was nerdy and smart when it came to cars.  He also was making them put every single thing away before they could leave.  She whined for a few minutes and then went about helping him clean up.  She was proud of herself for actually doing something.  Besides, it was kinda fun.  Especially since Angel found every excuse he could to be close to her and touch her.

I loved the idea that Angel was completely anal about the garage and the right treatment of the tools. And of course, they had to find themselves in a naughty position, just he could fondle her.

She dropped to her knees to pick up a tool lying near the front tire, still caught up in thoughts of why Angel sent shivers down her spine.  He was just a boy, after all, and she had lots of experience dealing with them.  They were like slobbering puppies that just needed the right brush off – or sometimes insult – to keep them from humping your leg.  I love that line. I’m fairly sure it’s Tango’s. At least I hope it’s Tango’s otherwise I sound like an egomaniacal asshole.I think it was mine, but honestly, I can’t remember for sure. Notice she doesn’t say anything about me not being an egomaniacal asshole. She isn’t an egomaniacal asshole, just an asshole. (MWAH!) But Angel wasn’t like that at all. Angel was something else entirely.

Buffy snuck a peek over her shoulder and blushed when she realized he was staring at her ass.  She turned back around quickly and scrambled to her feet, knowing her face was burning red.  What the hell had she been thinking?  He had a perfect view of her bare ass only covered by her little white thong.

Her face scrunched up in irritation with herself and Angel as she marched over to the toolbox and dropped the tool in it with a loud clang.  She started to turn around to scan the garage for the rest of the tools, when she was spun against a hard, muscular chest.  Without speaking, he dipped down and nibbled at her lips.  He licked the seam of her mouth, begging entrance and with a little sigh, she threaded her fingers through his hair and tentatively touched her tongue against his.

Excitement scorched through her body as her tongue tangled wetly with Angel's.  She'd had a few guys try and kiss her like this, Percy and Riley being the two most memorable.  Both of those kisses had been enough to almost make her swear off men.  They were disgusting, wet slobbery affairs that tasted like leftover cafeteria food.  And those kisses had absolutely nothing in common with what she was currently sharing with Angel.

She let out a little moan, pressing herself tighter against him.   Angel took full advantage of the situation.  He cupped his hands around her ass and lifted her off the ground.  He took a few steps, setting her on top of a waist-high tool chest.  Buffy wrapped her legs around his waist as their kisses grew more frantic.  One of Angel's hands cupped a breast and she made a tiny, helpless sound, arching into his touch.  With a groan, he broke off the kiss.  He was breathing hard, his body inflamed to a near fever pitch.  Damn he wanted her.  He wanted to slip off her lacy little thong and take her right here on top of this tool chest.  It was one thing to do something like that with the loose women that frequented his father's bar.  It was quite another to try it with the prom queen.

Finally under control, he looked down at her.  Her lips were wet and swollen, her face flushed and she was trembling.  "You're cold," he said absently.  Carefully he extricated himself from her embrace.  Impatiently, he grabbed his jacket off one of the hooks mounted to the wall and wrapped it around her shoulders.  She was swimming in the black leather, but it looked damn good.

She swallowed thickly.  "Thanks," she said, still somewhat breathless.

"Get your stuff," he said.  "I'll drive you home."


Buffy pressed her face to the center of Angel's back, holding on tightly as they roared through town on his motorcycle.  If anyone saw them, her social life would be ruined.  Of course, who would believe it?  Buffy Giles riding around on the back of Angel the loser's bike.  She probably wouldn't have much trouble playing it off.

He roared into her driveway and cut off the engine before reaching down and pulling the plastic bag with her clothes out of the black leather saddlebag.  She was thankful that none of her friends lived on the same street as she.  Carefully, she swung her leg over and stood on her two own feet.  She was wobbly and not entirely certain if it had to do with the motorcycle or just Angel.  She was pretty sure it was the latter.

Angel gripped her bag of clothes and entwined his fingers with his other hand.  Then, much to her utter shock, he walked her to her front door.  Half of her dates didn’t even do that.  She was already learning there was more to Angel that met the eye.  She turned to face him on the front porch and licked her lips nervously, unsure of what to expect.

“I’ll return your jacket and shirt tomorrow,” she said, gesturing at her odd attire.  His lips curved up slowly, in the sexiest little half smile and shook his head.  “They look better on you.”  He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, just barely giving her a taste of him.

“See you tomorrow, Buffy.”  His voice was husky and soft.  Bedroom soft.  Hot, sweaty lover soft.  And her knees trembled.

“Oh boy,” she whispered as she watched him stroll back to his bike.

That’s all for this chapter. Let us know if you’re interested in reading more. Thanks! *G*


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