Amberlough(14)
“No,” said Ari again, ripping free of Cyril’s grasp. “No!” He pinned Cyril’s wrists over his head with one hand and slapped his face, hard.
Hissing through clenched teeth, Cyril spent himself, crumpling the fine linen of the pillowcase in his grasping hands. He closed his eyes, exhausted, but Ari put a fist in his hair and hauled him up.
“Finish it.” His dark eyes were wide and mad, curls snarled and springing around his head like the mane of a big cat. “Perdition take you, bastard son of a whore, you finish it.”
Reeling with fatigue, Cyril still felt a twist of desire, and he marveled at it. He lay on his side, cheek pressed in the crease of Aristide’s thigh, and said, “Come on, then.” Ari twisted, and Cyril took him into his mouth, pressing the pads of his thumbs into the hollow of Ari’s hips.
When Ari finished, he let his grip on Cyril’s hair go loose. His hands ghosted past Cyril’s ears, slipped through the sweat beneath his arms. They pulled him higher, so his head rested on Ari’s chest. Light from the street caught stray flecks of glitter still stuck to his skin.
Cyril squinted and yawned, painfully wide. There was something he needed to do. But what was …
Oh. His briefcase. Mother’s tits.
“Ari,” he said, and even to him it was nearly unintelligible. “Ari. I need to clean up.”
Ari’s arm tightened around his shoulder. “In the morning.”
Cyril squirmed. “No. Really. Just quick.”
A sigh, and Cyril’s head rose and fell with Ari’s breath. “Fine.”
Leaning against the wall, he tried to make himself move fast. Aristide would realize what he was up to, if he was gone too long. But the lingering effects of the absinthe conspired with his own traitorous, postcoital body. He had only just made it back to the washroom, briefcase in hand, when Aristide called his name.
“Half a minute.” Cyril climbed unsteadily up on the lid of the toilet and reached above his head to lift the top off of the decorative tank. The case was oiled leather, and if he angled it just right—yes, like that—it would stay mostly out of the water. He replaced the lid and stepped down.
For appearance’s sake, he wiped clean with a towel and threw it into the tub, then splashed a little water on his face. A headache was creeping in beneath his dizziness. With luck, he’d get to sleep before he witnessed the squalling birth of his hangover.
Shuffling back into the bedroom, Cyril shivered. Goosebumps came out across his damp skin. Ari held the blankets back and Cyril fell in, pressing against the warmth of the body beside him.
*
Close to the spillway on South Seagate Road, a narrow alley dove off the street into a deep brick courtyard. The arches of old tenements sheltered crisscrossed laundry lines and a mossy fountain. Antinou’s took up the northern edge of the yard, tables and chairs crowded under the striped awning and scattered more thinly right up to the edge of the water.
This late, the place was still jammed full of students, actors, and whores. Tory stood on a chair, running through some new material. He’d been working on a routine for the election, and now he was doing his impression of Caleb Acherby, the Ospie candidate running for Nuesklend’s primary seat. He was so good at it, the crowd was hissing. Cordelia wondered how it would play with their punters, though. It wasn’t hard-scrabble types the Ospies pandered to.
Malcolm laughed at Tory’s jokes, jabbing with his cigarette and calling out suggestions. One of his hands rested on Cordelia’s neck, his thumb rubbing absent circles at the base of her skull. He was in his shirtsleeves, not bothered by the chill.
When their waiter brought the food out, Tory gave his audience of drunken night owls some peace and slipped back into his seat. Snatching one of the sticky pumpernickel buns, he took a bite and said, through a mouthful of nuts, “Delly, sit up and have a cup of something hot. You’ve had a big day.”
Huddled in the raised collar of Malcolm’s khaki overcoat, she glared at him. Was he trying to show his hand?
“Big?” Malcolm tangled his fingers in Cordelia’s hair and shook her head back and forth. “Last I saw you before rehearsal you were flat on your back and half asleep.”
“What I get up to ain’t your business. Now leave off.” She slapped his arm. “I’m perishin’ for some coffee.”
The stuff was gritty, thick as oil, and potent. Within a few minutes of her first cup, she was awake and sitting straight, holding a red-checked piece of waxed paper piled high with charred and dripping lamb. Still pinned about both of her companions, she hunched over the kebab and used her fingers to eat—no one with half their senses trusted the silverware at Antinou’s.
“Commissioner was at the show tonight,” said Malcolm, tearing chicken from a skewer. He stopped to chew and swallow before he continued. “Makricosta was supposed to talk to her. I asked Tito to tell him at the interval.”
“That boy’s too poor to take any orders that don’t come well-padded with cash.” Tory poured himself another cup of coffee.
“I rotten pay him,” said Malcolm. “He works for me.”
“But you don’t pay him much,” said Tory. “That piece our Ari was flirting with looked like a sheep past due for shearing, but I know a fine suit when I see one. Even two days worn. Tito’s passed out drunk somewhere with a whore on his prick. Taormino never had a chance.”