A/N: The rest of this story will not be put up until I've finished my other story. This is just a teaser to capture your interest.

Spike's car:
www .modernracer .com/features/detroit2004pics/detroit2004pic2 .jpg

Chapter One

Liam 'Angel' Angelus knew he could ignore the knocking on his door, and the yelling that was coming through his thin wooden door. "Angel," it called out, "I own the building, Buddy, ya can't hide from me in there!" It was true, he couldn't, but it never hurt to try.

It wasn't like Angel wouldn't pay his rent, he would. It was just at that moment he didn't have the money on him, and he may as well admit it to himself, he probably wouldn't have it anytime soon unless he went out and did something drastic.

The Superintendent knew that Angel would pay, which was why he didn't press the boy too much. He was an honest kid, and would have the money soon, or would work off his debt, as he had a few times.

It was a fairly expensive apartment, if you could call it an apartment. It was really more like a large storage shed with an almost invisible kitchen. The roof was high enough for two stories, but there wasn't a second story. There was, however, a concrete ledge that stuck out of the wall about half way up.

On it was a bed, a coffee table and a lounge chair. There was a metal ladder, which was how Angel was able to get up there. The walls were grey, the kitchen was peach and everything on the protrusion were dark colours, which made them stand out. You couldn't see the grey of the walls though, since they were all covered in paintings.

Angel lived alone, and that was how he liked it best. Despite the size of the place, there really wasn't enough room for a second person. This was because of the painting easels that had been placed around the room, making it more like a maze then anything else.

He did have a dog, so that was some form of company. Normally pets weren't allowed in the building, apart from goldfish, which didn't make a mess. Angel was the kind of guy who you didn't want to deny him anything when he asked for something, because he was so nice that he always did favours for people when they needed them.

So the Super had permitted him a dog. Her name was Peaches, and she a Basset Hound so she wasn't as energetic as most dogs, but still enjoyed her exercise. Angel took her out every day to walk blocks and blocks down the street to an art museum.

It wasn't the biggest museum in the city, but in Angel's opinion it was the best. The art there stirred something in him, and almost drive him to keep painting and drawing instead of getting a proper job. He knew that probably the best thing for his financial situation, but it was good for him.

Joyce, the owner of the museum, was very nice was had taken the role of the mother to Angel when he had moved out. She showed him how to live in a big city rather then a small town.

He always came around at the same time and she was waiting for him outside the shop with a smile and a coffee in her hand for him. That day was no exception. She smiled, handed Angel the coffee, bent down and patted Peaches.

Joyce straightened up. "Good morning, Angel."

"Good morning, Charlie." Angel joked, mimicking the girls from Charlie's Angels. Joyce laughed, Angel smiled a bit, but it was strained slightly. Joyce couldn't help but notice.

"Is there something worrying you, Angel? You seem stressed. Is it money again?" she asked sympathetically, with genuine concern obvious in her voice.

They couldn't go into the museum with Peaches since dogs weren't allowed, so they were restricted to walking the street. It was okay because Peaches and his short legs tired out easily and he would sleep while Angel and Joyce went in later. This of course meant that Angel would have to carry the dog home. It was his form of weight lifting and because of it he had rather muscly arms.

All in all Angel was incredibly attractive. The perfect way to describe him would be 'Tall Dark and Handsome' and he seemed to be the embodiment of the saying. With dark hair, dark eyes and a very hot body he could have had anyone he wanted, but he chose not to.

"The only thing I can think of to do is sell my paintings." Angel explained.

Joyce shook her head. "Well, you can't do that."

He threw his hands up into the air. "Thank you. I knew you would understand. I just can't bring myself to sell any of my own. Some people request portraits and things from me of loved ones, and they pay me to do them, but they don't come from me like the others do. They all lack something so I can stand to part with them, but-"

"But you can't sell any you've put your soul into." Joyce finished. She understood completely. Well, I know why people want to buy your portraits, they're beautiful, but if you do that all the time you won't be able to find the time to draw your own things."

Angel sighed. He usually took everything in his stride, but this was really getting to him. He'd missed rent a few to many times to make it up by working, and he really couldn't afford to loose that apartment. When he'd first came to the city he'd locked around and couldn't find another place big enough for all his things.

And by things, he meant his paintings.

Joyce stopped walking and Angel looked at her, frowning. Then she started walking again, faster then before. Noticing his look, she offered an explanation. "I have just the thing that will help you, if you chose to do it of course."

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Angel slowed down, falling behind Joyce. "Joyce, for the last time, I am not posing nude so students can paint me!"

Peaches made a noise that sounded like a whine, and when Angel looked down her tail started wagging. "No. No posing nude." Her tail stopped wagging and she whined again.

Joyce laughed. "No, don't worry. I've given up trying to get you to do that anyway. I'll show you what it is." She took the leash off Angel and tied it to a pole outside a coffee shop. Inside there was a notice board, which had a lot of things pinned up on it. One was a tan coloured piece of paper announcing a drawing/painting competition.

According to the notice, the competition wasn't only judged on the person's talent, but also on the person it was done on. It was to be of a celebrity, and he was allowed to use a picture as a reference if he needed to. Extra points would be given if he could get the actual person to pose for him.

It could be done in any medium he wanted. Paint, pencil, oil paint, chalk, charcoal, water colour, the options were wide open, but he decided not to choose what to do it with or on until he knew who he was going to do.

Since his portraits always lacked depth, he knew he couldn't get it done satisfyingly from a photo. It had to be of someone he thought was attractive, someone who had a certain look that drew him to them. Then he would be able to put soul into it.

William 'Spike' Pratt wiped the artificial sweat off his bare chest. He had just done another photo shoot. He had been modelling for a while now, and he was sick of it. Sure, he'd been the top model for his whole career, his status as the sexiest man in twenty years had been constant for ages, and he was fed up.

He was in a rut. He truly was, and there was no possible way to get out of it that he could see. He stuck on a tight, black t-shirt, a blue shirt that brought out his bright blue eyes, which were somewhere between the colour of an aquamarine and a sapphire.

Then he put on his signature piece of clothing. It was a black leather jacket, which went down to his ankles and had been his father's. He'd never met his father, as he was just a one-night stand with his mother, but he'd left his jacket behind. Spike had found it when he was five, and since then he'd never gone a day without wearing it.

He had pictures of himself when he was younger, with a leather jacket way to big for him. It had been the first day he had worn it, and he'd thought he was so grown up.

There was a knock on his door, and Spike rolled his eyes. It was his manager. It was bound to be. Ethan Rayne had been corrupted by money long before they had met, but he'd been Spike's manager since before he had become famous. When they were back in England.

"You can come in, Rayne."

Rayne came in, with a smile on his face. "That was great!"

Coming in behind Rayne was Andrew Wells. He was blonde, and a flaming homosexual, but still firmly in denial. Rayne had taken him on as sort of an intern, he was learning the tricks of the trade, and Rayne had agreed because Andrew's extremely rich and powerful father had paid him.

So far the little flamer was useless, and all he seemed to do was suck up to Spike and kiss his arse, feet and anything else Spike wanted to be kissed. Literally. So far Spike had been using him as a sort of a 'sex slave', but it was okay because Andrew didn't mind. Actually the kid was just stoked he was sleeping with someone famous.

Spike had made him sign contract after contract swearing he wouldn't go to the press and tell them about the… involvement they had together. Not even Rayne knew about what they did, and usually he knew everything that was going on in his life before he did.

Andrew took Rayne's praise as his cue to start kissing Spike's feet. "It was really good. You looked soooo sexy with that sweat." He blushed and looked at his feet. "You're amazing."

Rolling his eyes, Spike answered with an exasperated and tired "I know." He decided to change the topic before they really pissed him off. "On the way back we have to stop off at The Fruit Bowl." The Fruit Bowl was a very small, but very nice little gay bar on the edge of the city.

It was out of their way, since they lived very close to the middle of the city, but it was worth it. Everyone needed to have someone they could open up to, and this person for Spike was Willow, the bartender and owner of the aforementioned bar.

People often said that The Fruit Bowl wasn't big or important enough to have a title, but Willow, being the bubbly and quirky person she was believed her bar should have a name. It was a funny one too, suiting her perfectly. She was great and Spike regretted not being able to see her very often. Actually it was only a few times a month.

It took a while before they got there, but when they did Spike got out of his Astin Martin before it stopped completely. His A.M was a green-silver colour, and he liked the fact that James Bond'd had an early version of it. Rayne had a Mercedes, which Spike hated, and Andrew didn't have a car, which Spike thought was hilarious and always laughed when he saw the small bicycle parked between the two cars.

The Fruit Bowl was small, tastefully decorated and had a very comfortable atmosphere. Not many people were around and that was how Spike liked it. When he entered a redhead with a cheeky grin greeted him. "Hey, Spiky" she said from her position behind the bar, "What's shakin'."

Spike smiled, and that in itself was a rare thing. "A martini if you have one."

"Only for you on your special day." The smile on her face faded at Spike's confused look. It was an honest look of 'I-honest-to-god-have-no-bloody-clue-what-you're-on-about'. She frowned a bit, but her voice still seemed to be upbeat. "You've really forgotten, haven't you?"

"Forgotten what?"

"Your birthday, silly. It's today." She sighed, but then brightened. "Oh! I have something for you! Tara." A mousy little waitress, who had been cleaning one of the tables, scampered over. "Tara, could you go and get a parcel waiting for me down the road? It's just that I know you're going there sometime today to pick up your mail, so I thought you could, maybe, get mine too." Willow gave an uncertain and shy smile to Tara.

Tara gave her a small smile of her own. "Yeah, sure. D-Do you want m-me to go now?" At Willow gave her a nod and she walked off with a smile.

"You like her." Spike sing-songed, and Willow playfully whacked him in the arm. "Can I watch?" This time she whacked him on the arm seriously. "Ow! I was joking!… Okay, so maybe I wasn't, but you can't hold it against me. I'm a guy. It's what we do, gay or not."

Willow rolled her eyes.

"Hey, do you have a bin around here somewhere?"

"Yep." Willow ducked under the bar and then came back up with a rectangular wicker basket. Spike took a crumpled envelope out of his pocket and chucked it into the bin. "What was that?" She asked.

Spike shrugged. "Just some mail I got. My manager just sort of threw it at me and told me it was worthless."

"And you believed him? No offence to Rayne, but he's a jerk-off, okay? Since when do you believe anything he says?"

Sighing, Spike explained. "When he suggests that I wouldn't like it, it just means he bloody well won't let me do it." There was a very loud car horn outside. "And that means time's up." He leant over the bar and pecker her on the cheek. "I 'av to go."

"I'll mail you're present to you. Happy birthday! Don't let Rayne ride you to hard, and don't ride Andrew to hard, okay?"

"Sure." He left and Willow smiled. She fetched the envelope out of the bin and saw that it had been opened and re-sealed, probably by Rayne. She opened it and read it over. She smiled. The guy who had written it, Angel, seemed smart, witty and very nice. He also had lovely penmanship.

This was exactly what Spike needed. Leaving the bar unsupervised, Willow went around the back to her small office, if that's what it could be called, and grabbed a pen and paper. Flipping the envelope over, she copied the address on the back onto the front of a new one. She would write this Angel fellow back.