This wasn’t his scene – maybe he was getting old, but these coffee bars make him sick to his stomach. Full of twats spinning out each dollar before they were tossed out. Jesus, he feels old! Spike lights another cigarette and peers through the blue haze at the group of students he’s been watching for some forty minutes. What is it with these morons and their laptops and coffee? Don’t they have homes to go to?

He becomes increasingly irritable at having to take his eyes off the group each time he takes a sip of his chocolate. The mug’s an enormous mustard-coloured affair with a handle too small to slip his fingers through. The armchair makes him want to go to sleep. Seat this big, needed to put your feet up, forced to perch and leave this huge gap behind you – what if you lost your balance on the overstuffed cushions? You’d look a right prat.

Just needed a shag – that’s why he’s so uptight.

Spike stands and shakes out a leg numb from all the perching and takes a last look at the group. That was enough ‘hunting’ for one evening. Then he sees Junior rummaging in his rucksack, body hunched, nervous eyes darting. Even from here, Spike can smell how tense the boy is; mmm…nervous with a dash of cinnamon. Maybe he should stay, after all.

Spike, fortunately, glances behind him before he almost sits;

“Excuse me! You were gone.”

Spike resists the impulse to comment on the girl’s desperate need to bleach and looks her in the eye.

“Didn’t want to squeeze up, anyway…” he purrs. Dark eyebrows winch high, tugging the poor girl’s will power with them.

“…but…”

But he’s gone.

A newspaper, that’s what he needs. In his new position, closer to the group but very far from a seat and annoyingly in the no smoking section – Spike tosses his coat onto a table and leans back on a railing. He’ll have to get another drink, otherwise he’ll get thrown out, but the last one had made him sick to his stomach. Funny how his metabolism, if you could call it that, could deal with JD and pig’s blood but this stuff made him want to hurl. They must put something in the drinks so you had to leave and make room for another punter before you threw up on your trainers. Only way to prise these yuppie arses out of here. He notices Connor wears boots. Must be the Vampire genes, he thinks with a grin.

***

“Pervy Punk-Guy’s still looking over.” Stevo says.

Connor straightens, shoves his backpack under the seat with the side of his foot and slips something in his back pocket. He doesn’t glance over at Spike and finds he is surprised how not looking is harder each time.

Stevo nudges him.

“That something for me?”

“Yep. Outside. Later.” Connor turns his back to Spike and rests one buttock on the chair arm.

“What do you suppose he wants, man?” Stevo scrutinizes Spike over Connor’s shoulder. “He’s been looking over and you ain’t noticed?”

“I’ve noticed. If you keep looking back at him he’s gonna think you’re hot for him. “Connor says, “And you’re standing way too close. Back off.”

“It’s cus I’m thinking of you, Conn. Guy thinks you’re with me, he’ll back off!”

“It’s them I don’t want backing off. Move!” Connor forces a smile and nods at a group of girls partly obscured by a pile of folders and bags on a table across from them.

“Maybe the guy can tell you’re gay. They all say there’s this ‘gaydar’ thing going on. In the ‘community.’”

“Stevo. Fuck. Off.” Sometimes, this ‘after school special’ bullshit felt old.

***

Well, well, well…so Junior’s a pouf like his dad! Spike throws back his head and grins. His tongue soothes his incisors for a moment as he contemplates the pair.

Connor’s mate seems to be trying to make a move and Spike can’t tell if Junior’s interested or not. He has Darla’s eyes – always somewhere else when he’s talking to you. Not listening, hiding. Searching. Long arms twisted around his own waist. Endless legs blocking off the group. Connor turns to catch Spike’s gaze. A cat’s blink and his attention’s back with his jock pal in the Abercrombie, who has now stepped over Connor’s feet and is leaning in, whispering.

Hey, what‘s this? Why is his cock stirring? Spike lowers the newspaper to his lap just in case. Nothing to worry about, probably some woman about to ovulate, wafting past, making him stand to attention. There are more bloody hormones in this place than his vamp senses can deal with. He looks over at the pair again. Abercrombie’s a bit of a tart, anyway, making eyes at the Big Bad when he’s supposed to be chatting up Junior. And this definitely isn’t helping his cock to lie down and stay! Damn his predatory heart to pieces - the way it looks – Junior all ‘back off’ and his mate not getting anywhere…well, it’s all just plain stimulating this struggle between them. God, he hasn’t had a good…’struggle’ with anyone for ages!

He’s coming over. Spike holds his newspaper aloft, crosses his legs and lowers his eyes to the text.

***

He knew it! Fucking Vamp! And an old one.

Three evenings the punk had been somewhere in the café. Soon as he’d finished class Connor would head down with his college friends, and there he’d be, waiting - easy to spot in the crowd.

By the second day, Connor had already suspected the punk was a vamp.

Found he was searching for the hair, and when he headed for the counter, Connor saw the punk shift then tense, peroxide down framing creamy skin – the way he’d sat up, punk must have sensed him. Connor was being hunted.

Now he wonders what particular quirk this vampire has that he’s making such a game of it. Maybe he was a perv before he was turned. Maybe he liked to be let in, make friends – then move in for the kill. Sick bastard! The need to hunt and kill Connor could understand - vamps needed to eat – but these fuckers, the ones who make a long drawn out game of it – these were the ones he hated with a side-order of bile in his mouth. And it always seemed to be the old ones.

The intense smell of cut stems that Connor was beginning to associate with the vampire washes over him once again as he pushes past Stevo and pats a finger on the punk’s newspaper. Sharp blue eyes catch his.

“What do you want?” Connor hisses.

“World peace, mate. What you on about?”

“You’ve been watching me!”

The vampire hasn’t blinked once through this short exchange.

“Just keeping an eye on you.”

“What? Why would you do that? I think you’re some kind of creep, that’s what I think.”

“Is it now?” The vampire’s calm. In no hurry to explain anything.

***

He shouldn’t have said that. Light another fag, that’ll give him a second to think.

“You smoke too much.” Connor says, nodding at the ‘No Smoking’ sign. Damn! Gave away that he’d noticed details.

“I fucking hate this country sometimes.” Spike pushes his hips forward so that he can slip his Zippo into the change pocket of his jeans, a movement that makes Connor take a step back.

“Yet you smoke our cigs, wear our jeans and enjoy our freedoms!”

“And fill your bloody air ways with smoke!” Spike blows a ring that hangs before Connor’s eyes. Ah, just a year and already the all American boy is talking like a patriot. You had to hand it to Wolfram and Hart. “And want to know something? That’s the best bit.” Spike gestures towards Connor’s friend who is watching them. “You can go back to your boyfriend. You don’t want to get him all jealous, do you now?”

***

This wasn’t working. Connor needed to let him know that he knew he was a vamp. That would change the situation. He could tell the punk wasn’t scared. Well why would he be of an ‘ordinary’ human?

“I’m not what you think, you know.” Connor hisses his hair flopping forward as he leans in.

The vampire snorts.

“What? Into boys? I couldn’t give a monkey’s arse what you like to do mate. Free country – you good as said it yourself.”

“How old are you?” Connor realises how random the question sounds.

“Just a couple of years older then you, mate.”

***

Well – it was kind of true. Good thing souls didn’t kick in - like chips did - every time you lied. Fuck, he’d be covered in burns or pock marks or something.

“I think you’re a lot older than me.” Junior says.

“You saying I’m too old to be in this place - that what it is?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well I didn’t see a sign on the door saying ‘If your balls have dropped – KEEP OUT!’” – Spike’s marble hands draw a rectangle in the air and then thumb dismissively over his shoulder releasing ash to his lap.

The sudden movement makes the newspaper slip to the ground. They both look down, and on the way up their eyes meet. Spike purses his lips, hoping this will work like a grip to the base of his cock and calm him down. Here’s this kid, standing nose to nose with a vamp and is he scared? Not a bit of it. Turned on - yes, but not scared. Mighty impressive. One thing Spike has learnt over a hundred plus years is that if he likes something he has to eat it or fuck it. Preferably both. Wouldn’t do to eat this one, though. Grandpa wouldn’t be at all pleased. Wasn’t why he was here.

“Look kid, I don’t know what your problem is. I like this place. It’s…” Spike chews his lip and scans the café, “…a home from home.” Well that’ll be another pock mark. “I’m keeping an eye on you. A ‘friend’ asked me to. Wasn’t gonna say anything but you’ve put me in a bit of a position. I was watching your arse, but not in the way you think, don’t worry. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I can smell you.” Connor whispers.

“It’s the fags, innit? Don’t notice it myself no more.”

“I know what you are.”

Spike mulls this over.

“Then you’ll know to watch your step.” Spike’s tone is cold as an assassin’s. He scoops up his jacket wishing he’d worn his leather duster so it would billow as he leaves, but he knows the kid’s eyes will be on the door for some seconds once he’s left.