Bad: Chapter 14

"There are things I want to do but I don't know
If they will be with you
There are things I want to say but I don't know
If they will be to you
"

- Teenage Fanclub


Spike couldn't say this was how he expected his day to go. At the same time, it was sort of a relief that the feeling of inevitability he'd been plagued by since the day Faye Valentine had entered his life had now reached its inescapable conclusion and he did not have to fear it any longer.

She lay beside him on her stomach, hugging a pillow, dozing in the retreating hours of the afternoon, her naked back curving down to that perfect ass, her bare legs half under the sheets. Her cherry lipstick, usually so artfully drawn was now carelessly smeared, a whisper of its former hue. He didn't dare survey his own body, fearing he would find traces of it everywhere, and that he would become instantly aroused at the sight of it, recalling the path that her mouth had followed.

He felt a little bad for the girl. She'd been holding all the cards this whole time and she hadn't even known it. Still didn't know it.

His comm. unit rang, startling him and waking Faye.

It was Jet.

He muted the video, answered hesitantly.

"Yo."

"Yo."

"Were you sleeping?"

"Eh, something like that."

"It's four in the afternoon."

"I was tired. What's up?"

"I won't be home until later. I'm gonna hang around and watch Neil play."

"Did he tell you what we were doing wrong?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you all about it."

"Alright. When will you be back so I can tell Faye?"

"I don't know. Midnight maybe."

"Alright. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye."

"Bye."


Jet woke around 9 a.m., finding he was very anxious to get a resolution to this lousy mystery. As a detective, the stuff with Edward had made a sorry joke out of him.

Neil Northand—better known by his stage name Neil Nightingale—was a CI turned friend. He'd gotten in trouble dealing a bit of blow out of the club he worked in, and he was not remotely prepared to do time over it. He was too pretty, built rather small, and he was an artist to boot—a virtuoso pianist since childhood who'd blunted his own talent through drinking and partying. Normally, snitches were not friend material in Jet's eyes, but Neil was a heck of a guy. He was charming as all get-out, he always wore a royal blue sequined blazer, and he knew how to jam. He played it hot and messy then cooled it down slow and fine. He was forced to play a lot of cheesy, ostentatious piano bar nonsense that Jet hated, but he was a blues and jazz man at heart.

He'd be happy to help, and Jet couldn't help but be a little excited the he'd get to have some more congenial company for awhile.

"If you leave the ship, make sure to lock up. We almost got ransacked the last time we were here."

"That security guard is never where he's supposed to be. What's he doing all day?"

Spike was staring down at the floor, brow furrowed, a million miles away.

"Earth to Spike."

"Eh?"

"Are you going out today?"

"Yeah."

Jet looked back at him, knowing. This was the first time they'd been back to Tharsis since he'd been released from the hospital. No doubt Spike had some unfinished business he felt the need to attend to.

"Maybe you should stay here."

He shook his head.

Jet sighed. It had been a ceremonial protest anyhow.

"Be careful then."

He noticed Faye was already dressed and made up, wearing—as Spike referred to them—one of her 'costumes,' a gauzy white thing that, in Jet's opinion, was about as demure as being wrapped in a bed sheet.

"What about you?"

"I'm off to the bank to invest my part of that two million. You know, expand my portfolio a bit."

Jet rolled his eyes. Money in one hand and right out the other.

"I'm not going to blow it all. Just some of it."

"On what? Slot machines and a gallon of Four Roses?"

"Crêpes and bottomless mimosas, actually."

Jet stared back. Much more congenial company.


Faye was walking on sunshine.

They were this close to finding Edward, she had money in her pocket, she had an amazing oversized sun hat that made her look like the rich, snobby wife of some aristocrat, and she didn't have a damn thing to do all day. Everything was comin' up Faye.

The hard wooden soles of her sandals made a pleasant clapping sound as she moseyed along the docks, her sundress billowing about in the wind, heading toward the city. Her plans were simple and sweet: get a nice, succulent breakfast at a French revivalist cafe along the shore and get plastered on champagne. Night drinking could end up being terribly depressing if you weren't careful, but day drinking, that was never a bad idea in her experience. She would sit out on the patio and bake in the sun, enjoying solitude. And if it so happened a fetching gentleman cared to join her, that would be fine, too. She was up for whatever came her way.

The roaring of a jet engine approached from behind and she turned just in time to see the Swordfish zoom by overhead.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, she frowned, watching the rust colored space racer disappear into the horizon. She supposed she should know by now that some things simply never turn around, never go the way you want no matter how badly you want it…

...but some types of disappointments, you never get used to.

She smiled sadly to herself and continued walking.


Spike swallowed hard, his mouth dry.

He wasn't nervous per se, just…unsettled. He wanted to know, but at the same time he didn't.

Laughing Bull's tent stood tall amidst the garbage and weeds, a round circle of ash and cinders still smoldering from a fire that had burned the night before. Spike regarded the teepee through the thin smoke, watching as it appeared to shift in form like a mirage, the heat waves oscillating fluidly between him and his destination. One second it looked like paradise—by the next it had transformed to hell.

Determined to squash his own theatrics, he pushed himself forward at half a sprint, throwing open the curtain with little regard for courtesy.

It was empty.

He re-emerged instantly, scanning his surroundings, feeling as though he'd been drawn unwittingly into an inscrutable enigma.

He moved out of the tent completely, coming to stand at his full height in the center of the clearing, looking out at the river, having no idea what to do next.


"Show me how you've been trying it."

Jet plugged the data chip into Neil's computer. A replicated version of the passcode lock appeared onscreen as well as a digital copy of the sheet music, and Jet began to play the notes slowly as he read them off the page.

Neil put up his hand.

"I'm going to stop you here."

"What's up?"

"See this symbol," he said, pointing to the stanza on the page. "It means sharp. That's how you've got to play the notes."

The keypad only had letters as far as Jet could tell.

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"You've got the symbol on your keyboard."

Jet lifted his hands to inspect they keys in front of him. There is was, all along.

"Try it out."

Jet was a little hesitant.

"I'm not sure what will happen if I do. Your computer might get some sort of virus that puts smiley faces all over it."

Neil chuckled. "In that case, don't."

Jet removed the data chip. "I'll be in town for a couple of days. If that doesn't work, I might need to come back."

Neil moved to the sidebar, his bright white poplin shirt ablaze in the morning sun blasting through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "No problem. I'm always here."

Jet examined Neil's living room. It was elegant and traditional—all light-colored wood, low-sitting furniture, whites and beiges and seafoam greens. He imagined he must look like a dark smudge on a white rug.

Neil handed him a scotch which he regarded curiously being that it was only noon.

"Thanks."

"How's the day job?" he queried, falling into a chair across from Jet.

Jet shrugged easily, amused at the ridiculousness of his current situation. "Seems like it gets stranger all the time."

"Tell me more."

"Eh," he settled into the couch. "Seems like everyone I meet out there is just a little…off. I've gotten too used to hanging around freaks."

Neil smiled. "You've always been like that, though. Look at where you are right now."

"I don't follow."

"Most people don't have friends that used to be their confidential informants. Most people meet people through other people that they've met through their bullshit jobs or whatever."

"What's your point?"

"My point is you're attracted to that life. How it got to be that way, I don't know, but there's gotta be a reason you're still doing it."

Jet looked down at the trendy, asymmetrical glass coffee table.

"I don't want it to be that way. I guess I just don't know how to do anything else."

"Jet, you're one of the smartest chaps I ever met, and you could be a lot of things if you wanted, but you can't take anybody tellin' ya what to do. That's what you and every other bounty hunter in this galaxy have in common."

"You're right. I know you're right."

"So what's the problem?"

Jet focused squarely on the patch of floor shadowed beneath the translucent coffee table, wondering idly if an artist were to sketch this how they would shade it to portray the appropriate depth.

"I've realized that kind of freedom comes at a high price."


Faye had finished a whole pitcher of mimosa and was about to start on her second when Spike intruded.

She'd been sitting with her arms crossed and resting on the table, her eyes closed, watching through her eyelids as the clouds passed over the sun, the light dimming and then reappearing in a steady rhythm.

Across from her, she felt the vibration of a chair being slid out from beneath the table.

"Look, if you're gonna try to hit on me, you should know upfront that I expect you to pay my check."

"That's rather prosaic."

Her eyes flashed open. Spike had already kicked his feet up onto the wooden railing of the deck, and was beginning to light a cigarette.

"At least now I know what the terms are."

She scowled and straightened up, taking a defensive stance.

"What are you doing here, Spike?"

He shrugged. "My plans fell through."

"Ah, so you decided to ruin mine."

"And you say I'm the asshole."

She didn't retort, hoping he would take the hint and leave. As of late, her plan to avoid him had been less than successful, and her own failure to commit was proving to be a source of some irritation. It seemed like he was always around, always in her thoughts, and it pissed her off. Surely he had to know by now that her feelings for him were not remotely platonic, and the fact that he kept hanging around her in spite of this knowledge made her angry.

And here he sat, ignoring the fact that he was clearly not wanted. If he was this dense, maybe he hadn't figured it out after all.

"Want me to leave?"

She closed her eyes, rubbing her cheek.

"No, it's fine."

He was silent awhile longer, staring out at the ocean as the clouds grew thicker, blotting out the sun completely. Their waitress silently brought a second glass over to their table, pouring them each a cocktail from the sweating pitcher, acting as an obedient agent in the universe's plot to make Faye miserable.

She threw her feet up on the adjacent chair, mirroring Spike's pose, clutching her glass to her chest.

"It's turning out that nothing's quite what I thought it was." His voice was deep, taking on a particularly low timbre.

"What happened to 'being fluid, like water'?" she barbed half-heartedly, still feeling quite dour.

He looked at her then, smiling. "I guess I was fooling myself."

"Fuck, I'll drink to that," she said, quickly downing the rest of her cocktail.

She deposited her empty glass back on the table, feeling a droplet of cold rain fall on her extended arm. Spike was still watching her, and for once, she stared right back.

The waitress reappeared, dropping a folded slip of paper on the table as they continued to face off.

Her heart was pounding wildly. She swallowed hard.

"So, you getting the check?"

"Yes," he said, quite assured.

She let out a breath she'd been holding.

"Then be quick about it."