The Administration Series (114 page)

"Ever played?" Toreth asked Warrick as the game drew to its inevitable conclusion.

"Oh, yes. Sign of a misspent youth." Warrick sipped his drink. "I played for my college — won a few inter-college matches, too."

Toreth bet that Warrick's youth hadn't been anywhere near as misspent as his own. Played for his fucking
college
, indeed. "Want a game now?"

"Love to."

It's near-impossible to fake never having held a cue before, but not so difficult to play less well than you can. Toreth held back, missing the odd easy pot, assessing Warrick's game. He obviously knew what he was doing, but he was nowhere near up to Toreth's standard. Toreth dropped his game a notch, letting Warrick pull level, before he deliberately fluffed an easy shot to let Warrick win.

Warrick laid his cue down on the side of the table. "Thanks. That was fun." His nostalgic smile stirred evilly entertaining ideas in Toreth's mind.

"Another game?" Toreth offered. "We could make it a bit more serious, if you like?"

"You mean betting?"

"Something like that. How about strip pool? One item of clothing per game."

"Oh, good idea!" Cele exclaimed.

"Strip . . . " Warrick looked around the club. Nothing to worry about there, as Toreth had already decided. This was the kind of place that would treat all-male strip pool as a spectator sport, not a reason for violence.

"Oh, go on," Sara said.

Dillian looked neutral about the idea, but then she disliked him and the other competitor was her brother. Toreth was fairly sure any incestual yearnings between her and Warrick took place only in Toreth's own fantasies.

"Well now, why not?" Warrick picked the cue up again and smiled. "For one thing, if all the games take that long, we'll both still be fully dressed when the place closes."

"I'll get some more drinks," Sara said. "Same again for everyone?"

"See if they sell popcorn," Cele called after her as she left.

Not wanting to scare his opponent, Toreth kept his play down for the next game. He didn't let it drag on too long, though. At the end, Warrick removed his jacket, hanging it neatly over the back of a chair. Toreth watched, sipping his drink and nibbling a handful of the popcorn that Sara had managed to procure from somewhere. Salted, just as he preferred it.

"Wrists hurting?" he asked Warrick in an undertone as they set the table up again.

Warrick looked at him blankly for a moment, then smiled. "Not at all." He tugged one sleeve back. "See?"

Toreth only noticed the faint marks because he knew they must be there. They hadn't used the cabinet since last weekend, but even with the healing accelerator cream from the I&I pharmacy, the bruises should look worse. He took Warrick's hand and ran his thumb over the skin of his wrist. A barely perceptible oiliness hinted at some kind of concealer. Warrick planning ahead, as usual.

Well, thank God for that. Dillian had been enough of a pain in the neck already tonight without seeing her brother bruised to fuck.

Toreth put losing the next game down to sheer carelessness and distracting thoughts about Warrick in the cabinet. He played as he'd played in the last game, giving Warrick chances, keeping him hoping. The result should have been the same. Warrick, though, performed notably better. Maybe he hadn't been kidding about being a whiz back at university. Toreth had left him too big a lead, and at the end he watched Warrick sink the black, then exchange the cue for his glass with a very satisfied smile.

"Fuck. You're a lot better at this than you let on." Toreth added his jacket to Warrick's — the last piece of clothing he intended to lose for the evening.

"It's a long time since I played. Although we have a setup in the sim — have done for years." Warrick racked the balls with millimetre precision, then lifted the triangle away without moving a single ball. "Nicely limited physical problem with broad user familiarity. Your break."

The next game went quickly and decisively. Warrick slowly removed his tie, rolled it up and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, looking distinctly less happy.

"Want to change your mind?" Toreth asked as he set the table up. "Last chance."

Warrick smiled. "Oh, I don't think so. I'm just getting my game back. I think you'll be in trouble soon. In fact, I should offer
you
a chance to back out."

Obviously bluffing — Toreth knew false confidence when he saw it. "Oh yeah? Want to up the stakes? Loser pays a forfeit?"

"Which is?"

Toreth savoured a delicious image of Warrick, naked, on his knees, sucking Toreth off in the middle of the crowded club. He would never do it, of course. And Dillian would . . . well, the English language didn't possess the adjectives to describe the fit she would throw at the mere suggestion. It would be worth it just for that. "Oh, we can decide that at the end of the game," Toreth said.

Warrick tilted his head, staring at the tip of his cue as he chalked it, weighing the suggestion up.

"That's okay," Toreth said. "Since you're obviously going to lose, I don't blame you for being scared to — "

Warrick's head snapped up. "Scared? Nothing of the sort. I was merely trying to come up with an appropriate idea, that's all." Warrick set the chalk down decisively on the edge of the table. "I'm sure I'll be able to think of something when the time comes."

"You heard that, didn't you?" Toreth asked their three spectators.

Sara, Cele and Dillian all nodded. For a moment, the conspiratorial expression of barely suppressed amusement shared by Dillian and Cele stirred unease, then Warrick tapped him on the shoulder, and he forgot about it.

"My break, I think," Warrick said.

This time, with Warrick irrevocably committed, Toreth stopped fucking about and played seriously. Time to show off exactly what he could do and to let Warrick know how thoroughly he'd been had.

Warrick trounced him.

Maybe, Toreth thought as the black went down while Toreth still had half a dozen balls on the table, he didn't know false confidence when he saw it after all.

Quite a crowd had gathered, and when Toreth pulled off his shirt, there were appreciative whistles, from male and female onlookers. Cele and Sara led it, of course.

In the next game, Toreth played his hardest, and also not far below his absolute best. It wasn't enough. Warrick played safe for a few minutes, giving him no chances, until the balls were beautifully set up, then he cleaned up the table in one visit with remorseless efficiency.

"Shoes count as one item," Warrick said.

"No way. Two."

Warrick turned to the crowd, obviously appealing to them for a ruling. Which was unanimous.

Toreth removed both shoes, watching Warrick, who leaned against the edge of the table with a faint smile curving his lips. God, he was
enjoying
this. All his protestations about keeping things quiet in public and here he was, centre of attention, watching his regular fuck stripping in front of his sister and one of his oldest friends — and smirking like he'd planned it all along.

Toreth racked the balls. Over the music and voices, he could just hear Sara behind him.

"I hope he's got smart underwear on," she said.

"What if he ended up being taken to hospital?" Cele chimed in.

Sara choked on her drink. "Oh my God! Does your mother say that, too?"

"All the time. And 'but what if you get hit by a bus'? Even though everything's been autoguided since before I was born. I always thought it was a Service thing."

"No. Must be a mother thing," Sara said. "Give me some more popcorn. Dillian, does Kate . . . "

Toreth shut them out and concentrated on his game. Winning outright was no longer a realistic option, but if he could get Warrick out of his shirt at least, then he'd be able to say he hadn't been comprehensively thrashed when the story went round the section next week. No way would Sara keep quiet about
this
, no matter what threats he issued.

Losing that game wouldn't have been quite so bad if Warrick hadn't finished the frame by potting the black off three cushions.

The crowd clapped, the noise transmuting into whistles as Toreth stripped off his jeans.

"Oh, yes!" Cele crowed as Toreth revealed his white briefs. "Timeless classic! Now, girls, you see what I was going on about before." Cele gestured expansively, taking him in from head to foot. "My dream model, if he'd only agree to stand still long enough."

Dillian and Sara were laughing too much to say anything at all.

Cele turned to Warrick. "Any chance of making the forfeit . . . ?"

"Oh, no." Warrick smiled as he lifted the rack away, showing a feral glint of teeth. "I don't think so. Nothing that easy."

"Maybe I'll do it anyway," Toreth said. It didn't sound quite so boring now he had an incentive. A few hours alone with Cele would be plenty of time to find out more about her and Dillian.

Cele brightened. "Really? I don't suppose you'd like to put that in writing, would you?"

"Are you still playing, Toreth?" Warrick asked silkily. "Or do you want to concede the game? It's a foregone conclusion, really."

Toreth downed his drink and picked up his cue.

"Keeping the socks?" Warrick asked in a low voice as Toreth passed him.

"I thought I'd try a bit of distraction."

Whether the distraction worked or not, Warrick wasn't quite on his previous form. Or maybe he was sandbagging again to spend longer watching Toreth bend over the table. Either way, Toreth held him to a closer game, and was even briefly ahead, before Warrick took the first of his last three balls with an admittedly impressive double, leaving himself an easy clean-up.

Warrick watched the black trickle into the pocket, then turned, eyebrow arching. "Well?"

No way was he playing the last game in socks and nothing else. He rolled the socks together, then batted them over to Sara with his hand. She caught them and called, "Good luck."

"You'll need it," Cele added.

Actually what he needed was a miracle.

Warrick grinned, twirled his cue round in his hand and said, "I'll make it quick."

Which he did — fast, but brutal. No showing off in this game. Toreth grimly played his best, but it took only a few minutes before the last hopes of avoiding embarrassment vanished with the black ball. Applause changed into a slow clap, and Toreth sighed, waved his hands to indicate surrender, and reached for the waistband of his briefs. Warrick grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

"Wait," Warrick said, then disappeared into the crowd.

Toreth sat on the edge of the table and tried to maintain an air of dignity in the face of the forfeit suggestions being offered around him. Most of them were illegal, physically impossible, or both.

Some of the spectators drifted away back to the stage, or to the bar. Most didn't, as there was so obviously still more to come. Eventually, Warrick excuse-me'd his way back through the crowd, wearing an expression of gleeful anticipation that made Toreth's heart sink.

"Where the hell have you been?" Toreth asked.

"Arranging your forfeit." Warrick offered his hand. "Come on."

Bemused, Toreth let Warrick lead him across the bar, crowd parting for them and closing in behind. He counted a dozen grabs on various parts of his anatomy — although at least two were Cele — before . . .

"Oh, no, no, no. No fucking way!"

"If I recall correctly, you were the one who suggested the idea of forfeits in the first place. Five minutes up there, then the briefs come off."

"Now just hang on one fucking minute — "

"I could make it ten," Warrick said blandly. "Or twenty even. All evening, in fact, since we didn't set terms before we started."

Toreth stared, unable to think of a reply.

"Or naked from the beginning, if you'd rather, but then how would the audience show their appreciation?"

"You are dead." Toreth climbed onto the platform. "So fucking dead, you have no idea."

Warrick smiled, tapped his watch, and sat down at a table with the other three.

The spotlights came up and Toreth stepped into them, blinking at little at the brightness. The music was already playing, of course. He stood still for a moment, catching the beat, until a piece of popcorn hit his midsection and he heard Sara exclaim, "Good shot!"

Traitor.

He'd been to enough of these places to have a general idea of the principles, and dancing was a critical club pick-up skill. Listening to the music, he let the rhythm slide down his spine and into his hips. He heard laughter from the crowd, catcalls and whistles, and more or less encouraging comments from the dancers nearby.

The spotlights left him feeling oddly isolated. The audience were visible but shadowed, forcing him to squint a little to see faces. Amateurs were clearly excluded from the no touching rule, though, because hands reached in from beyond the circle of light, tucking in money but also groping before they withdrew. He kept moving round the platform, using the music to slip away from the most insistent hands. By the time the five minutes were up, he felt thoroughly mauled.

Good job, Toreth thought, that he'd kept an eye on his own watch because Warrick, the bastard, kept quiet as the time ticked past the mark.

He paused, looking over to the expectant table. Cele lifted her hand to her mouth and whistled piercingly.

"Off!" she called, and the rest of the onlookers picked up the chant.

Toreth grinned, and bowed. Notes scattered onto the stage like confetti as he pulled down the briefs and threw them in the general direction of Sara. Then he stayed in place, one hand holding on to the pole, leaning away from it, listening to the shadowy crowd applauding until the spotlights went out.

As his eyes adjusted back to the lower lights, he knelt and scooped up the paper money. Might as well take his earnings.

"Yes, maybe, but I'm talking
useful
length," Cele was saying as Toreth approached the table. "That's what counts, isn't it? Come on, Keir — back me up on this one. My artistic reputation's at stake here."