*Disclaimer: I do not own Spike or any of the Angel/Buffy characters (even though I wish I did) Rachel and the plot idea are mine though.*

She watched the woman hook her leg around the pole and give one last turn on her stiletto heels as the song ended. There had been a time when she'd done the exact same thing, the feel of the cold metal pole under your knee, the blur of lights and faces as you whipped around, throwing your body this way and that just for the amusement of the men (and on occasion, women) in this little dive.

"Hey! Who've I gotta screw to get a drink?" A man who just seated himself at the end of the bar growled.

With a sigh, Rachel threw the rag she'd been using to wipe down the bar over her shoulder and went to see what he wanted. Once he'd been served and shut up, she went over to the light switch for the big, illuminated mirror behind the bar and flashed it once before announcing that it was last call right as the final dancer of the night stepped out.

Rachel resumed wiping down the bar and turned her attention to a few dirty glasses in the sink. She pulled her hands out of the soapy water and examined them, tears coming into her eyes. At one point in her life, she'd been an artist, been discovered by this big-time dealer from New York. Then she'd gotten in that damned accident.

Thinking back, she still could not remember exactly what had happened. She flexed the fingers on her left hand, and slowly, closed it into a fist. She'd done months of physical therapy and tried to get full use of it back, but she never would. Just like that, she'd lost her dreams, so now she worked here. Ex-stripper/aspiring artist turned bartender.

The music had stopped some time when she was lost in her thoughts, and most of the people had left. Empty glasses sat dotted along the length of the bar, and she gathered them up. When she'd finished with them and had all the glasses washed, she turned to leave, and on the corner of the bar closest to her, there sat a lonely glass she'd missed. The man who'd been sitting there had left a tip. As she folded the bill and pocketed it, realization hit her. He must have seen her cry. Rachel turned around and stood right in front of where the man had been and, sure enough, there was a perfect view of the sink and her face would've been clearly visible.

"Oh crap…he saw me crying. Great, just great." She muttered under her breath.

Later that night, when she finally left the strip club, she tried to remember who all had been sitting at the bar. Mostly it was older men, business men, and the usual vagrants avoiding their wives. No one really stood out, well there HAD been one man in particular who she'd noticed. Rachel saw him when he'd walked in and the thought occurred to her that if he'd asked her back to his place, she would have been more than willing.

She zipped up her jacket as she climbed into her car and headed for home.

With a sigh, Rachel had opened the door to her dingy little first-floor apartment.

It wasn't much, just basic furnishings, the only tell that there had once been pictures on the wall were discolored squares . After the accident, she had taken them all down and thrown them out. The last thing she needed were those reminders of what was now lost to her.

After her shower and a change of clothes, it was time for her favorite show and there was no way she was going to miss the season finale. She moseyed on into the living room and stopped dead in her tracks. There on her couch, was the man from the bar.

She must have gasped or made some small noise because he turned and looked at her, dressed in nothing but her underwear and a loose t-shirt.

"Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?" Rachel practically yelled.

"Well doll, name's Spike and I followed you home 'cause you have the emptiest eyes I've ever seen on a female in my entire life. Existence really, since I'm not technically living." He finished with a smirk.

Momentarily awestruck, it took her a second to form a response. "That doesn't really explain why you're here in my apartment."

He stood up and came over to her, "But doesn't it? I was curious as to why such a beautiful young thing like you is working in a dive like that."

Spike brought his face within inches of hers, waiting for her to react.

She turned away from him and walked around towards the door, "I don't have to explain anything to you. So, if you would be so kind as to leave me the fuck alone, I might decide not to call the cops."

She blinked and before she could catch her breath, he had her pinned to the wall, fangs grazing her neck. "You still don't remember, do you?" Spike breathed against her neck.

Rachel tried in vain to shove him off, but the vampire wouldn't budge. "Remember what? I think you have me confused with someone else."

He grabbed her left wrist as she went to hit him again. "Want me to tell you what happened to your hand, love?"

Tears welled up in her eyes, "What…?"She murmured.

"Think back, back to your accident…" he coaxed, his face returned to normal.

She started to fight him again, and this time, he let her go. "I can't…I can't remember what happened!" she screamed.

"Keep thinking, because you owe me." He teased.

Rachel glared at him, "Bullshit. If you are the reason I can't paint anymore, I don't owe you anything. I'd rather you kill me now."

"Oh, is that what's bothering you? Why you work in the strip club? You can't paint your pretty pictures anymore?" He mocked.

That was the last straw, and Rachel just broke, "You son of a bitch! Go to hell, fucking vampire…"

She fell to her knees and sat there cradling her left hand against her chest, cursing Spike under her breath. As he left, he couldn't help but rub salt in the wound, "I would if I could. Remember, kitten, you owe me."