There was a sickening gloopy sound as a turd of gel splattered all over Angel’s dress shirt. Horrified, he turned to find Spike wearing a shit-eating grin, pointing the offending container towards him as though this were a very gooey game of cops and robbers.
Eyes wide, Angel surveyed the damage. “This is a $300 shirt!”
Spike blinked at him innocently. “Just following instructions, pet.”
Spike turned the bottle towards him. “Squeeze body wash onto a pouf and—”
Before Spike could utter anything like ‘massage,’ ‘lather,’ or ‘repeat,’ Angel had him slammed against the metal shelving, sending a display of shampoo tumbling. He squeezed until he heard pretty choking sounds, while a mother of two looked on in horror.
When hers grew up, she’d totally understand.
Suddenly a laser stream of water was shot directly into his eye, blinding him until he recoiled.
“—and wet it,” Spike finished smugly. He was grinning like an idiot, holding a bottle of drinking water.
“I am never going grocery shopping with you again.”