Author's Notes: It's been over a week since I last posted, yet all my grateful thanks to all you guys who reviewed and added this story to their favorites. This is another start up chapter so it won't be too long; this is a way for me to up the drama so to speak. I was going to delve further into the girls' backgrounds, but I'll save that for a later chapter, I promise. That aside, feedback is always welcome. I will try to have the next chapter posted later this weekend. Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

An hour had passed, going on two, and there was no sign of Angel anywhere near the vicinity of the building. Silently, I glared out of the window, my eyes narrowing at the lengthy line that awaited the Whisky A Go Go; most of the concert goers were female and leaving less to the imagination, unaware that they were attracting the attention of the male horn dogs from the opposite side. Hardly surprising considering the kind of crowd Angel and his band brought in whenever their traveling schedules were busy.

"Where is he? It's not like him to show up late when there's a show to run," Cordelia muttered underneath her breath, though it was obvious that both Willow and myself had heard her musings.

"Maybe he's giving that blond chick a blow job," I replied casually, though my tone had let out a trace of bitter sarcasm that Willow had immediately picked up on, her face in a slight frown. Whether it was out of worry or concern, I wasn't paying attention.

I was too lost in thought and broodiness to notice. Or to care.

"Well, it looks like the bouncers are letting the crowd in, even if one band member is still missing. I don't know for sure, but it looks like some of the crowd are, well…pissed. They look like they want to blow the joint up," Cordelia continued to point out, playing with a tendril of her newly dyed hair.

I snorted in contempt. "Let them! They'll probably be disappointed anyways when Angel decides not to bring his sorry ass here, so any potential of wasting their money will probably happen. I mean, we've been sitting here for over an hour and he hasn't made an appearance yet. Doesn't he know that the show starts in ten minutes?"

But I knew. Deep down, I knew.

"Well, damn, Buffy, what's with the new bitchy attitude? Contempo Casuals shutting down or something?" Cordelia queried, applying a last minute shade of pink gloss to her lips over the rearview mirror.

"I…it's nothing, really. Forget that I ever mentioned it. I think I'm gonna take a walk to you know, clear my head and all. My mind's been frazzled ever since we got here," I continued wearily, all thoughts obviously on Angel's newly discovered unstable condition; as to whether or not he was able to perform for tonight, it was obviously certain that the answer would be a resounding hell no. Only, no one but myself and the blond woman knew what was going on that was causing his unprofessional late arrival.

Whether or not to tell my friends; I was still conflicted about coming to a decision.

What was I going to do? Would there be a light at the end of this murky tunnel? Would things be the same as it was long ago; before all of this had started? My thoughts were interrupted before I could continue pondering.

"Buffy, talk to us. Are you okay? There's something you want to tell us, isn't there?" Willow began accessing my body language, reading the expression that was printed on my face. I was hoping I hadn't been too obvious. I sighed, finally coming to a decision. I was going to speak. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. It wasn't worth it if it meant putting Angel in danger. Danger of himself.

"He's…he's…doing drugs," I muttered quietly, gathering any once of courage I had within me. "What?" Both Cordy and Willow's voice rose in unison. "He's doing drugs," I repeated, rubbing a hand through my distraught face, trying to keep myself from breaking down for the millionth time overall. "How do you know this?" from Willow.

"He wasn't the same person I saw long ago. When I saw him earlier tonight, he looked so different. He looked like a walking skeleton. I saw the bruises on his arms where the syringe needles would go into; his eyes, his face, they were hollow, and lost. He acted like a robot or some shit."

Before I could continue, loud sirens wailed from a distance; the sounds of an ambulance coming towards us. "What the hell?" I stammered, as the red and white lights caught the attention of the concertgoers, who were gawking at the EMS truck that rode through the busy street.

"Follow that truck! We have to follow it," I ordered, a sinking feeling growing in the pit of my stomach; an instinct that I couldn't dispel.

I knew that somehow, Angel was in trouble.

I crossed my fingers, hoping that I was entirely in the wrong.