Chapter Sixteen:

Vanity Fair


You're not human, you're a miracle
A preacher with an animal's face
In your sexy neon smokescreen
Lie the supersalesmen of vanity
Even your shadow worships you
In your jungle solitude
With the orgies of the sacrament
And the seal of flagellants
God saves those who save their skin
From the bondage that we're in
I'm elated, I could cut you
And remove the sheath of your ignorance
Bless the eunuch and the Skoptsi
Will you hurt me now and make a million?

-Mr. Bungle


Faye rose to her tip toes, her bare heels leaving the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Her lips parted, and she closely examined her lipstick in the mirror. Perfect. Wine red, just like her dress. She turned her face to the left slowly, attempting to examine her makeup from every angle. She blinked her eyes a few times, noticing the long sweep of her heavy lashes and the brightness of her eyes against the black eyeliner. A dark curl fell across her forehead, and she absently brushed it from her face with the back of her hand.

"You're not going to do that at dinner, are you? It looks like you're having a petit mal seizure."

Faye turned to find Spike in the doorway, a well-muscled arm bracing his body against the frame.

"What do you want, Spike?"

He tapped his wrist, despite the fact that he wasn't wearing a watch. "Bosch's waiting at Chez Henri. We should get going."

"You're going like that?"

Spike looked down at his suit for a moment, then back at her. He shrugged. "Yeah?"

Spike was the only person she knew that could look utterly disheveled in an Armani suit. His hair was styled (if you could call it that) in his classic shaggy mop, and his tie was draped casually around his neck. The suit, surprisingly, was perfectly tailored, yet the hard lines of his body seemed to compete with the lines of the suit.

"You look like a tramp," she said.

He gave a lopsided grin as he approached her. "Well, at least my clothes don't look like gift-wrap." Spike slipped a finger beneath one of the ribbons of fabric at her waist, giving it a slight tug."

"Stop it," she said, slapping his hand away. The absolute last thing she needed was for Spike to spend the entire night pawing at her.

"What's wrong? Afraid you're going to come unraveled?" He tugged at the fabric again.

"Something like that," she muttered.

"Are you going barefoot, too? I like the touch, but I'm not so sure they'd be eager to let you into the restaurant looking like that."

She pushed her way past him into the bedroom and began searching for her shoes. The red heels were neatly placed beside the bed, and she slipped them onto her feet quickly. She turned, finding Spike still standing in the doorway of the bathroom looking almost endearingly clueless and unkempt.

"Well?" She asked.

"My tie's undone."

Faye took the statement as an invitation and approached him again. She took the two ends of the tie into her hands more roughly than she intended. Spike lurched toward her unsteadily and his hips connected with hers.

She didn't flinch or recoil at his nearness. Instead she simply raised her eyes to his, noticing his head was lowered toward her.

He gave her a dangerous smile—the kind of smile that always seemed to leave her breathless—and murmured, "easy there, killer." His voice was low and rough and she felt his breath flutter against her neck.

She shook her head, forcing herself to return to the task at hand. "Yeah—sorry. I—sorry." She tried to steady her hands long enough to at least get his tie situated.

"Do this often?"

"What?"

"The tie thing, I mean."

"Oh—yeah. You know, Luke is horrible with these things," she said quickly.

"I can manage to dress myself, you know."

Faye laughed at that. "Yeah, well, you wouldn't know it to look at you. Your knots are always crooked."

"They are not."

"Are too."

Spike opened his mouth to respond but instead released a long sigh.

"All finished," she said, smoothing the tie over his chest with the tips of her fingers. As soon as she realized what she had done she drew her hand back and gave him a nervous smile.

"We ready now?" he asked.

"Uh—yeah. Of course."

Spike wrapped his arm around her waist as if he had been doing it for years. Perhaps it was his subtle way of extending a peace offering in light of the events the night before. Whatever it was, it wouldn't matter after tonight. Faye released an unsteady breath as he led her out of the bathroom, suddenly all too aware of the glock in her thigh holster.


Chez Henri was buzzing with idle cocktail talk by the time they had arrived. Countless Venus socialites and business tycoons filled the foyer, and the air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and red wine. A man, dressed in what appeared to be an expensive tuxedo, stood behind a tall podium near the door. Spike turned toward the him, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. Faye sighed, raising a hand to her forehead to massage her temples. This was going to be rich. The ever-clueless Spike mingling with Venus' upper class. This could only end badly.

The host raised a bow, inspecting Spike carefully. His lips were set in a hard line, his face expressionless. "May I help you, sir?"

"We're here to see Jack Bosch. Has he arrived yet?"

The man hesitated for a moment--probably attempting to figure out what business a man like Spike would have with Jack Bosch--before stepping away from the podium. "This way," he said wryly.

Spike and Faye followed him toward a private room in the back of the restaurant, making sure to stay just out of earshot. Spike leaned toward her and she felt his breath brush by her neck. "Friendly guy. Wonder what his deal is."

"I told you you looked like a tramp."

"Or maybe he's just a stuffy bastard with a stick up his ass? Come on, everyone looks good in Armani, Faye."

"Yeah. You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

When they reached the private dining room Bosch waved at them from across the table. She heard Spike draw in a long breath and exhale slowly.

"Let me do the talking."

"What?" she spat, her voice a bit louder than she'd intended.

"I said 'let me do the talking.'"

"Yeah, I heard what you said, I just couldn't believe you'd have the gall to say it."

"Damn it, Faye, don't argue with me. I don't want you screwing things up."

"Well, well. Aren't I lucky you let me come instead of keeping me locked in the hotel room?"

"You have no idea," he muttered. "And stay close."

She had a witty retort planned--something along the lines of 'make me, you prick'--but before she could spit it out they had reached their table. Bosch stood, extending his hand across the table to Spike.

"Ah, Mr. Black. I see you brought the...ever lovely Miss Fine along with you. It's good to see you again." He stressed her name when he said it, even as he shook Spike's hand. Bosch kept his eyes on her for a moment longer than was comfortable, as if awaiting her reaction. When there wasn't one, he winked in her direction. She wondered if Spike had noticed.

"The very same, Mr. Bosch," Spike said dryly. His hand found her waist--the rare portion of it that was actually clothed--and he tightened his fingers. Oh yeah, he'd noticed.

"Ease up, Heathcliff," she hissed under her breath. "You're hurting me."

"Please, sit," Bosch said, motioning for them to take their seats.

Spike finally released her, and she made a point of glaring at him as she sat. He probably didn't notice, as he almost immediately became engaged in some inane conversation with Bosch.

Faye crossed her legs and idly traced the rim of her water glass with her finger, wholly uninterested in the conversation Spike and Bosch were having. 'Let me do the talking.' Who the hell did he think he was? A financial genius who happened to hold advanced degrees in both 'kicking ass' and 'taking names?' She wondered what, exactly, would constitute an acceptable dissertation subject when it came to the science of 'kicking ass.' Knowing Spike, he'd probably turn in 500 pages riddled with bullet holes. Or maybe he'd opt for a live demonstration of the topic at hand. Stupid Spike.

"...so we were thinking it would be easiest to divide the money between ten of M&A's subsidiaries, and that way you'd see the greatest returns. As I said, they're all privately traded companies, as we like to keep our dealings under wraps. Your funds would be, essentially, non-existent--no paper trail to speak of. And if someone were to somehow get a look at your investments, it would look as though you simply maintained a diversified portfolio..."

Faye rolled her eyes. He was kidding himself if he thought Bosch was buying all this. Spike didn't know the first thing about business, economics, or the stock market, but he still thought that watching 15 minutes of the nightly news made him an expert in the field. Knowing Spike, it didn't really surprise her.

"...in short, you could expect to see massive returns on your investments. We deal with many businessmen of your--caliber."

He'd started rambling about shareholder dividends, or some other such nonsense, and Faye noted the hopelessly bored look on Bosch's face. Oh well. It wasn't as though Spike had a chance in hell of pulling one over on Bosch, anyway. May as well let him play the game.

Bosch cleared his throat and held his hands up in mock defeat. "With all due respect, Logan--is it all right if I call you Logan?--, I didn't come here tonight to do business. I'm sold. That's why we're here tonight, isn't it?"

Spike gave him an uneasy grin, running a hand through his hair. "Just trying to clear up any loose ends, that's all."

"Understandable. Is it all right if I cut you a check?"

"Whatever works.

Bosch smirked, his eyes on Faye once again as he withdrew his checkbook from his jacket. "Who shall I make it out to?"

"Logan Black--" Spike glanced at Faye for a moment, "and Giselle Fine."

When Bosch had finished writing the check he tore it roughly from the checkbook, sliding it swiftly across the table to Spike. Spike observed the piece of paper for a moment before carefully folding it in half and slipping it into his pocket. "You won't be disappointed," Spike said.

Bosch looked toward Faye, holding her in his gaze as he said, "Believe me, Logan. I know."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the muscles in Spike's jaw tense. Something wasn't right. There was something he wasn't telling her—something he knew. It would certainly explain his short temper—well, shorter than normal, anyway—and his sudden paranoia."Giselle?"

She wondered if Bosch had noticed. What the hell did it matter if he did, anyway? She wasn't sure anymore. At least after tonight it would be all over.

And then what? Was she supposed to run back into the loving arms of Luke Kennedy? Or did she run away like she always did, now that her debt would be all but nonexistent?

Faye tuned back into reality, turning to face Spike who, for some reason, was glaring at her as though she'd just taken his last cigarette. "Hmm?"

"Aren't you going to order?" he said tersely.

"...Of course," she said, turning to find a well-dressed waiter at her side. She gave him a weak smile. He didn't smile back.

"Your order, miss?"

"Just a small salad with a spritz of lemon--thanks."

Spike shot her another look--for what, she wasn't sure--and she decided to ignore him, taking her napkin from the table and folding it idly in her lap. This place reminded her of somewhere Luke would take her--somewhere the new and improved Faye Kennedy would frequent every week, mingling with the solar system's rich and famous. Instead, she felt out of place--awkward.

It was probably Spike, she decided. Lord knew you couldn't take the boy anywhere without getting cold stares or a civil suit thrown at you--or both. And you could never rule out the possibility that he'd take out half the building with a few strategically thrown hand grenades. Really, you just never knew.

She should have been ecstatic that Luke had rescued her from her former self--from Spike. What would she have to look forward to in that life, anyway? Friday nights on the couch with the mutt and a bowl of Jet's bell peppers and beef? The familiar war that raged between her and Spike over liquor, cigarettes, and the TV guide? Would she have to look forward to the same arguments? Squabbles over who ate the last taquito, or who used all the hot water...who knew the least about Leondardo DiCaprio? Well, the last one was a one time thing, but still.

With Luke she'd have parties to look forward to--summers in the Martian countryside. A life of leisure and comfort. Maybe not complete and utter happiness, but she'd learned to settle for less than perfect a long time ago, anyway.

She looked to Spike again, suddenly interested in watching him. His elbows were resting on the table, bunching the dark silk tablecloth, and his strong chin was propped up with his right fist. He drummed against the table top with the fingers of his other hand, and for a moment she almost found his utter cluelessness cute--almost.

It reminded her of the night she found him sitting on the couch alone in the dark, a half-empty bottle of scotch at his side and the light from the muted vid screet flickering over his smooth skin. It was the night before he left to fight Vicious--the night Julia had died. It reminded her of the last case they went on together, and of the way he'd look at her before saying something uncharacteristically serious. It reminded her of many things--things she hadn't realized she'd come to miss.

"How's the view, space cadet?" Spike whispered.

"Huh?"

Faye looked up, her eyes meeting with Bosch's once again. He folded his hands on top of the table and leaned forward. "I asked about the Hotel Pergolese, Miss Fine. I take it the accommodations are more than suitable?"

"Of course," she said--though what she meant was 'How the hell do you know we're at the Pergoloese?' Luke, she presumed, though she couldn't readily determine why Luke would disclose such information to Bosch. Maybe to assure she'd finish the job by tonight? She was surprised Spike hadn't noticed the slip; if he had, she assumed he would have grabbed her by the wrist and bolted from the restaurant, paranoid basket-case that he was. Not that he didn't have good reason to be paranoid.

"I've heard their--" Bosch was interrupted by the shrill ring of his comm. He withdrew it from his pocket, glancing for a moment at its face before slipping it back into his jacket. "Unfortunately, I have to be on my way--business, you know."

"Right. We'll be in touch soon," Spike said.

The corners of Bosch's mouth turned upward into the characteristic half-smirk Faye had come to loathe. "I'm sure. Good evening Mr. Black--Miss Fine." He gave her a curt nod before making his way toward the front of the restaurant.

Faye drew in an unsteady breath and picked the napkin up from her lap once again, turning it over in her hands and forming sharp creases in the fabric with her fingertips.

"Faye?" Spike placed his hand on her thigh and she jumped.

"Spike--" his name escaped her lips sounding like something between a sigh and a statement. A promise she couldn't keep. It felt foreign on her tongue--as if she hadn't spoken it in years. "I--please excuse me."

She tossed her napkin onto the table, hoping it wasn't too obvious that she was leaving in hot pursuit of Bosch. She knew he'd be waiting for her. After all, he'd need information on the accounts Spike and Jet had opened.


Spike watched as Faye stood to leave the table, noticing that she was moving with an urgency normally reserved for the floor of a casino. She'd hardly said a word all night--no thanks to him, he supposed--but knowing Faye, silence always meant trouble. He craned his neck, hoping to see her in the distance somewhere. Instead, he found she had vanished into the crowd. Which was surprising, given the outfit she was wearing--and the fact that Faye Valentine never had the ability to simply vanish into a crowd.

He wasn't sure for how long she'd been gone. A minute? Five? Ten? It was hard to concentrate, given the circumstances. He couldn't rule out the possibility that Bosch wanted Faye dead, for whatever reason. She did seem to provide plenty to every person she'd ever met.

He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, swearing when he realized he wasn't wearing a watch. He rose quickly from his chair, heading in the direction he last saw Faye.

It didn't take long to find her--she couldn't have been more than twenty feet from their table, but she was standing in a small alcove near the restrooms. Her back was against the wall, and Bosch stood in front of her.

Spike crossed his arms over his chest, resisting the urge to hurl himself at her, dragging her kicking and screaming from the restaurant. He watched as she withdrew something from the breast of her gown--classy move, Faye--and handed it to Bosch, who quickly slipped the item into his pocket. Then Bosch moved toward her--maybe with malicious intent, or maybe he was just unsteady on his feet--hell, Spike didn't care anymore. Suddenly kicking and screaming didn't sound like such a bad plan after all.

"Giselle!" he shouted over the idle chatter filling the restaurant, raising his hand as he moved toward her so that she might spot him in the crowd. She did. And he was reminded of her wedding night--the look she shot him after seeing him for the first time in a year and a half. Annoyance, contempt--relief?

He didn't stop. He shoved past faceless socialites, past wait staff and stuffy business men, and called her name again. And again.

When he reached her he forced a smile, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist.

"Giselle--we have to leave. Now."

"Logan, can't you see that I am busy right now?" Her teeth were clenched, and she raised her eyebrows suggesting she might kill him at the soonest opportunity if he didn't back off. Yeah, like he hadn't seen that look a million times before.

"Right. Well, its a--an emergency. It's been a pleasure, Mr. Bosch."

He pulled Faye tighter against him, moving as quickly as he could manage with Faye practically stumbling over his feet. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same question."

"I told you to leave everything to me," he said. When they'd finally reached the front of the restaurant he nearly barreled through the doors.

"That's interesting, Spike. Because, you know, last time I checked this wasn't a one-man show, it was a partnership."

"Oh, bullshit." Which, on second thought, wasn't exactly what he meant, and certainly wasn't the smartest thing to say.

"Get the hell off me--" she said, immediately wrestling from his grasp, her dress flourishing around her hips as she did so. It was a hot, wet night, and steam rose from the warm asphalt of the street and the concrete of the sidewalk, the mist blurring her form, the humidity mussing her hair. She really did look magnificent when she was angry.

She was breathing heavily from the struggle, her chest rising and falling as she grasped for air. "For fuck's sake, Spike--" she said breathlessly, brushing her hair from her forehead. She watched him for a moment before shaking her head and turning away from him, walking quickly down the sidewalk.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my hotel room."

"Faye--wait for me--"

"I said I was going to the hotel. You can go fuck yourself."

"Right, but--you know, I'd prefer to do so in the privacy of my own bathroom."

"Fine. I'll be packing my things. I agreed to help you pull of your little con, and I did. And since I have no further obligations toward you, I'll get the hell out of your hair and you and Jet can be on your own again. Which is what you really wanted, right?"

"Damn it, Faye--"

"It won't take long. I'll be gone within the hour.

"Faye, stop--"

She held up her hand--he guessed as a signal for him to shut up--and began to walk faster, disappearing into the evening Venus fog.


A/N: So, here I am, back from the dead. It's been a crazy time, school and all that, and I haven't had much of an opportunity to write. For that, I apologize, dear readers. But the good news is that with break ahead, I should have enough time to actually get some REAL work done. I know. That sounds pathetic, doesn't it? Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter! And if you didn't, you can tell me all about it in a nasty review! And if you did enjoy it...you can tell me about that in a review as well. Seriously, I'm desperate.

Till next time,

Nevi