Host Club on the Pleasure Planet (On the Pleasure Planet)

TWO

Shakes hip-checked Oz, nearly knocking him into the glassware. He recovered himself, then turned to glare at the tiny blonde alien, who was practically wriggling on the spot. Her enormous green eyes seemed to glow with excitement.

“What’s with you?” Oz asked, taking in his unusually exuberant co-worker. Shakes was normally spunky, but this was over the top, even for her.

She clenched and unclenched her fists. “New boss is showing up today,” she announced, and Oz scowled at the glass he’d been polishing.

“So?”

The last thing any of them should be excited about was a new overlord in Saveur. After all, as indentured servants or—in Oz’s case—slaves, it didn’t really matter to them. Just a changing of the guard.

La Chef’s murder had left things in a state of chaos, sure, and maybe the arrival of the new boss would mean an end to the marauding goons, both those on La Chef’s payroll and those who were under the banner of other mobsters. They’d been strutting through the host club, terrorizing the staff and customers alike. Oz couldn’t say he’d mind that stopping, but who knew? Maybe the new boss would be just like the goons. Maybe he was worse.

In any case, Oz didn’t see any reason to be excited, because things weren’t going to change. If anything, they were going to get worse, at least as far as he could figure.

Shakes bounced on the balls of her feet. “C’mon,” she said, “aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“No,” Oz told her cooly, then plucked up another glass from the sink. He had a lot to do before opening hours. Not that they’d been terribly busy in the last few days. Marauding goons had a way of hurting business. Not that Oz cared. Some of the other staff members, like Sassa and Shakes, they had a chance of getting out from under La Chef’s thumb—however slim it was. They were indentured, meaning they could technically buy their freedom, eventually. Sure, La Chef and her resident bean-counter, Gwuill, had rigged the system so it would be next to impossible, but at least they had some kind of hope, however false it was.

Oz was a slave. La Chef didn’t pay him at all, not like the rest of the staff. The only hope he had of getting out was running away or relying on the new boss’s charity—neither seemed terribly likely. So it didn’t matter to him if the business made or lost money; it changed nothing for him. The new boss and the goons could run it into the ground for all he cared.

At least he was working at Saveur, he reminded himself. When he’d first arrived on Kateria, La Chef had stationed him in The Pub, her slummiest restaurant. He could still recall the epic bar fights.

A door squealed open, and Shakes clenched her fists tight, a big grin on her face. “He’s here!” she stage-whispered to him, and Oz rolled his eyes.

Their purple felid co-worker, Sassa, walked in a moment later, quirking a brow at them. Shakes let her hands drop, exhaling her disappointment.

“She thought you were the new boss,” Oz explained before Sassa could ask.

“I wish,” Sassa spat, a shit-eating grin spreading across her face with the idea. “Whaddya think I’d have to do to make that happen? Kill the new boss? Is that how it works?”

“No,” Oz told her over the clinking of the glasses he was putting on the shelf. “If it was, don’t you think La Chef’s murderer would have taken the helm by now?”

“That’s different,” Sassa declared, putting her hands on her hips. “She had an heir.”

“Oh!” Shakes practically squealed. “Maybe the new boss did her in! Get at his inheritance quicker.”

“Oh, will you two stop?” Oz grumped, slithering to the bar counter and checking the stock of the various liqueurs stowed there. He’d been moved to Saveur when he’d shown an affinity for making fancy cocktails that La Chef could overcharge her patrons for. His talent was wasted in an establishment like The Pub—people only ordered stale beer and warm ale there.

Then again, he figured any latent talent he had was wasted being a slave in her restaurant empire on the pleasure planet, but what the hell did he know. He was just an uneducated slave, after all. He should have been flattered that La Chef wanted him—him, of all people—to work at her hoity-toity host club.

After all, he was just a shapeshifting Vetruvian. Most people figured his species was a bit gross. Which was sort of how they’d ended up as slaves, at least as far as Oz could tell. He wasn’t sure; the history was all a bit muddled.

None of it mattered in the end; the fact was he’d been born into bondage, sold to the highest bidder when he was barely old enough to remember his parents. If he’d even had any. He’d never had a chance to discuss that with another member of his species, and La Chef had certainly never sat him down and told him about the Vetruvian birds and bees. If she even knew anything about that; most people thought Vetruvians were a bit of a mystery. The shapeshifting and all.

There was a bang and a clatter from the back room, followed by the voice of Farq, La Chef’s unofficial second-in-command. The ugly alien was all brawn, no brains, but he’d managed to intimidate everyone into following his lead in the days following La Chef’s murder.

The last three weeks had been chaos. Oz only hoped that getting the new boss would settle things down. He was tired of having to shapeshift into a much brawnier kind of alien to intimidate some of the drunker ruffians who had darkened Saveur’s doors in the last few days. They were burning their reputation as a spot for the upper crust of society, becoming just another dingy watering hole for Kateria’s desperate underclasses and unwashed masses. Maybe Oz did care a little bit about that. He didn’t want to go back to pouring beers. He liked making cocktails, if nothing else.

The kitchen door banged open as Farq kicked it, gesturing grandly to the world beyond it. “And here’s the crown jewel of yer auntie’s empire—Saveur.”

Everyone fell silent, staring at each other.

Farq had his massive mitt resting on the shoulder of a—well, he wasn’t quite spindly, but he looked it next to Farq. Anyone would, Oz reasoned as he took in the lime green felid—about six feet of him, from the tips of his pointed ears, down to his claws, which were currently hidden in a pair of worn boots. Oz frowned. Was this guy wearing actual leather? Most people could only afford the cheap knock-off stuff. If this guy was wearing real leather …

Oz tried to yank his brain back from the parade he’d passed last week on his way to work, something one of the clubs had been putting on to draw in tourists. Tourists who were apparently into “leather daddies” and skimpy outfits.

What would the new boss look like in one of those outfits? It was hard to imagine, since the guy was wearing what basically amounted to a brown sack.

Not that Oz was trying to imagine what his new boss might look like in a harness with metal studs and nipples clamps.

Oz resisted the urge to shake his head to derail that line of thought. Point was, even the kink community couldn’t afford real leather, so if this guy was wearing it, then he had to be made of money.

The felid’s strange, pupilless eyes glowed in the dim light of the room. Several emotions flickered across his face—Oz was pretty sure he saw disappointment, then fear and confusion—before he masked it all and said, “Greetings.”

Shakes held a hand up to her face, turning her head away in a desperate attempt to hold in laughter.

Sassa was perfectly still, her entire body tense, as though she might spring at the other felid. “Hi,” she returned.

The new boss nodded, his green forelocks bouncing against his forehead, and his gaze darted around the room, apparently taking it all in with increasing concern. “I’m pleased to meet you all. I know this must be a confusing and grief-filled time for you, but rest assured I will do my best to carry on my aunt’s legacy. I hope you’ll all continue to deliver the quality of work you used to, if not for me, then out of loyalty to my aunt’s memory.”

Shakes nearly dropped to the floor, she was trying to stifle her laughter so hard. Sassa elbowed her, then said through gritted teeth, “Of course.” She tried a smile, but it looked like a growl.

The other felid noticed, his ears pricking up, but he backed up a step or two, then bowed. “I’ll not disturb you further,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

Now Sassa was biting her lip to hold back the laughter. She and Oz stared as the new boss and Farq retreated through the kitchen door. Silence reigned, disrupted only by the false ticking of a digital clock, until the back door to Saveur had shut again.

“What the fuck ,” Sassa spat.

“Did you see what he was wearing?” Shakes gasped, rising from the floor. “Oh my stars, they sent us a fucking priest !”

Oz blinked, feeling a bit dumbfounded. “A priest?” he echoed, but yes, now that she mentioned it, the brown sack the new boss had been wearing looked like the robes of …

Well, Oz didn’t know what religion it was, let alone what order. He’d never been religious or anything.

“Oh my gawwwd,” Sassa drawled, dragging her hands down her cheeks.

Shakes pounded her fist on the bar. “Too funny! A priest walks into a bar!”

“Shut up,” Sassa told her sharply, shoving her off the stool she’d perched on.

“Things are about to get really strange, aren’t they?” Oz asked, then sighed and picked up another glass.