The Administration Series (168 page)

Of all the people he might have expected to meet here, Eve would have come nearly at the bottom of a list of guesses. From her expression, she might have said the same thing about him. Warrick paused briefly to thank God that he hadn't suffered a brainstorm and worn the thong.

"Hello, Eve. Lovely to see you." Then, automatically, because he'd thought about the show, he added, "Is your husband with you?"

It could, he reflected, have been so embarrassing. As it was, Eve merely shook her head. "Tim's at home. He caught some really grim stomach flu, and he's been throwing up for the last two days."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"He insisted I come, the sweet old thing, instead of staying there to nurse him. Even made me promise to have fun without him. So I'm out on my own, with no one to keep me in order."

That was a definite offer, and Warrick shook his head, smiling, conscious of Toreth's suddenly attentive silence. "I'm afraid I've got my hands full."

She looked at Toreth, who returned the scrutiny stonily, and she laughed. "I'll bet. Listen, if you don't have anything else to do, would you like to meet some friends of mine?"

"Ah . . ."

"Kind of work friends. All involved with the sexual leisure market in one way or another, anyway. I'm sure they'd love to meet you — SimTech is
the
big name at the moment, after all. Come and tell them about the sim."

Warrick turned to Toreth, who hesitated for a moment. Warrick noticed him give the briefest glance in Eve's direction. Then he shrugged, doing a passable imitation of placid acquiescence. "Whatever you like, of course."

Competitive submission.

Eve took them to the far side of the cellar, where an open door led into a small room with, to Warrick's surprise, a thick, dark red carpet. Sturdy rings, set into the brick work, dotted the walls. A part of the Shop he'd never been into before.

Half a dozen men and women sat in a circle of low chairs. Eve introduced him to the group and, as she'd predicted, his name caused a flattering stir of interest.

There were two spare chairs, but Toreth sat down cross-legged on a cushion on the floor beside Warrick's chair, chained hands in his lap. As the group summoned over a collared staff member and ordered a round of drinks, Warrick leaned down and said quietly, "Thanks."

Toreth grinned and kissed him. "No problem. Enjoying it?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. It's . . . different."

"Told you. It's doing it in public, isn't it?"

"I think so. You look incredible."

The smile broadened. "Good. Because I feel like an idiot."

Even though he didn't actually sound upset, Warrick said, "Do you want to take the collar and cuffs off?"

"Nah. Not if you're having fun. I'll let you know when I've had enough." His smile turned sly. "You can pay me back for it later — I'll think of something I want."

Then, in the middle of a supposedly debauched party, Warrick found himself involved in a discussion on the technological future of the sex industry. It seemed oddly appropriate — sitting on wooden chairs, drinks resting on a variety of surfaces designed more for intimacies than for refreshments, and talking about the computers that would make it all obsolete.

Or not quite all, he mused, as he listened to Eve bemoaning the stresses of hunting for contracts with Administration Leisure Centres. Some things the sim couldn't do yet. Some things it perhaps never would be able to, much as he hated the idea. Without thinking, he reached out and ran his hand over Toreth's shoulders.

Toreth glanced up at him, then leaned on the armrest of the chair and rested his head on Warrick's arm.

Some things could never be replaced, or duplicated.

The conversation went on, and more drinks were ordered. Eventually, Toreth yawned, and then stood up. "I'm going to stretch my legs. Take this bloody chain off."

The first time he'd spoken since they came in here. Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick caught the surprise on his companions' faces, and he heard one indrawn breath. Breaking the role.

It was much too tempting to resist. Warrick leaned back in the chair and said, "Ask nicely."

To his astonishment, Toreth's expression barely registered surprise before he knelt gracefully and offered his hands, palms up.

"Please," he said in a most un-Toreth-like voice. "Would you be so kind as to remove the chain?"

Warrick grinned and fished the key out from under his shirt. "I could get used to this," he murmured. "Shouldn't you say 'master'?"

Toreth bowed his head. "Don't fucking push it."

Already reaching for the cuffs, Warrick withdrew the key. "I beg your pardon?"

The glare he got in return was murderous, and it whipped the gentle warmth of the drug he'd taken up into a sudden inferno. Warrick held the key up and raised his eyebrow.

"
What
did you say?" he asked again, trying to provoke.

Of course, once he'd made that clear, Toreth had no choice — in this context, not playing the role properly was tantamount to losing the game.

"Nothing." The sweet, submissive expression returned, and Warrick barely held back a laugh. "I'm sorry. Please take the chains off." Pause. "Master."

Enough was enough. He opened the locks, and Toreth dropped the chain into his lap, then leaned forwards. Warrick felt his hand in his jacket pocket — presumably filching more golden glow.

"I can see I'm going to have to remind you how the game works," Toreth breathed into Warrick's ear. "When we get back to my flat, I'm going to chain you to the wall, on your knees, and make you very,
very
fucking sorry for that."

Warrick jumped in his seat as Toreth's tongue flicked into his ear. Then Toreth stood up and vanished through the door, back into the crowd.

After his departure, Warrick found his attention wandering from the conversation in progress. He felt strangely lightheaded, and wondered if it was a reaction to the drug or to Toreth. Or perhaps just having had more drinks than he usually did on an empty stomach. After a while he excused himself from the group and went in search of something to eat.

He'd passed through two rooms in the general direction of the buffet when a flash of gold attracted his attention and he turned, catching his breath unconsciously as he saw the couple.

A blonde woman in a golden floor-length gown — the source of the reflected light — leaned against the wall, one leg bent at the knee. A hip-high slit at the side of the skirt gave easy access for Toreth's hand, the metallic cascade of fabric shimmering as his arm moved. With his free hand, he kept his companion's wrists pinned above her head, and judging by her expression Blonde was having a very good party indeed.

Warrick had to acknowledge that it made an impressively erotic image: the gold of the woman's hair and dress catching the light, the clean, sculpted lines of Toreth's virtually naked body broken by the black stripes of the thong and collar. Toreth's head was bent down beside hers, his hair a shade darker, and, over the music, Warrick could hear the tone of his voice, if not the words. Even under these circumstances, it sent a thrill through him.

With the boy, he'd arrived at the end of the proceedings. Here things were definitely still in the middle. The woman's lips moved, and although Warrick couldn't hear the words, he could read them.

"I want you."

For a moment, he thought that they'd spot him as they changed position, but Toreth didn't look round and if Blonde noticed him, she didn't say anything.

Well, she was hardly the naturally shy type, was she?

The woman lifted her leg higher, thigh pressing against Toreth's hip as he eased into place, and started to thrust.

He ought to go, Warrick thought. He really ought to go. Instead, he stayed where he was, watching, just this once. This was what Toreth did with his time alone. The time he needed to keep apart so that, in the end, he could stay. One more anonymous fuck in the middle of a very long line that stretched back through the past and inevitably out into the future. Their future.

Soft voices.

"Yes. Hold my wrists."

Snatches of words.

"— like silk. Like fucking silk."

It was something he'd thought about, from time to time. Rather a lot at certain points. How would he feel if he actually found Toreth with one of his casual partners?

The answer turned out to be, slightly annoyed. Of course, this evening wasn't a fair test — he'd been prepared for it. They'd agreed things before they arrived, although Toreth had broken the agreement almost immediately. No more than Warrick had expected, but still irritating.

However, now he had seen it . . . it could have been a lot worse. Without waiting for the finale, he resumed his search.

Eventually he came across a quiet corner room — the only other person there was Fran. The Shop's co-owner was struggling with an apparently recalcitrant coffee maker and swearing under her breath. Beside it stood a tall rack of cups and saucers, and a small table set with plates of cakes and biscuits. The sight seemed oddly mundane for the party, a out-of-place corner of corporate hospitality.

Grateful for the distraction, Warrick asked, "Can I help?"

Fran yelped and dropped a cup and saucer. Amazingly, the cup bounced on the stone floor and rolled to a stop at Warrick's feet. The saucer, less lucky, smashed into pieces.

"Oh,
bother
," Fran said fervently.

"Sorry." Warrick picked the cup up and offered it back.

Fran inspected it and shook her head. "Not a chip." Then she gestured to the floor. "I need to find a dustpan before someone steps on that lot and cuts themselves." She looked up at him. "I don't suppose — "

"I'll wait here and warn off the barefoot."

"Thanks."

As she hurried away, Warrick took a cake and then turned his attention to the coffee maker — antique and beautiful. Far too large for a home machine, it must have been made for a long-closed café. Glass and blued steel, with chrome trimmings that were unfortunately worn in places. After a little effort, he located the source of the problem and finally persuaded the machine to produce coffee, which was excellent. Taking a cupful for himself, he set the machine to fill the four large, elegantly-curved glass jugs nestling in niches at the front. He was still admiring it when Fran returned.

"Do you like it?" She knelt down and began to brush up the shards. "Shel brought it back from an auction trip. Went for antique branding irons, came back with a coffee machine — Shel isn't always very reliable for things like that."

"It's a classic design."

"Temperamental is the word I'd use. There." She stood up. "Oh — coffee!" She sounded genuinely surprised. "Well done!"

"Would you like some?" he asked. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Well, I — " She looked round. "Why not. But I'm hyped enough without the caffeine. Herbal tea, please. The stuff in the purple jar on the left." She abandoned the dustpan and sank into a nearby chair — heavy dark wood with wrought iron restraints. "They can manage for ten minutes without me."

Warrick opened the jar, amused by the sudden role reversal between host and guest.

"Ah — you're a life-saver," Fran said when he handed over the cup.

He dragged over a three-legged stool that had no obvious sinister function and sat beside her. Once settled into place, he found himself remembering Toreth's question from earlier. Trying not to stare too obviously, he examined the scarf around her neck.

She must have noticed the scrutiny because she smiled and lifted the scarf to reveal her bare throat. "If I took requests — of any kind — I wouldn't have time to do all the things I'm supposed to do. Although I'll definitely make an exception for offers of tea." She took a deep lungful of the rising steam and sighed. "I was about willing to kill for this. You've definitely earned yourself a discount on your next purchase. So are you enjoying your first party?"

He'd wondered if she remembered him, but clearly she did. "Actually, yes, I am."

"Didn't I say you would?" She blew on the tea. "Are you surprised?"

"A little. It's not really my . . ."

"Your scene." She nodded. "That's fair enough — " As she hesitated, he realized that she'd never used his name.

"Keir Warrick."

She snapped her fingers. "Oh! Of
course
."

"What?"

"Oh dear." Surprise turned instantly to embarrassment. "I'm afraid I've just been terribly rude, although you might not have noticed. I recognized you, and we have a strict policy that our customers' lives outside the Shop are absolutely private. Please — forget I said anything."

"I don't mind." He did, a little, but he was also intrigued. "Where do you recognize me from?"

"I went to a lecture at the university a few months ago, on computer simulation. I only managed to get a seat at the back, or I would've realized who you were before and not said anything. It was very interesting — you spoke very well."

"And I don't tend to say much here?"

"Perhaps that's it." She shook her head slightly. "Shel would dock my pay, and quite rightly, but . . . may I ask you something?"

"Go ahead," he said with a certain degree of trepidation.

"Can it really do everything you described in the lecture?"

"The sim? Certainly." He couldn't remember exactly what he'd said at the event, but it had been years since he'd needed to pad talks with future work.

"Amazing. A whole other world. Worlds." Her voice was a little wistful.

"Yes, it is. Amazing — I never get used to it. You must come and try it." Then a vision of trying to explain to the technicians at SimTech how he knew her almost made him wonder how to retract the offer. However, her face had lit up.

"Oh, could I? That would be
wonderful
."

Dismissing the doubts, he said, "I'll arrange something. May I ask a question in return?"

"Of course, as long as it's not about another customer."

"No. I was wondering how much Toreth paid for the tickets." He swept his hand round to indicate the whole cellar. "It's rather more extravagant than I imagined."