The Administration Series (227 page)

To begin with, she wondered what he wanted, what he'd like — what would make him feel better. She didn't have to wonder for long, although conversation was clearly out of the question. How the hell had he managed to find anyone over the past few weeks, if he'd had the same fixed, desperate determination he had now? Hands on her, unfastening clothes with automatic skill. Kissing her throat, his body against hers, every fibre of him screaming 'Warrick'.

A comfort fuck was one thing, but she wasn't sure that her sympathy would stretch to letting him screw her without even seeing who she was. Definitely far beyond the call of duty. But what, honestly, had she thought would happen? She touched his face again, and that did pull him back to the present long enough to kiss her.

When he did, she discovered that he hadn't changed his technique much in ten years. No need to, when he was so good at it. She slipped her hand up under his shirt, finding that he felt as wonderful as she remembered — all smooth skin and hard muscle sliding underneath it.

Sara closed her eyes and pressed him closer. It would be all right — or at least it might help. Afterwards, with luck, he'd fall asleep and then in the morning she'd be able to persuade him to call Warrick, and then everything would be really all right.

The last thing she'd expected was that, in the end, he wouldn't be able to go through with it. However, after ten minutes or so, he paused, shifting his hips against her, and said into her hair, "Ironic, huh?"

As subtly as she could, she slid her hand down to the front of his trousers, to confirm the lack of response. Trying too hard, or — more likely — too tired and too high. He caught her wrist, pulling her hand away, but after that, it was only a matter of time. Finally, he stopped moving, stopped touching her, and lay still against her, breathing heavily.

"Toreth?"

No response. She considered options, before deciding that any offer to try to remedy the situation could only lead to disaster. She slipped her arm around him, hoping that if she did it slowly enough, he might not notice. That he at least might stay beside her, might let her hold him — it was no more, after all, than he had done for her in the cell. However, almost at once, she felt him tense up, and then pull sharply away.

"I don't need your fucking —" He struggled upright. "Ah, fucking
hell
."

She froze on the sofa, waiting for his anger to pass, which it did, slowly, his hands unclenching.

He rested his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. "Sorry. Not going to happen, I'm afraid. If I'd known it was my lucky night, I'd have been more careful what I took." He wiped his mouth, then picked up his coffee and drank. Washing the taste of her away, she thought. "Maybe we should make it a fixture — one disastrous fuck every ten years. What do you think?"

"The last one wasn't a disaster."

"But not so good that you wanted to remember it in the morning."

The self-pity, so unlike him, left her unsure what to say. Carefully, she rested her hand on his back. "It doesn't matter."

"No. Right as usual." He smiled, forced and distant, still not looking at her. "Not going to do my reputation any good, though. At least it was only you."

Sara swallowed the hurt, knowing what he meant. She stroked his back, and he didn't move away, which was something. He was staring into his coffee again, so transparently miserable that she felt tears of her own starting. Had she really envied him? She felt suddenly grateful that she'd never loved anyone enough that it could make her this unhappy.

"Stay, please," she said. "Forget about the —"

"Sara . . . how long is it going to take?"

Not understanding the question, she couldn't reply. He carried on anyway, his voice soft and desperate.

"I want it to stop. That's all. I just want it to stop being like this every fucking minute of every fucking day. Because I don't think I can —"

He stopped and sniffed hard, once, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Call him," she said.

"No."

"Then let me call him."

"No."

She knew she ought to shut up, but she had to try. "You should've spoken to him at the office. He's worried about you and . . . so am I. He wants —"

"No!" He turned on her, anger flaring up again. "I don't want to see him. I
can't
see him. Don't even fucking think about it. Do you hear me?"

He glared at her until she nodded. Then he put the mug down on the table and stood up. "I'm sorry I woke you up. Thanks for the coffee and — and I'll see you at work tomorrow."

Sitting up on the sofa, she watched him leave, hoping all the way that he would stop and turn round and ask to use her comm. When the flat door closed behind him, Bastard yowled and then jumped up into her lap. She scratched his tattered ears and he purred, wafting eye-watering cat breath up at her, delighted as usual to see an intruder successfully chased off.

She wished she knew where Carnac was so that she could go round and kill him. It was too late to do any good now, but it was the only thing she could think of that would make her feel any better.

Sara had been quiet in the office all day, and Toreth had wondered if he ought to say something. In the end, he couldn't think what, so he let it go. He shouldn't have gone round to her flat — bad combination he'd taken last night. Still, despite what he hadn't been able to stop himself saying to her, it didn't matter. Nothing did, except not thinking about the things he couldn't stop himself thinking about.

Have another drink.

Different bars, every night. New bars, every night, except tonight. He ended up, by accident, in the bar Payne had dragged him out of once. That meant it was a risk, because he'd been here before, so there was a minute chance Warrick might find him. However, he didn't recognise the place until he'd bought a drink, and then he couldn't be bothered to leave — it was safe enough for a while.

He found a woman early on in the evening, who fitted his latest standard: short, blonde, blue eyes and a light, nondescript voice. Nothing at all like Dillian and so nothing at all like Warrick. He'd almost abandoned her when he found out she wanted to stay in the bar for a while, but he needed someone for tonight because after last night he was sick of pills, and she was a dead cert.

In any case, it wasn't as if he seriously expected Warrick still to be looking for him. He'd have to drop that fantasy in the end.

So he sat at the bar with her and talked, or at least made the right kinds of noises while she explained whatever the hell was wrong with her life that meant she'd ended up here with him. Something pretty fucking tragic, presumably.

The ring mark on her finger looked reasonably fresh. She'd said her name was Anne, but considering that she wore a silver bracelet with the initials MP in curlicues, he didn't believe her. Not that he cared, either, but it was something to think about. A few minutes' distraction from —

"I'm sorry?" he said, suddenly noticing an expectant silence.

She shook her head, although she didn't look particularly annoyed. "I said, 'You aren't listening, are you, Marc'?"

He offered her the best apologetic smile he could manage. "Sorry, no. I'm, um — I had a long day at work, that's all."

"What do you do?"

He weighed up a lie, decided that this place was safe enough not to bother. "I work at I&I."

"Oh?" Not much surprise, and he wondered if she'd guessed something like that. "My cousin works — worked there."

He blinked at her, seeing her for what seemed like the first time. "Yeah? What's their name?"

She looked startled by the question. Obviously didn't want to run the risk of him finding out her own name. "Er, well, you probably wouldn't know her. She said it was a big place."

"Yeah, it's huge. But I'm good with names." Then another possibility occurred to him. "You said 'worked'. Was she killed?"

"No. She wasn't in work that day. She hasn't been back since — she says she isn't going back, if she can find another job." Her eyes clouded. "She lost a lot of friends."

He nodded. "Me too." Or at least a lot of people I knew. Friends sounded better, though, and he couldn't help working on her, even though he knew he already had her.

"I'm sorry." She took his hand, stroking the fingers with her thumb, sympathetic but also sensual. "I won't say any more about it."

He thought about milking it, but decided against it. "It's not a problem, honestly."

"Oh? It's just that--" She flushed slightly. "It's just that you seemed awfully unhappy, earlier, and I wondered if that was the reason."

"No. Nothing to do with that." Or not in any way that made sense without a ridiculously long explanation.

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

To his surprise, he found himself contemplating saying yes. There was no reason why he shouldn't. He'd listened to enough miserable, boring life stories himself in pursuit of a fuck to earn the right to do it. Presumably they'd got something out of telling some random stranger everything, beyond a glazed expression and a larger bar bill.

"Sure." Trying it once in his life wouldn't hurt. "Would you like another drink first?"

"I'd love one, but it's my turn to buy."

With the fresh drink in front of him, he found had no idea how to start, so he borrowed one of Sara's phrases. "Bad break-up, that's all."

That's all.

"She left you?"

"No. I left them. Him."

He wondered if that had put her off, because she frowned slightly. Some women were funny about it. However, after a moment she said, "So why did you leave?"

"Someone told me some things about him. Which were all true. And . . . once I'd heard them, I had to go."

She nodded. "I understand. Some things you can't forget. Or forgive." She hesitated, then asked, "Was he being unfaithful?"

"No. God, no. It was . . . it's a bit complicated. But the upshot was that I realised that it was going to be a disaster in the end. That there was no way in hell it could last." He frowned, wishing he'd paid more attention and was less tired, because he knew there was a formula for this kind of conversation. "Compatible. We weren't compatible. So I decided not to see him again."

Put like that, without the desperation he'd felt at the time, it sounded strange.

"So now you're not sure it was the right thing to do?" she asked.

"No. No, I'm sure about that."

She nodded, frowning thoughtfully, staring down at their hands. After a moment, she said, "But don't you think, maybe, it might've been worth it anyway?"

He thought about it for a moment, then gave up. "What?"

She looked up. "That the time you'd have had with him might've been worth the risk of things not working out?"

"No." He thought about it again. Seeing Warrick — fucking him — swimming with him on Saturday mornings — eating his bloody pancakes — waking up with him and wondering every time whether this would be the day when he'd say, 'It's not enough'. He knew he wouldn't be able to bear it, but at the same time, could it really be any worse than this? "Maybe. I don't know. I didn't think so when I walked out."

"It must've been bad."

"What?"

"Whatever you heard about him. I mean . . . I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you obviously miss him. A lot."

Ready to lie, he suddenly couldn't see the point. Who the hell would he be fooling? "Yes. God, yes I do." Every fucking minute of every fucking day.

"But now it's too late?"

"Much too late." If he kept telling himself that, eventually it would be true.

"That's sad. Really sad."

He nodded, letting the conversation fall into silence. He had no idea whether she meant it or not; he didn't much care, as long as she didn't change her mind about leaving with him. She had hold of his hand with both of hers now, massaging the palm. It felt good. Relaxing. He found himself genuinely looking forward to the fuck at the end of the proceedings, for the first time since . . . since he'd last fucked Warrick.

Then, from behind him, a hand landed on his shoulder and he heard Warrick say, "I apologise for interrupting, but you seem to have hold of something of mine."

Toreth froze, not daring to look round. It was deeply disconcerting to hear Warrick — it was as if admitting out loud that he missed him had, somehow, summoned him. For a wild moment, Toreth wondered if three weeks of drugs and hard drinking had finally brought on an hallucination.

Then Anne looked between them, let go of his hand and sat back. "Sorry," she said. Then, slightly defensively, she added, "He doesn't have a ring on."

"Nor a collar and tag," Warrick said in a voice that could've snap-frozen a volcano. "But nevertheless, he's taken. At least for the moment. Now, I'd be grateful if you'd excuse us."

She shrugged, standing up. "Sure." Then she smiled at Toreth and raised an eyebrow.

Toreth nodded, praying that she wouldn't say anything to Warrick.

She didn't. Instead she clinked her glass gently against his. "Good luck, then. It was nice talking to you."

As she walked away, Warrick took the seat she had vacated, but he kept his hands to himself, folded on the bar. He looked at Toreth's glass and frowned. "What was all that about?"