A/N: I realize that I marked the previous chapter as chapter two, when it's
chapter one. But i'm too lazy to change it so this is the real chapter two
okay? Okay.
CHAPTER TWO
Oz left the Falden Records building disappointed. Another label had turned down the Dingoes, one of the most well known local bands in Manhattan. However, they knew of the Dingoes after the lead singer's death, and their inability to find a replacement was putting quite a strain on getting signed. The lead guitarrist had pondered the thought of getting a singer many times, as well as someone who could write lyrics, but he never found anybody with the right stuff. Oz was thinking about this as he walked calmly down the streets of the business district, hands stuffed in his brown overcoat, which stood out against his blonde hair. Well, it was blonde this week. The week before had been purple, and the week before that had been black, and the week before had been a royal blue. He was a small man, and any sort of appearance that could draw some attention to the taciturn, stoic twenty six year old was good.
He was debating the dilemma about getting a singer for tonight's gig, and seriously considered calling up Mr. Wyndham Price, the owner of Triple Threat, to cancel the Dingoes' appearance. He pulled out his cell phone and was about to dial the number for the club when his phone rang out the tune to Sweet Child of Mine, indicating that someone was calling him. Oz pressed talk to answer the phone.
"Hey." Pause. "Oh, hey." He said when he heard the voice on the other end. "Oh." Pause. "No, I understand." Pause. "I'll be fine, thank you, Dr. Giles. Have a nice time."
Oz felt downhearted at the news of Dr. Giles being away for two months. Therapy was a fully integrated part of his life, ever since he was a kid, and it was like breaking a bad habit to not go. He had grown used to talking things out, more than he ever would with another person, when he was in therapy. It also made him think even more about himself, and how the human mind functioned. Though he'd never been to college, philosophy and psychology had always been of great interest to him, as well as supernatural beings, witchcraft, and the guitar. What could he say, he was an easily fascinated man when it came to things out of the ordinary.
Which was something he needed now. He was in a rut. He needed something, someone, extraordinary to come into his life to pull him out. He needed to meet someone different from anyone he'd ever encountered. It shouldn't have been too hard for him to meet someone like that, him living in New York and all, but it was hard for him. He was sort of picky. But a quiet kind of picky. He didn't like to hurt people.
He was thinking about girls now. He decided a long time ago that he had a soft spot for those with red hair. The red heads were just so cute, fun and lively. Why couldn't he meet any redheads that filled this much needed position?
He was thinking about redheads as he bumped into a stranger on the street. Literally. It caused the stranger's cigarette to fall from his lips, out of which also escaped a,
"Buggering hell, is the world all of a sudden against smokers?"
"I'm sorry, man." Oz apologized to the peroxide blonde, who merely shrugged.
"I wasn't lookin where I was goin. S'not your fault."
"I was just zoning out. Not paying attention."
"I know how it is, mate." Spike looked closer at the short man's face. "You all right?"
"What? Yeah. I just was pondering a dilemma."
"Oh. I'm sorry, then."
"No, it's fine."
"Right."
Spike started to walk away when Oz called after him. This surprised both men, due to the fact that Oz was never really one for calling out at all, much less what he did call out.
"Do you sing?" Oz asked.
Spike turned around and shrugged. "Lil bit. I write some poetry now an then, but I don't really sing publicly."
"Would you mind terribly doing me and my friends a favor?"
~*~
So it was settled. Spike, as Oz found out he was called, would be singing for the Dingoes that night. They wouldn't be playing original stuff, but songs Spike knew, so there would not be confusion.
Oz entered his apartment, glad that he had settled this whole singer affair. For tonight, anyway.
After locking the door behind him, Oz tossed his keys onto the table by the door. Then he took off his coat and tossed it onto his couch.
His apartment, like him, was simple. Living area, with a small kitchenette, tv, couch, and a bedroom and bathroom off in other rooms. The one special thing that Oz loved about his apartment was his pride and joy; his record and cd collection. Though the Dingoes had recorded their songs on demo tapes, Oz had hundreds of records and cds, lining bookcases, in boxes carefully filed alphabetically, and all of them specially protected. He loved his collection, and his two guitars more than anything else in the world. He had named his guitars Monkey and Hippo, after his two favorite animal crackers. Monkey was the acoustic, and Hippo was a bright blue and white electric guitar.
Oz went to his bedroom, and went to take a nap in his bed, setting the alarm for seven o clock. He had to get to that gig. They actually could sound GOOD tonight.
~*~
"Uh, Amy? I don't know about this." Willow said awkwardly, twisting her hands together nervously.
"Oh, come on! Don't you wanna have a little FUN for once? It's the weekend!" The brunette smiled at her redheaded friend, who was borrowing some of Amy's more... revealing clothes for their night out.
"I-I'm just not sure. This shirt's a little... short. And tight. Maybe I should wear the blue-"
"No. You look great, Willow. Now let's go get us some hotties!"
"But-"
"No buts. Vamos a Triple Threat."
"I-I have homework that needs doing."
"As I said, it's the weekend. You can think about your precious little medical school record later."
"I guess going out could be fun."
"Exactly." The brunette smiled triumphantly. Getting uptight, nearly friendless Willow to go clubbing was harder to do than a teleportation spell. If spells actually would work for her, that is.
The two had met at a Wiccan group in college, and had stayed close ever since. Willow's friends were limited, but Amy, outgoing and fun-loving, was constantly introducing her to people, trying to set her up, or getting her to go to parties. They usually ended up with the same results: Willow's awkward silences, or Willow's babbling, or Willow sitting alone with a 7-Up, or Willow sitting alone with a Sprite, which Willow insisted had a difference.
But tonight would be different. This had to work. Uncle Giles was counting on Willow hitting it off with the guitarrist of Dingoes, and from what her uncle had explained, the two should fall head over heels pretty fricken fast.
Amy smiled as she led her friend out the door of their apartment. She didn't know what the experiment was about, or what her uncle wanted to happen, but she couldn't care less. She was getting paid, and her friend was getting laid. What could go wrong with that?
A lot.
AN: Yeah, short and bad, but I swear on my life that this next chapter will be better, I have all weekend to work on it, whereas with this I had to do it off and on with homework. So deal with it. And review.
CHAPTER TWO
Oz left the Falden Records building disappointed. Another label had turned down the Dingoes, one of the most well known local bands in Manhattan. However, they knew of the Dingoes after the lead singer's death, and their inability to find a replacement was putting quite a strain on getting signed. The lead guitarrist had pondered the thought of getting a singer many times, as well as someone who could write lyrics, but he never found anybody with the right stuff. Oz was thinking about this as he walked calmly down the streets of the business district, hands stuffed in his brown overcoat, which stood out against his blonde hair. Well, it was blonde this week. The week before had been purple, and the week before that had been black, and the week before had been a royal blue. He was a small man, and any sort of appearance that could draw some attention to the taciturn, stoic twenty six year old was good.
He was debating the dilemma about getting a singer for tonight's gig, and seriously considered calling up Mr. Wyndham Price, the owner of Triple Threat, to cancel the Dingoes' appearance. He pulled out his cell phone and was about to dial the number for the club when his phone rang out the tune to Sweet Child of Mine, indicating that someone was calling him. Oz pressed talk to answer the phone.
"Hey." Pause. "Oh, hey." He said when he heard the voice on the other end. "Oh." Pause. "No, I understand." Pause. "I'll be fine, thank you, Dr. Giles. Have a nice time."
Oz felt downhearted at the news of Dr. Giles being away for two months. Therapy was a fully integrated part of his life, ever since he was a kid, and it was like breaking a bad habit to not go. He had grown used to talking things out, more than he ever would with another person, when he was in therapy. It also made him think even more about himself, and how the human mind functioned. Though he'd never been to college, philosophy and psychology had always been of great interest to him, as well as supernatural beings, witchcraft, and the guitar. What could he say, he was an easily fascinated man when it came to things out of the ordinary.
Which was something he needed now. He was in a rut. He needed something, someone, extraordinary to come into his life to pull him out. He needed to meet someone different from anyone he'd ever encountered. It shouldn't have been too hard for him to meet someone like that, him living in New York and all, but it was hard for him. He was sort of picky. But a quiet kind of picky. He didn't like to hurt people.
He was thinking about girls now. He decided a long time ago that he had a soft spot for those with red hair. The red heads were just so cute, fun and lively. Why couldn't he meet any redheads that filled this much needed position?
He was thinking about redheads as he bumped into a stranger on the street. Literally. It caused the stranger's cigarette to fall from his lips, out of which also escaped a,
"Buggering hell, is the world all of a sudden against smokers?"
"I'm sorry, man." Oz apologized to the peroxide blonde, who merely shrugged.
"I wasn't lookin where I was goin. S'not your fault."
"I was just zoning out. Not paying attention."
"I know how it is, mate." Spike looked closer at the short man's face. "You all right?"
"What? Yeah. I just was pondering a dilemma."
"Oh. I'm sorry, then."
"No, it's fine."
"Right."
Spike started to walk away when Oz called after him. This surprised both men, due to the fact that Oz was never really one for calling out at all, much less what he did call out.
"Do you sing?" Oz asked.
Spike turned around and shrugged. "Lil bit. I write some poetry now an then, but I don't really sing publicly."
"Would you mind terribly doing me and my friends a favor?"
~*~
So it was settled. Spike, as Oz found out he was called, would be singing for the Dingoes that night. They wouldn't be playing original stuff, but songs Spike knew, so there would not be confusion.
Oz entered his apartment, glad that he had settled this whole singer affair. For tonight, anyway.
After locking the door behind him, Oz tossed his keys onto the table by the door. Then he took off his coat and tossed it onto his couch.
His apartment, like him, was simple. Living area, with a small kitchenette, tv, couch, and a bedroom and bathroom off in other rooms. The one special thing that Oz loved about his apartment was his pride and joy; his record and cd collection. Though the Dingoes had recorded their songs on demo tapes, Oz had hundreds of records and cds, lining bookcases, in boxes carefully filed alphabetically, and all of them specially protected. He loved his collection, and his two guitars more than anything else in the world. He had named his guitars Monkey and Hippo, after his two favorite animal crackers. Monkey was the acoustic, and Hippo was a bright blue and white electric guitar.
Oz went to his bedroom, and went to take a nap in his bed, setting the alarm for seven o clock. He had to get to that gig. They actually could sound GOOD tonight.
~*~
"Uh, Amy? I don't know about this." Willow said awkwardly, twisting her hands together nervously.
"Oh, come on! Don't you wanna have a little FUN for once? It's the weekend!" The brunette smiled at her redheaded friend, who was borrowing some of Amy's more... revealing clothes for their night out.
"I-I'm just not sure. This shirt's a little... short. And tight. Maybe I should wear the blue-"
"No. You look great, Willow. Now let's go get us some hotties!"
"But-"
"No buts. Vamos a Triple Threat."
"I-I have homework that needs doing."
"As I said, it's the weekend. You can think about your precious little medical school record later."
"I guess going out could be fun."
"Exactly." The brunette smiled triumphantly. Getting uptight, nearly friendless Willow to go clubbing was harder to do than a teleportation spell. If spells actually would work for her, that is.
The two had met at a Wiccan group in college, and had stayed close ever since. Willow's friends were limited, but Amy, outgoing and fun-loving, was constantly introducing her to people, trying to set her up, or getting her to go to parties. They usually ended up with the same results: Willow's awkward silences, or Willow's babbling, or Willow sitting alone with a 7-Up, or Willow sitting alone with a Sprite, which Willow insisted had a difference.
But tonight would be different. This had to work. Uncle Giles was counting on Willow hitting it off with the guitarrist of Dingoes, and from what her uncle had explained, the two should fall head over heels pretty fricken fast.
Amy smiled as she led her friend out the door of their apartment. She didn't know what the experiment was about, or what her uncle wanted to happen, but she couldn't care less. She was getting paid, and her friend was getting laid. What could go wrong with that?
A lot.
AN: Yeah, short and bad, but I swear on my life that this next chapter will be better, I have all weekend to work on it, whereas with this I had to do it off and on with homework. So deal with it. And review.