The Administration Series (122 page)

But he couldn't, and he couldn't explain why.

Not that he particularly cared about Warrick's opinion, but, as the last dregs of adrenaline drained from his system, he found that he couldn't face an argument, or silent disapproval, or any other fucking thing which wasn't closely connected to food, a shower and sleep.

He sketched out the scene by the river, glossing over the details. Better not to think about it. "And then the cavalry arrived, thanks to you."

Warrick waved the credit aside. "It was all Sara's idea. I merely made the call and put on my best corporate act. Which obviously worked."

"More or less. He's a sponsor, you know."

Warrick nodded. "Indirectly. But I didn't know that until after I'd spoken to him. He was extremely unwilling to believe me at first, but that at least gave me some confidence that he knew nothing about it before I called. After we'd contacted him, we had nothing else to do."

"Except keep trying to find you," Sara put in. "And I am just going to forget how many files I looked at illegally while I was doing it. I hoped Kemp would call to let us know you were all right, but of course he didn't. The first thing we knew was when you opened the door." He thought for a moment she was going to hug him again, but she just tucked her legs up under her and grinned. "Anyway, what the hell did you mean about an interview?"

"Kemp asked me to work for him," he said lightly.

Her mouth fell open. "He what? Seriously? He offered you a
job
? After what you did?"

"No, because of what I did." She looked at him blankly, and he shrugged. "I didn't get it either. But yeah, he was serious."

"Are you going to accept it?" she asked, suddenly subdued.

"No." Don't leave an opening. Never qualify a refusal.

"Good. Unless you could get me a job as well." She brightened. "Do you think you could? You'd still need an admin, I should think. What did he want you — "

"I'm
not
taking it." He hadn't meant it to sound quite so forceful, but she shut her mouth abruptly.

To his surprise, he found himself wanting to tell her why. Ridiculous, because she wouldn't — couldn't — understand. When he looked away from Sara, he found Warrick watching him, frowning slightly.

Sara stood up. "I should get home."

"You don't have to," Warrick said without looking at her.

"No. I need to get back and . . . feed the cat." She looked between them. "Or something." On the way out, she stopped behind Toreth and, after a moment, he felt her hand on his shoulder. "See you on Monday."

He touched her hand and nodded. "See you."

"She thinks it was all her fault," Warrick commented, when the outer door had closed behind her.

"It wasn't."

A second's pause. "I was merely telling you what
she
thought."

"Well, don't. It's none of your business." He wished straight away that he hadn't said it, because whether it was or not, it was something else he couldn't bear to argue about right now.

He sat up, too quickly, and the room tilted and blurred, a buzzing in his ears drowning out Warrick's voice. When he could focus again he found Warrick looking at him with guarded concern.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

"When did you last eat?" Warrick asked the practical question in a neutral tone.

"I don't remember. Yesterday. If yesterday was Friday?" He found he wasn't sure.

Warrick stood up and carefully straightened the cushions on the sofa.

"Yes, it was. Why don't you go and get cleaned up and I'll make some food?"

The shower helped more than he'd thought it would. It was an indescribable relief to be free of the filthy clothes — and the clean shirt — and wash away the sweat and mud and then to stand under the soothing warm water, letting his mind go blank. As he dried himself, very carefully, he admired the rest of the bruises in the mirror. No swimming until they'd faded.

Swimming made him think of the river again and, before he could draw in a breath, the nausea swept over him like a tide. He leaned over the sink until his stomach stopped heaving; there was nothing much to throw up, anyway.

By the time he'd brushed his teeth and borrowed a clean, soft dressing gown from Warrick's wardrobe, he felt halfway human again. Or he would, with about forty-eight hours' sleep.

In the kitchen he found Warrick standing by the counter, slicing something with unnecessary violence. He apparently hadn't heard Toreth come in, and walking up behind him unannounced didn't seem like a good idea.

"Warrick?"

He started, but not enough to lose any fingers. "Feeling any better?" he asked.

"Yes." He bundled his clothes into the washing machine, with the exception of the shirt. They'd be dry in the morning and the only reminders he'd have left would be the impressive collection of bruises. Even they would be gone before too long. It was over, just as he'd told Kemp.

The shirt he stuffed into the recycling.

As the washer started up, Warrick spoke without turning round. "I didn't mean to sound as if I blamed Sara for what happened. I don't. While we were waiting, she told me what he did to her. So I quite understand why you did what you did."

"Forget it. It doesn't matter."

He sat down at the table and watched Warrick work. 'Possessive fucking maniac', Sara had called Jonny. He found the words poised again.

I wouldn't hurt you. I'd never do to you what he did to Sara.

Who would he have been trying to reassure? He could hurt Warrick, he knew damn well he could. In the past he nearly had. He'd wanted to — but he'd only wanted to. Jonny had wanted to and done it. That was the difference. He could stay in control.

Except when he hadn't been able to. Toreth flexed his right hand, and even with all the other aches and bruises, his knuckles still hurt. What if one day Warrick pushed him that hard? Would he be able to step back?

Even if he'd been sure the denial was true, he couldn't make himself say it aloud. Warrick had more than enough of him already; he wasn't giving any more away.

Warrick finished doing whatever he was doing, and wiped the knife blade carefully. Then he laid it down and turned round, squaring his shoulders. Toreth expected him to say something else about Jonny or Sara. Instead he asked, "Why aren't you going to take the job?"

The question surprised him, because Warrick hadn't pursued it earlier. "Not everyone wants to work for corporates," he said after a moment.

"That's not the reason."

"You don't want to hear it."

"I do. That's why I asked. However, if you mean that you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I won't mention it again."

He could have let it go. When Warrick said something like that, he meant it. Instead, following his earlier impulse, he said tentatively, "I missed some of the detail out. Some of the more colourful parts."

Warrick nodded. "I rather thought that might be it. That's why I didn't ask when Sara was here. What happened?"

"By the river, before Kemp turned up, they . . . made me kneel." He rubbed his thigh. "With a shock stick, and
that
hurt like fuck to start with but then, after that, they held a gun against my back. Until Kemp arrived. Which took . . . I thought — I was absolutely fucking sure — that they were going to kill me."

Hungry water lapping at the bank, the river waiting for him. He felt sick again, and light-headed. Warrick said nothing, but his face was tight with anger.

"I've never been so fucking frightened in my life," Toreth continued, when he could. "I didn't . . . I've had people shoot at me, I've been stabbed, but I've never had time to think about it like that. Kemp did it. He was the one who told them to do it."

"Bastard," Warrick said softly. Then, "How can you be sure?"

The question didn't offend. Warrick wasn't disbelieving, simply asking. He hadn't even considered the point before, the certainty was so strong. He thought it through, going back over the events. "Chris — the one with gun. The way he talked over the comm. He didn't talk to Jonny like that. It was much too respectful."

"Why the hell did he do it?"

"Fuck knows. To scare me off from his precious son. Test his potential employee. Because he gets a kick out of that sort of thing — maybe it runs in the family. He tried to make it sound as if Jonny was responsible for everything, but he wasn't. Not for that."

Warrick nodded. "Kemp doesn't sound like someone you ought to be working for."

"Understatement of the fucking century." And that was all he wanted to say. All he could say, and he couldn't believe he'd said anything at all.

Warrick cleared his throat. "I thought — "

Whatever it was, he didn't want to hear it. "I'm going home," he said, levering himself to his feet despite protesting muscles. "I need to get some sleep. I'll call tomorrow."

Warrick ignored him. "I thought you were dead," he said, his voice still quiet. "Or rather, not precisely that, but I thought that there was a significant possibility that you were."

Then he stopped. That was, apparently, everything.

Oddly, that was almost the last thing Toreth had expected him to say. "I'm sorry," he said reflexively. He knew he ought to add something else, but he couldn't come up with anything, not with Warrick looking at him with such uncharacteristic, uncomfortable openness.

Toreth finally persuaded his fingers to release the back of the chair. "I'm going. I'll — "

Warrick moved towards him, a hesitant approach that petered out halfway. He stood perfectly still for a moment, then smiled, very slightly. "Do you want to fuck?"

Toreth blinked. "Do I want to fuck?" he repeated stupidly, while his brain tried to catch up with a second quite unexpected comment. Why, he wondered, couldn't Warrick hold conversations in the same way as other people?

Warrick shook his head, the smile slipping away. "No, probably not. But I don't know how else — " He lifted his hand, then let it drop. "Don't go. Please. Stay, and come to bed with me."

To his surprise, Toreth found his exhausted, aching body responding. Wanting the contact, the closeness, if nothing more. Wanting not to wake up the next day hurting and alone. Wanting Warrick, too much, as usual. He thought again about leaving, but he didn't have the energy. Or, he realised belatedly, the clothes.

He nodded. "Okay, I'll stay. I'm starving, anyway." Formal excuse, however unconvincing.

Warrick smiled again, properly this time. "I'll finish the food first, then." He closed the rest of the distance, moving with confidence this time. "It won't take long."

The food or the embrace? Toreth didn't really care. He shut his eyes, leaning into Warrick, surrendering — just for now — and ignoring the complaints from his bruises. It helped that he was too damn tired to care about whatever wasn't being said. Eventually Warrick pulled back and kissed him once, lightly.

"Sit down. I'll be five minutes."

Good idea. He sat, resting his head on his left arm and considered falling asleep right there. He could hear Warrick, by the hob, and after a minute or so, he smelled bacon frying. Maybe he could stay awake for that.

As he waited, despite his best efforts to think of something else, his mind wandered back to the river. Then, strangely, on to Sara in the hospital, telling him about the ring. Did he feel any different for having told Warrick about the mock execution? In the end, he decided that he wasn't sure — he had no idea how he would have felt if he hadn't. He didn't possess a basis for comparison for the last twenty-four hours.

He'd think about it again later. Much later. In the morning, when everything was back to normal and he would be back in control.

Fragmented images. Hands tied behind his back. The instructors' experienced hands pushing him down, forcing his head under the water. The world blurring above him. Losing the fight not to panic, not to struggle. Dull, distant laughter and cold, cold water in his mouth, in his throat, as he screamed —

Then a vicious, disconnected pain and Toreth woke, gulping air. For a moment, he still didn't know where he was. Then it came back, in bits and pieces: where he had been and where he was now.

Warrick's flat. Warrick's bed. His injured wrist had slipped over the edge of the mattress, hitting the bedside table.

Rolling onto his back, he groaned quietly. Every muscle ached and the bruises on his upper body added an extra level of hurt. It was every single time in his life that he'd overdone it at the gym, added together and then magnified tenfold. He also had a sick headache, which felt like dehydration. Wonderful — a morning after without the night before. Painkillers. He wanted lots and lots of painkillers. And water. And breakfast. And then another night's sleep.

He straightened his legs and groaned again. Warrick turned over beside him, and he felt warm fingers curl gently round his shoulder.

"It's all right. You're safe. I'm here," Warrick mumbled, sounding more than half asleep.