Print page
Gloryhole part 5
It wasn't possible to put a guy like Forsythe off completely, not if you were in business with him. Not if you wanted something from him, not even if you didn't quite know what that was yet. It was all strategy, Spike reminded himself, running his finger over the rim of his glass while Forsythe watched eagerly. Strategy and tactics. Everybody used everybody, always had, nothing new there. The trick was to stay on top of the situation, and not end up sucking dick for nothing.
"I think you have a real talent for management," Forsythe was saying, for the third time. The booze was getting to him; his eyelids were drooping, and he'd loosened his tie. His lips shone with whiskey and saliva. Between them, they'd barely killed one bottle. Without surprise, Spike filed away the information that Forsythe was a lightweight.
"I'm just in it for the money," Spike said. "Like I said, I'm not a businessman."
"But you have--" Forsythe paused and waved a hand in midair, trying to convey the futility of attempting to identify what Spike had. "Panache. The kids look up to that. It's good." He let his hand fall, predictably, onto Spike's shoulder. "You're a mentor to them." His fingers started to squeeze and rub.
"They haven't met me," Spike pointed out.
"But they know you. Everyone knows you. It's good to have you associated with the place, Spike, it's a good brand, you're a good brand for us. You could charge for that, you know that?"
"I should start." Spike smiled disarmingly over the rim of his glass. "How much could I get out of you, do you think?"
"Oh--" Forsythe leaned in closer, in a haze of booze fumes and lust. "I bet you could take me for a real ride, Spike."
Spike let that sit in silence, studying his fingernails. Forsythe breathed whiskey over him in a cool cloud. After a minute or so, confusion started to enter his expression.
"I want more access to the help," Spike said abruptly, as if they'd been discussing this all along. "You're right, they need whipping into shape. Need someone backstage, prepping them for the customers. I know what the customers want, I can do that."
"To the--" Forsythe sat back, blinking. "Oh, right. That's...that's a very good idea. I'd been thinking that myself, in fact."
"I want to be here during off hours," Spike went on. "Part of the business. Part owner, right?"
"Right, of course, that's a great--"
"I'll need the lock combinations."
Forsythe paused. "Only a few people get the combinations, Spike. No offense, it's just that if anything ever did go wrong, you know, they're still humans and they're never really tame, and I'd be out thousands if I lost one, so it's really just a matter of keeping potential problems to a minimum--"
Spike sat forward to refill his glass, which removed Forsythe's hand from his shoulder. When he sat back, he was a few inches farther away on the couch. Not touching Forsythe's knee anymore. "You're insured though, right?"
"Oh, absolutely, everything's covered, the premiums are killing me--"
"So if anything did happen, you wouldn't actually lose anything."
"Let me assure you, Spike, your investment is safe in this business."
"Good." Spike bolted the whiskey in his glass, and poured the rest of the bottle out between them. "Here's to safe investments." They drank. Forsythe lost a little of his whiskey down his chin, and Spike debated internally for a second, then reminded himself: Strategy, and reached out to blot it with his thumb. Forsythe looked surprised, then boyishly delighted. Sweet Jesus.
"Here's to fruitful partnerships," he quavered, raising his empty glass. "And wherever they may lead." He raised an eyebrow significantly, then tried to drink. Spike set to work opening the second bottle.
"Who's got the combinations?" he asked, sloshing whiskey into Forsythe's glass.
"Myself. Lou." Forsythe drank, then furrowed his brow in concentration. "A couple of the under-managers. Just in case of emergency."
"What if something happens to Lou?"
Forsythe blinked at him, as if he'd suggested that Lou might turn into a frog and hop away. "Lou? What do you mean?"
"What if Lou breaks his neck walking to work some night, and you're on vacation? Who runs the show then?"
"Well, we have under-managers for that." Forsythe frowned, considering. "Although I did have one of them staked last month, I keep meaning to advertise for that."
"What if Lou decides to go work for the competition?"
"Oh." Forsythe waved a hand in dismissal. "Not a possibility."
"Why not?"
"There is no competition. We're the highest-end gaming organization in town. He couldn't make money like this anywhere else."
"Look, all I'm saying is, I'm a partner in this and I should have access to the business." He sounded petulant even to himself, which was a problem. Patience had never been his strong suit, dammit. If he had to knock Forsythe's clammy, intrepid little hand off his shoulder one more time, he was going to beat the man with his own whiskey bottle. Strategy, he thought furiously. Goddamn fucking bloody arsehole strategy.
Forsythe was stifling a delicate belch, his eyes lizard-like and sleepy. "You have complete and total access, Spike. Total. And complete. Access."
"Thank you very bloody much." With a sense of relief and sudden generosity, Spike clinked their rims together. "And the combinations too, right?"
"Oh, no." Forsythe laid his head against the back of the sofa and let out a gentle, sighing snore.
Spike removed Forsythe's hand from his thigh, shot the rest of his whiskey, and let himself out in a dim frame of mind.
"Your owner," Spike said, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, "is a poncy little fruit with mummy issues, and I hate him."
Xander raised his head, licked his lips, and seemed to consider. "You forgot, 'small-dicked.'"
"That too." Spike closed his eyes in appreciation as Xander went back to work, then opened them again. "Wait--how do you know that?"
Xander raised his head. "I'm psychic. How do you think?"
They looked at each other for a few seconds, while Spike's brain churned obligingly away on the creation of a visual. When it came into focus, he flinched. "You're kidding--that little fruitbat?"
Xander shrugged. "That little fruitbat owns me. He can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants."
"Sucks to be you." Spike let his head fall back onto the pillow, and tried to refocus his attention on the things that Xander's mouth was doing to his cock. Irritatingly, he couldn't. He kept flashing on the image of Forsythe, wild-haired and imperious, little-Napoleoning Xander into the mattress. He felt his erection start to flag, and hastily reached down to shove Xander away.
"Do you want--"
"No." He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling frustrated and pissed off. "I fucking hate that little shit."
Xander said nothing. After a minute, Spike looked at him. He was kneeling, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Watching Spike without much sympathy or interest.
"You want me to talk dirty?" Xander asked, matter-of-factly popping his jaw. "Or I could jerk off, I think." One hand traveled down and massaged the crotch of his trousers. "You want me to get hard?"
There was a touch of something insincere in that, Spike realized. More than a touch--Xander was mocking him. He propped himself up on one elbow and frowned.
"What's your problem, exactly?"
"Nothing." Xander's face was neutral, but beneath the neutrality, there was a kind of amusement. "You want to watch me take a piss?"
"No." Spike studied Xander's face, then suddenly got it. "You're on me for complaining about him, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Xander said mildly. "If you want, I can punish you. I can call you 'worm,' and stuff."
"Look, just because you're a whore doesn't mean I have to let that droopy little poof paw at my dick."
"If you're careful about where you put your thumbs, you can suffocate me while you fuck me, and Lou won't ever know." Xander studied his thumbnail. "There's even a couple of places they don't always notice if you bite. Especially if you're a big-money customer."
Spike let his head fall back against the pillow. "I get it, all right?"
Xander nibbled his thumbnail. They were quiet for a minute or two.
"You have always been a pain in my ass," Spike said.
"Tell me about it," Xander replied.
Working behind the scenes was actually kind of interesting. In a cruddy, skin-crawling kind of way. He'd been a vampire for well over a hundred years, eaten more than his share of pretty children, but somehow pimping still seemed like a low. He wasn't a pimp, though--he reminded himself of that every time he went. He didn't have any of the important lock combinations. He was just...an interested bystander. And strategizing.
Behind the scenes, things weren't fancy. You stepped through the unmarked door that led to the whores' living quarters, and just like that, you ran out of carpet and nice light fixtures. It was just a clean white hallway, with a bunch of locked doors down one side. No particular effort at security, no Lou hanging around giving you a steady glare. Sometimes a vamp with a clipboard and cell phone, deep in conversation, en route to somewhere else. Forsythe's people were busy, and they minded their own business. That was good.
The whores stayed in their rooms most of the time--that line Xander had given him, back in the beginning, about one big happy family, that was bullshit. There was no table tennis, no pizza parties. There were the little rooms, spartan as barracks, and there was a gym with a shared shower and a television over the treadmills. Meals came from the main kitchen. Books were allowed, as long as they weren't revolutionary. There were windows in the doors of their rooms, so a quick walk down the hall showed you everything they were up to at any given moment.
It was a smart system, Spike had to admit. The humans got enough time together, in the gym mostly, that they didn't go stark raving mad from lack of contact. They were supervised enough that they couldn't lay plans. Their rooms were their own, it looked like--they could put things where they liked, decorate if they wanted. They had television, they had books. Pretty comfortable life, compared to what else was out there for humans these days.
Still, Forsythe had this thing about "morale," about maximizing output. He wanted Spike to be in there organizing all the time, making them build human pyramids and bake cupcakes for their clientele. Unbelievable, what some people thought they should be able to expect.
Spike walked the length of the hall, glancing in windows as he passed them. It was almost three o'clock in the afternoon; most of the humans were still asleep. The woman at the end, Chablis, was up. He knocked with one knuckle, and she looked at him, then nodded. He unlocked the door and put his head in.
"All right?"
She gave him an odd look--they still weren't used to having someone check up on them like this--and nodded. "I'm fine, thanks. Just enjoying the quiet."
"Ah." It was always quiet back here, which meant she was taking the piss. "Busy night tonight?"
"I'm always busy." She sounded bored and irritated, and she was right. Chablis was as popular as Troy, which meant very popular. Both of them worked every night, while some of the other humans lay in bed watching old movies and painting their toenails. Funny, how tastes were consistent.
"Right. Well, I'll let you get back to it then." He gave her a little wave and closed the door. It locked automatically. She closed her eyes and covered them with the heels of her hands.
Being an interested bystander in a gaming house was sort of depressing, he reflected, walking back down the hall the way he'd come.
Xander's room was the second to last, in between Steele and Tiffany. His window was dark. Spike didn't bother knocking, just let himself in and closed the door behind him.
Xander was lying on the floor beside his bed, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He was wearing low-slung jeans, the buttons undone, the zip halfway down, and nothing else. He smelled like very recent sex.
Spike sat down on the end of Xander's bed, and rolled his head on his neck. He had a crick, he'd slept on it wrong. Just one more thing.
"Have a nice time?" He'd got into the habit of asking how Xander's appointments went. Partly because he was interested in the mechanics, the variety. Partly because it gave him more scraps to magpie away in his little box marked Xander Harris, Not Dead Yet. Partly, he had to admit, because he was a bit obsessed, a bit possessive, a bit turned on. He didn't fool himself that Xander didn't know any of that.
Xander took one hand out from beneath his head, and dragged it over his belly. It was hard not to look at the dark hair showing in the V of his open jeans zipper, so Spike looked. Xander's body was becoming something in which he took proprietary interest.
"Mr. Carruthers likes farm boys," Xander said meditatively, still staring at the ceiling.
"Hence the jeans," Spike said.
Xander nodded. "Mr. Carruthers has a submerged interest in, shall we say, the outer reaches of agricultural role-play."
"Meaning what?"
Xander raised his eyebrows mildly, as if the ceiling had made an interesting point and he had to concede. "Moo."
"You're joking."
Someone walked down the hallway outside, and they both paused to listen to the rapid, businesslike click of heels. Then the pause for the combination, and the sound of hinges swinging. The first few times it had happened, Spike had been struck by the realization that Xander must have heard that sequence a thousand times already. The sound of freedom, right outside his door. He'd assumed it made Xander crazy. Now he realized it just blended in.
"And how are you?" Xander asked, picking something out of the line of hair on his belly, examining it, and flicking it away with a frown. "Have you had a nice night, Spike?"
"Not really. I'm supposed to be motivating you lot to do a better job, or something. I don't give a fuck what you do, I just want my share of the proceeds and something decent on the telly."
"Nice to see you taking your new job so seriously."
"One of these days I might start," Spike said, falling back onto Xander's bed and rubbing his eyes. "And then you'll be sorry."
He couldn't see what was so fascinating about the ceiling, and after a few minutes of looking at it he started to drift. He was tired. He was tired a lot these days, for no good reason. There was something about leading a totally purposeless existence that did it to you.
"I was thinking about Sunnydale," he said after a while. Xander shifted, but didn't say anything. "That shop Rupert ran--what was it called?"
After a brief pause, Xander said, "The Magic Box."
The Magic Box. Right. It had been bothering him, not being able to remember that. "Think it's still there?"
"No."
Silence fell again. Spike considered falling asleep there, wondered how much damage control that would require with Forsythe, and decided it wasn't worth it. He sat up, rolling his head again. "Well, this has been great, but the excitement's getting to be a bit too much for me--"
"Why are you doing this?" Xander's tone was peremptory, a little edgy.
"Because you're boring and you have no alcohol."
"No, why are you doing all this?" Xander flared his hands behind his head, indicating the room, the building, everything. "Why aren't you just a customer?"
"That's not the way to advance in the world, is it?"
"Since when did you care about advancing in the world?"
"Maybe since the world turned into the kind of place I could advance in." He sounded ridiculous even to himself. Xander rolled his eyes.
"Spike, you could inherit General Motors and you'd burn it down in a week."
"General Motors wouldn't come with perks like this place."
"You did it for the blowjobs?" Xander gave a heavy sigh, rolled over, and pushed to his feet. "God, you're a loser."
"I'm not the one sucking dick though, am I?"
"No, you're the one paying for it."
Spike pressed his lips together and watched Xander walk over to the small, wall-mounted sink. "What's this in-service training I hear so much about?"
Xander paused, then put the plug in the sink and turned both taps on. "Where's Drusilla these days, you think?"
Spike sat up a little straighter. "Sorry?"
"She hanging out with Angelus, maybe? Or maybe she found a nice ogre and settled down with him. Two ogres, maybe. She was always kind of wild, wasn't she?"
It was dark in the room; Xander couldn't see him even if he turned around. That was good, because Spike was pretty sure his expression was gobsmacked.
"Are you serious?" he said finally. Xander was bent over the sink, using his cupped hands to splash water over his face and throat.
"I remember that one time," he said, his tone still conversational. "I cast that stupid spell and she wanted to fuck me. That was some scary shit. No offense, but your girlfriend had issues."
"I don't get it," Spike said, standing up slowly. "Are you trying to get me to beat the crap out of you?"
"No," Xander said. He shut the taps off, pulled the plug, and flicked water off his fingertips. "I mean, yes, but I don't actually think you'll do it. You'd have to pay for it, and you're kind of cheap."
"I don't have to pay to get you into in-service training," Spike said, his fists clenched at his sides. "Whatever the fuck that is."
"It's where they make you a nice big Italian meal and let you play with the puppies." Xander pulled the hand towel off the bar and scrubbed his face with it. "It's great, you should totally try it."
"You think I'm soft on you?" Spike took three steps across the room and stood there, forward on the tips of his toes, smelling sex and skin and a frustratingly total lack of fear. "You think I won't do that to you?"
Xander tapped the light switch beside the mirror, and the sudden glare made them both blink. There were damp curls stuck to Xander's forehead and cheeks, and water in the hollow of his throat. His expression was tired and bitter. "I don't think you're soft on me, Spike. I think you're the same pathetic asshole you always were, and I think I should have staked you when I had the chance." He draped the damp hand towel over Spike's shoulder and walked past him to the bed. "Also, I think you should leave now."
Spike stood there staring through the blank spot that should have been his reflection. Xander lay down on bed, pulled the pillow over his head, and was still.
"Moron," Spike said, and left.
In-service training was just a matter of a word in the right ear--Forsythe's right ear, actually--and there was plenty of opportunity for that. Any of their little business-partner meetings, all he had to do was look troubled, wait for Forsythe to ask what was the matter, and say, It's Troy, I'm worried about his team spirit... Forsythe was looking for an opportunity anyway. Every time he saw Xander he got a pinched look, like a man who wanted to complain about his meal but couldn't find anything wrong with it. Troy was popular, Troy made money. Troy also had regular sex with Spike. Forsythe didn't know which way to jump on that one.
So it would have been easy, but for some reason Spike didn't find the time to do it. There was something about the way Xander had looked at him, that night in his little room. Or something about the tone of his voice. It had been flat, cynical, unafraid. Deeply stupid, deeply shortsighted. But what was interesting, what made it memorable and almost pleasurable, was that Xander had talked to him the way he used to. The way he would have back in Sunnydale. He'd been insulting. He'd been a prick. Whenever Spike thought about it, he felt pissed off and indignant and strangely grateful.
He didn't arrange for in-service training. He hung around the gym, drinking beer while the whores worked out. The news showed things heating up for the insurgents--they were being picked off, one cell at a time, and the end was apparently nigh. President For Life Marsha delivered gloating addresses on CNN. The whores didn't react. Even Troy, spotting Dirk on the bench, didn't glance up. Spike sipped his beer and flipped through an old racing form. All right, then.
Life went on. He kept his regular weekly appointments with Xander, although now that he had a backstage pass, the sessions were less interesting. No more whispered conversations, no more false fronts--just a good blow job, or the chance to yet again fuck Xander Harris through the mattress. Xander didn't seem to mind. He played his part easily and well--got hard, got fucked, got out. He talked like Troy, gave lavish praise for everything Spike did to him, wiped his mouth, and left. Later on, when Spike checked in on him in his room, he was mild and unresponsive. No more challenges, not much eye contact. His mind seemed to be on other things.
That was okay, because Spike was thinking too. The whole thing was turning into a puzzle, something to keep him busy, something to solve. He wanted Xander. Not because he was soft on him, but because if anyone in the post-apocalypse had first dibs on Xander Harris, it was Spike. Because he'd put up with being called a fangless dickhead for three years, because he'd been tied to a Barcalounger and chained to a bathtub. Because arguing with Xander Harris was as familiar as whiskey. Because it would piss Forsythe off. Because it was something to do.
All kinds of reasons to do it, but he was still figuring out how, exactly, to make it happen. Troy was a talented gamer with a good reputation and a lot of years left in him. He was worth serious money. More than Spike had invested in the place, more than he probably had. More than he wanted to spend, definitely. And if Forsythe knew he wanted to buy, that would just drive the price up. Forsythe didn't want to sell Troy, to let the two of them fade out of the gaming scene together. He wanted to keep Troy, to keep Spike coming back, even if the most he ever got out of it was a quick grope and a crack on the jaw.
It was a puzzle, and puzzles weren't Spike's strong point. Strategy, he reminded himself, drinking whiskey morosely in the rocker bar before heading over to get fondled by Forsythe. There had to be a way to do it. Too bad all the Watchers were dead. They'd been dusty old farts, but they'd been good at laying plans. Then again, look what that had got them.
"The human resistance movement will be a thing of the past within a matter of weeks," President For Life Marsha said earnestly in the television screen over the bar, and Spike sneered and threw a peanut at her.
