And she was mad.

Most people would be hanging on to their seat belts for dear life, but Angel was not most people. Neither was he alive, so there really wasn’t much to lose, was there?

He – the brave man – leaned forward to turn on the radio. A loud pulsating beat filled the interior of the car. “Are we there yet?”

She switched off the radio off immediately. “Almost.”

“Oh.” A slight pause as he meditated on this answer. He decided he was not happy with the response. He began drumming his fingers on the dashboard impatiently. “Are we there yet?”

She reached out and placed her hand on top of his warningly. His fingers stopped drumming.

“No.”

A moment of silence, but only a moment. “Now?”

She spoke through gritted teeth when she said, “We’ll be there in a sec.”

Exactly one minute and 23 seconds pass. “Cordy . . .”

She took her eyes off the road – and yet managed to maneuver around the car in front of her – and cast a chilling glare at him. “Not yet! God, Angel, would you please settle down!”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. At Cordy, his best friend. Dear, sweet ‘ole Cordy. She was so nice. A little annoying sometimes, but on the whole she was nice. Not everyone would have come out this late to pick him and Doyle up from the bar. She looked mad now, though. Wonder what had upset her so much?

He looked at the glowing digits on the dashboard and nodded his head understandably. 3:54. That was why she was mad. He had probably interrupted her beauty sleep with his little phone call asking her to come get him and Doyle.

It had taken a bit of persuasion – plus a little ranting and raving and a touch of colorful language on her part – but she had agreed. Dear, sweet ‘ole Cordy. She was so nice.

That was probably why she was mad. Because he had woken her up.

He glanced at her again.

Of course, it could also be because her nice little jacket was covered in puke.

Hey, it wasn’t him, it was Doyle! Angel turned around to face the back seat where the half-demon had been unceremoniously dumped and chuckled to himself. Doyle had been really out of it. Really, really out of it. He had seen Cordelia walk in the bar with a steely look on her face and had not recognized the danger signals. He got up to welcome her, his voice loud and cheery when he said:

“Cordelia, darlin’! Princess! Come and give old Doylesy-boy a hug!”

She had gracefully sidestepped old Doylesy-boy’s lurching advance, but she was not able to move out of the way in time when his face turned green and he exploded.

Right over the expensive leather jacket Angel had bought for her.

He was a tad angry about that. It had been sort of expensive. A thank-you gift to his secretary, and now it was ruined. Oh, and her shirt looked pretty bad too. But she had bought that herself, so he wasn’t too upset about that.

It had been a nice jacket.

Angel was a little drunk. Not much, just a little. No slurring of words or tripping over his own feet. It had been, after all, only three Kahluas, an Absolut and a Jack Daniels. That wasn’t so much. Vampires have high thresholds for alcohol. It would take a lot to knock him out. Doyle, on the other hand, had collapsed, dead drunk, after a couple of shots and had woken up only for his one moment of glory where he . . . He shook his head in disgust at the memory, his vampiric senses offended by the foul smell. Half-demons. They just couldn’t hold a candle to his kind . . .

It was just enough to make him act very unAngellike. You know, happy. Cheery. Talkative. Whiny even. And God knows it was strange.

He glanced at the stony face of his secretary. There was a little . . . something . . . on her hair that she must’ve missed while wiping the crap off, but he decided to keep silent so as not to infuriate her further.

The resolution lasted all of five seconds.

“Are we there yet?”