The Administration Series (69 page)

Toreth thrust back hard, holding Warrick close. He still wanted to fuck him, really, but Warrick clearly wasn't in the mood yet and he couldn't wait. He needed to . . . to get it over with. While he was locked in his fantasy he hadn't thought about where they were. Now things were all too real and he was too aware of the crowded house. He could almost imagine that he heard distant breathing.

If he hadn't been so hot and so desperately unfinished, he might have given up. But he needed it, wanted it so much that it couldn't take long and . . . who
was
in the next room?

This was ridiculous. He'd fucked people while their
partners
were in the next room. Once, years ago, he'd fucked a girl in the dark at a crowded party, and he'd been able hear her boyfriend talking to his friends couple of metres away. There was no reason, no earthly reason, for feeling like this now. But he simply —

He stopped moving, panting and frustrated.

Warrick pulled away a little and pushed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. "What?"

"I . . . can't." He felt his face heat and hoped the light was too dim for it to show.

Warrick raised an eyebrow and smiled, white teeth in the semi-dark, wickedness incarnate. "Can't?"

"Look, it's just being here . . . no, hang on, don't —"

Warrick had already disappeared beneath the sheets. "Shh. I'll bet you tea in bed tomorrow morning that you can," he said, somewhat indistinctly.

Oh, God. Mouth and hands working on him, passionate and skilful. After a couple of minutes, 'can't' began to seem less likely, and so did 'shh'. He grabbed for a pillow, pressed his face into it, and tried not to think about noise or about anything else except the exquisite tension pulling tight inside him, almost painful.

Yet he couldn't banish the awareness of the house around them and the people there, holding him back. Dillian. He focused on her. It was Dillian next door. Dillian lying in bed, just the thickness of the wall away. Dillian listening to them fucking. Yes, this was better.

Dillian, trying to ignore them at first. Turned on by it, of course, and knowing that she shouldn't be. Giving in at last and . . . he stumbled briefly over naked or nightdress, then brushed the detail aside. Hand between her legs, thighs tensing, hips lifting. Other hand over her mouth so that
they
wouldn't hear
her
guilty excitement . . . then a saliva-slicked finger slipped inside him, and a few seconds later the heat washed through him, driving away any thoughts of 'can't'. A groan turned into an almost surprised-sounding cry as he could and did.

Thank God for the pillow, he thought hazily, not caring that much in the warm afterglow. And then: I wonder if she
did
hear?

Warrick resurfaced, licking his lips. "Told you," he murmured.

Toreth returned his pillow with more force than was strictly necessary. "Yeah, yeah. You're very good." Trying not to sound as if he meant it, because one thing Warrick didn't need for New Year was a larger ego.

"Mm." Warrick stretched out beside him and closed his eyes. "Don't forget my tea in the morning."

"Don't worry, I won't."

As he dozed off, Warrick warm against him, he decided he might as well make a cup for Dillian while he was at it. Then he'd be able to find out what she wore in bed.

The answer proved to be, disappointingly, that Dillian got up earlier than he did. When he went downstairs to pay off his debt he found her alone in the kitchen, fully dressed, having breakfast.

"Good morning," he offered.

"Morning."

He looked around the kitchen, out of his depth as usual. Far too many cupboards. "I'm supposed to be making tea."

She pointed around the room. "Water. Pot. Tea. Cups. Milk. Sugar."

Very friendly. Even less friendly than yesterday. He tried to think back to work out what the hell he'd done. Probably nothing more than outstay his welcome with Warrick. On that score, last night might not have improved her mood, although she'd never seemed that prudish, at least not from Sara's description of their occasional evenings out.

Maybe it was a family thing.

After delivering the tea and giving the matter some thought, Toreth decided to spend the rest of the morning in bed. He was, after all, theoretically on holiday. Early rising was for work. He had no idea whether he'd be missed or not — he suspected not — but he didn't care anyway. After making a half-hearted attempt to persuade Warrick to stay with him, he set the alarm to give him time to get ready for lunch and fell asleep at once.

When the alarm rang he cancelled it, rolled over, and went right back to sleep without even noticing that he wasn't at home. A knock on the door, some time later, barely registered. It wasn't until the knock was repeated more loudly and the door opened and closed that he almost woke up. The bed jolted as someone sat down.

"Fuck off," he mumbled.

This elicited a giggle, which most definitely did not belong to Warrick.

"Mummy says that's a very naughty word," Valeria informed him.

Toreth groaned. I bet mummy fucking does. "What the —" He groped for something which wasn't a naughty word, gave up, and started again. "What are you doing in here?"

"Uncle Keir says to say that it's nearly lunch and it's time to get up," she said, parrot-like.

Uncle Keir was going to get his fucking neck wrung when Toreth found him.

"All right." He finally managed to open his eyes, only to find her staring at him solemnly from the far end of the bed, with an expression that reminded him unnervingly of Dillian. "Thanks. Well, go on, then. Out." He made vague shooing gestures until she went away.

She was nowhere in sight when he came back from the bathroom, but after he'd dressed he found her on the stairs, obviously lying in wait for him.

Jesus, didn't she have anything better to do? It was like having his own, somewhat undersized stalker.

He stopped on the stairs beside her. She was doing something with some dolls, and when she saw him she stood up, dropping them. They strewed themselves over several steps, presenting, in the current piss-take safety phrase at the office, 'a present and avoidable hazard to the well-being of personnel'.

"I think you ought to pick those up," he said.

"Why?"

"Because someone will trip over them." She opened her mouth to start a protest and he continued in one of his more emphatic professional voices, "And because I'm
telling
you to."

He thought he might have overdone it rather, because her eyes went wide and she started gathering dolls with speed. Good. Maybe she'd stay the hell away in future. While she was busy, he made his escape.

When he found the rest of them, gathered in the living room, he discovered he had been holding up yet another family tradition, the opening of New Year gifts before lunch. There was clearly a well-established order of precedence, and once again he felt somewhat lost.

So he sat quietly, opening gifts as they were offered by Dillian, who seemed to have responsibility for present distribution. Not that he had many: a pair of thin leather gloves from Warrick, perfect fit (and carefully pitched as expensive but not excessive), a bottle of spirits from Kate, and, to his surprise, aftershave from Dillian. He wondered briefly what message that was supposed to convey, finally settling on 'I had no idea what to buy you, but I felt obliged to get something'.

In any case, he wasn't interested in his own gifts. He was waiting for Warrick to open one particular box. Neatly wrapped in red-and-cream paper, it blended innocuously with the other gifts, although Toreth hadn't wrapped it himself. By a happy coincidence, the assistant in the shop had asked if it was a gift, and then wrapped it without further comment.

It took quite a while for the box to be handed to Warrick. He read the label, then looked over to Toreth. He could read Warrick's mind, as clear as thirty-two-point font.

'Please, whatever it is, just tell me that it isn't chains'.

Then he could hardly stop himself laughing as Warrick shook the box slightly, relief evident when it made no sound.

Toreth smiled, not aiming to make it reassuring. "Go on."

He watched as Warrick unwrapped the paper and opened the box, his face still revealing more apprehension than anticipation.

The present had been something of an inspiration and, coincidentally, supremely suitable for this occasion. A dark brown leather belt with an old-fashioned buckle in silver. Dressy, but not excessively so. The only unusual feature was the holes for the buckle, which continued along the whole length of the belt.

From his expression, it took Warrick almost three seconds to grasp the implication.

"Very nice. Thanks," he said. He coiled it up again, slowly, his fingers lingering, unwilling to release the leather.

"I thought you'd like it." Then, as the group's attention turned to where one of the children had begun to unwrap a present, he caught Warrick's gaze and mouthed, 'later'.

Warrick swallowed and looked away, but he was smiling. Toreth smiled, too, thinking of the journey back the next day, and of more fun ways to pass the time than reading. He was just about to count the gift as an unqualified success when he glanced round and saw Tarin watching them. He was almost shocked by Tarin's expression: unconcealed anger, bordering on hatred. For Warrick or for him?

What
was
his fucking problem?

Lunch was the thing he'd dreaded most since agreeing to come here. The point in the New Year proceedings which stirred the worst memories, of being trapped at the table with no escape. Old memories, now, but no less unpleasant for that.

There were no names at the places, but everyone headed automatically for seats. Family tradition, no doubt, he thought sourly. He'd decided to wait until everyone else had sat down when he felt a touch on his arm and turned to find Kate smiling at him.

"Sit here, Val."

She indicated a place near the head of the table and, for a moment, he thought she was suggesting he sit next to Tarin. Frankly, he'd rather starve. Then he spotted Tarin at the far end of the table and sat down, quickly and gratefully. Kate herself took the seat at the end beside him.

He was also relieved to find Warrick seated next to him, and even happy to see Dillian opposite him. She still looked pissed off to have him there, but at least she was familiar. He'd thaw her out again, and it would give him something to concentrate on.

For the moment, there was also the food, the starters already set out and showing evidence of Warrick's meticulous handiwork. He complimented Kate on them anyway, giving her a chance to pass the praise on to Warrick and Jen.

In doing so, she called him Val again. He'd had one moment to correct her, at the first introduction, and now it was far too late. Only his parents called him Val, and it had a kind of inevitability that Kate would as well. It didn't matter, though — not really.

"I hope your mother doesn't mind my stealing you away for New Year, Val?" she asked, with an almost miraculously bad choice of topic.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Warrick's sudden stillness.

"Hardly, since she doesn't know I'm here," Toreth said, keeping his voice dispassionate. "I haven't spoken to her for, um, five years. Five and a half."

Sometimes he didn't know why he didn't just lie and say they were dead. There was a long moment of silence before Kate managed a rather glassy smile and said, "Well, good. I shan't have to feel guilty, then."

He expected another silence after that, but Warrick stepped into the gap and began relaying the latest developments at SimTech to his mother, who apparently knew about the corporation in some detail. More than Toreth did, by the sound of it. After the investigation had finished he'd forgotten the specifics as quickly as he forgot technical details he learned for any case.

At least it meant that for the moment he could listen, make the occasional comment, and not have to say too much. But at some point he would have to talk to Kate, since he doubted he'd put her off permanently. She wanted to talk to him, or even if not actually wanted, then she'd set herself the task of ensuring that he was made welcome.

What the hell could he say to her?

Trying for a measure of detachment, he applied himself to the problem. What could you talk about to your regular fuck's mother? The fucking itself was obviously out, which was a pity because it covered more or less everything he and Warrick did together.

'I chain him to the wall, and we — '

Don't even think about it. Warrick would kill him.

The sim was safe. I&I was probably dangerous — he certainly didn't plan to bring work up himself. He didn't mind answering questions about it, but most people didn't want to hear the answers, even if they'd asked in the first place.

Eventually Kate turned to him, obviously determined to try again. "Have you spent much time in the sim, Val?"

"A little." Fucking your son, mostly. Turn the question back — listening was easier and safer than talking. "Have you tried it?"

"Once, yes. I'm afraid I was terribly ill. Motion sickness. I've never been very good with that sort of thing, ever since I was a little girl."

"You could have tried again," Warrick said. "It's nothing more than a question of habituation. We've never had a subject yet who couldn't be acclimatised."

"Keir looks on me as a challenge." Kate smiled, leaning towards Toreth a little, confidential. "Or possibly an experiment."

"I don't like wasting an interesting piece of data, that's all," Warrick said.

Kate rolled her eyes. "Never have children, Val. You give birth to them, you bring them up, and then in the end you find you're 'interesting data'."

This was definitely getting easier. "I know that one. The first time I met him I was data, too."

Then he thought, Jesus, as long as she doesn't want to know what kind of data.