Surreal Desire

Title: Surreal Desire
Author: Lilac Beauty
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is real-people fic. I do not own James Marsters, and this is a work of my imagination. This is purely fictional!
Distribution: AFF only.

Author's Note: This is only the beginning, more will follow soon.

***

The weather in Northern California is still rather cool at night -- even in July -- and it's the first thing I think of when I step out of the hotel lobby. I glance back at the doors for a second, wondering if I should head back up to the room for a jacket, and then frown; I'm not even sure I brought a jacket with me. How was I supposed to know it wouldn't be as hot here as it is at home? I ignore the nagging little voice in the back of my mind that points out that I could have checked the weather channel at any time, and shake myself out of my thoughts as I walk toward the parking garage.

The desk clerk gave me directions to a night club, and made sure to tell me that it was the only place worth going in the entire town. That comment alone makes me wonder if I shouldn't just find a bar somewhere. I want to get a drink, maybe dance a little bit. I so do not want to be hit on by a room full of drunk kids ... and judging by the age of the desk clerk, that's what I'd get. Kids. I unlock my car door and slip inside, fastening my seat belt even as I start the engine. Today was absolutely horrid. This trip is turning into the business trip from hell. There is really nothing I want more in the world than a cold beer and some good music.

Part of me still can't believe that I let my boss talk me into coming on this trip. The investors don't want to talk to me, I'm just his fucking assistant. They want to talk to him. But he, the big baby, didn't want to come because it would be boring. The asshat. I pull out of the parking garage and start to drive, finally deciding to ignore the desk clerks suggestion and find a place all on my own. I don't have to look long. There, at the end of one of the first streets I drive down, is a bar. A perfect, nondescript, plain old bar. It looks like heaven to me. I pull into an empty parking space and get out of my car, locking the doors out of habit.

For once I'm glad I decided to leave my purse back at the hotel, setting instead for stuffing money and personal effects into my pockets. Having to lug around a bag when all I want to do is relax would have been annoying. There isn't a doorman and I have to smile. No door man equals no cover charge, and that just totally rocks. I think I picked the right place. I open the door and, as a wave of heavy smoke hits me, I know I've picked the right place. Walking over to the bar, I sit down and smile at the bartender. "Can I get a Corona, please? With a lime, if you've got one."

He looks me up and down and I arch an eyebrow. He just smirks and says, "ID."

My eyes widen. He's actually carding me? "No shit?"

"You got one?"

"Of course, but ... no one's carded me in ... hell, years," I say as I pull the piece of plastic from the back pocket of my jeans.

I hand it over and he examines it, hands it back, and moves to get my beer. And, I notice, a bowl full of limes. "You don't look a day over 21," he says, handing me my order.

I grin at him, and he returns it as I turn to find a table. The bar is crowded, but not overtly so. There's room to breathe. I head to an empty two-seater and pull out the chair, glancing around as I do. 'I'm freaking surrounded by couples. What is this? Date Capital, USA?' I think as I notice all the hand holding and googly eyes going on around me. Rolling my own eyes, I settle in and take a swig of the beer, sighing as the first twinges of relaxation take over. The music stops, causing me to look up, and I see the bartender taking to the stage I hadn't noticed before. Interesting.

"I've got an announcement to make," he says into the microphone, and the people around me stop talking. The man gestures to a table beside the stage and I follow his hand, my eyes widening. "Jim here wants me to ask you all if you'd mind him testing out some new material on us."

The cheer that went up from the crowd then made the man smile and he nodded to 'Jim' ... and I can't stop staring at who he is. It's James bloody Marsters. He's up on the stage, guitar in hand, before I remember that oxygen really is a vital part of living, and force myself to take a breath. I can't wrap my mind around it, though. I pick a bar at random to come in and unwind, and James Marsters just happens to be there and wants to test out new music material? That kind of stuff never happens to me! That's the kind of stuff I only dream about. But ... unless I'm dreaming now, he's right up there. And he's about to sing. Oh holy fuck, this is turning out to be a great night!

"This isn't a new song, but it's something to start us off," he says into the microphone, and I can't help but grin as he smiles. He has a very nice smile. He strums his guitar a few times, and then starts to sing, and I have to admit, he's better than I remember him being in Buffy's musical episode.

"I don't mean to sound mean
When I talk about the day
I believed every single
Words she said
But things change like she changed
Something's not the same
Found the things she said and do
Were never true."

I don't know how long he played; I think I slipped into some sort of 'music by James' induced coma. He's mesmerizing. Really, he is. The cheekbones alone . . . he's handsome beyond belief and, while I knew it before, hearing him sing Goodnight Sweet Girl live and acoustic has driven that point home a dozen times over. His set is over before I know it, and I sigh as he walks off the stage to thunderous applause. I watch as he's swarmed by locals looking to shake his hand, and wonder if, just maybe, I could work up enough nerve to go over, say hi, and thank him for the show. I drain the beer in my hands and sigh again, knowing that I would likely blush the color of my hair if he so much as looked at me.

Pushing away from the table, I walk over to the bar. "Hey," I say to get the bartenders attention. "I'm gonna step outside for a few minutes. Didn't want you to think I was leaving without paying my tab."

He smiled, nodded, and said, "You can smoke in here, ya know."

I nod. "Yeah, but sometimes you just need some air."

I hear his chuckle following me out, and can't help but wonder if he doesn't know exactly what I mean. Sometimes, no matter how good of a night you're having, you have to step back and take a breath. Otherwise, well, in my case, I'd be liable to turn into one of those screaming fangirls Mr. Marsters has to deal with in everyday life. And do I want to do that? Hell no.

I lean against my car and pull my cigarettes out of my pocket and light up, taking a deep drag. The beer had done wonders at relaxing me, but it is now, breathing in the smoke and nicotine, that I feel my body give in and fully relax. I take another drag and roll my shoulders, loosening the tension the day built up inside of me. It's only then that I hear someone clear their throat. Looking up, my eyes widen as I see who it is.

"Hi," I say automatically, surprising myself.

"Hi," he responds. "Got a light?"

Nodding, I toss him my lighter, even as my inner fangirl shrieks at the idea of James Marsters using my pink plastic bic to light up. Feeling the need to say something -- anything -- I tell him, "Your set was good, really good. Goodnight Sweet Girl has always been one of my favorite Doors songs."

He smiles when he hands me back my lighter. "You're a Morrison fan, then?"

"There are people who aren't?" I counter with a smile of my own.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You'd be surprised," he says as he takes a quick drag. "Most of the people I play for think I wrote the song."

I arch an eyebrow. "And I'm sure those same people think that the version of Wild Horses that played during Buffy's prom was the original, too. Ah, fuck, I just outted myself as a Buffy fan, didn't I?"

He out and out laughs then, and just know I'm blushing. I gaze at him, and can't help but smile back at him. Having that smile turned straight on to me is a bit . . . overwhelming. He holds my eyes. "Well, if it makes you feel better, the fact that you haven't called me Spike even once works well in your favor."

Holding out his hand, he continues, "I'm Jim."

"Ronnie," I say, shaking his hand.

"Short for Veronica?"

I grin. "Yeah, but only my grandma gets to call me that."

"Nice to meet you, Ronnie."

"You, too," I say softly.

I take the last drag possible on my cigarette and suddenly wish I was a chain smoker. I drop the butt as I exhale, and crush it with the toe of my shoe. "I really did enjoy the set."

"Thanks," he said. "For the light, too."

"Anytime," I respond, before smiling at him once more before heading back inside.

I've reached my limit on beer, knowing that if I drink another one I won't be able to drive back to the hotel. Or, more realistically, I shouldn't drive back to the hotel. Heading up to the bar, I pull up a stool and sit down. The bartender comes over after a minute and I smile as he asks me if I want another Corona. "Nah," I say. "I'm driving. But, if you don't mind, I'd like a business card. Between my boss and I, we'll be coming up here pretty often over the next couple of months. I'd like to be able to tell him how to find you guys."

Offering him more business gave us something to talk about as I settled my bill, and I left the bar thinking that it had been, truly, a very enjoyable evening. If a bit surreal.