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

FOUR

Of all the rotten luck …

Oz took a deep breath and tried to swallow the simmering sense of frustration that had been roiling in his gut since he arrived at Saveur for his shift. The glassware hadn’t been cleaned properly—he’d left Nzx to do it, which had clearly been a mistake. His co-worker, once dependable, couldn’t be trusted to do anything these days, because they was so busy flirting with their sole patron. Nzx had been flaunting their romance, clearly taking advantage of the vacuum of power following La Chef’s death.

So had everyone else, if Oz thought about it. Shakes had rolled in late, and Sassa had admitted she’d forgotten to order key ingredients for some of the menu. Oz didn’t blame her much; the cook had run off the second they heard La Chef was dead, and the rest of them didn’t know much about the menu. They’d been getting by, but barely. Sassa had tried to help him with the cooking; Nzx was, again, useless, and Shakes couldn’t be trusted near knives—proof of that was the knife still lodged in the wall near the door, where it had stuck fast when Shakes flung it after getting too excited telling a story about chopping onions on her home planet or … something.

They’d started ordering in frozen entrees after that. La Chef would have had their heads for it, but she was dead, and if she cared about such trivialities now, well, the afterlife sucked more than Oz cared to know.

Thinking about it now, Oz wondered why he hadn’t run off with the cook too. What sick sense of loyalty did he have that he’d actually heard his enslaver was dead and he’d shrugged his shoulders, said oh well, and decided to stay ? To keep things running, to tread water and nearly drown as he tried to keep this entire stupid establishment afloat? Was he really that broken? He could have been long gone.

Instead, here he was, stewing after having dealt with a slew of cranky patrons—the clientele had been getting more ornery, perhaps because the wheels were coming off—and now he was leading the new boss across the dining room floor, to one of the private booths near the back. Benedict’s head was on a swivel, his glowing yellow eyes wide as he took in the scene.

Oz settled the boss and his bodyguard into the booth, smoothly handing them menus. He brushed the new boss’s hand as he did so, then jerked back, expecting a reprimand. Instead, Benedict just stared at him, eyes as wide and wild as they were when taking in the rest of Saveur. Like he was looking at everything for the very first time.

Like he found awe-inspiring beauty in everything he saw.

Honestly, it was unnerving. Oz shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Benedict’s mouth opened, like he wanted to say something, but Oz blurted, “I’ll send Sassa over to get your order.”

He walked away as quickly as he could, his lungs tight. Stars above, he could have been whipped or … or worse for touching La Chef like that. Not that La Chef had ever been around to mete out corporal punishment. He’d seen her only a handful of times, maybe once in Saveur in his entire life.

He stalked behind the bar, forcing himself to breathe normally. He couldn’t shake the image of the new boss staring at him like he was a work of art.

He forced himself to focus on the drink orders. Patrons would want their bubbly and their cheer and their liquid courage. And, of course, the hosts wanted him to get those drinks out in short order, so they could butter up the clients and score bigger tips.

La Chef’s system was sick, but it was effective. The hosts in Saveur would jump through metaphorical hoops to land bigger tips—which came off bigger bills, which earned more money for La Chef.

Pina colada. Right. Some weird drink from Earth, the ancestral home of humans.

Oz wondered, briefly, what it was like to have your culture co-opted and served up in bars as novelties. He wouldn’t know; nobody had taken much from Vetruvius, except its people. His parents. Him.

Focus . Inhale. Exhale. He set a glass down on the bar and shoveled ice into the blender.

He groaned aloud when he realized there were no cans of coconut water. This stupid drink didn’t get ordered all that much, and they’d probably run out of coconut water after La Chef had died and nobody had thought to order more of such an obscure ingredient.

He rested his head on the bar top for a moment. When he lifted it again, he was met with a pair of glowing eyes and nearly jumped back.

“Sir?” he asked, registering that the new boss was perched on one of the bar stools, peering over the counter.

“How long have you worked here?” Benedict asked, his long, striped tail flicking behind him.

“Uh,” Oz replied eloquently. “All my life?”

Benedict tilted his head in question. Oz waved a hand. “I mean, La Chef … acquired me when I was a child. I’ve been helping in the kitchen ever since.”

“I see.” A beatific smile graced the felid’s face, and Oz’s stomach twisted. Did this guy seriously think that was a good thing?

Ugh, new boss no better than the old . But what had he been expecting?

“Then you must know a fair bit about how things run?”

That wasn’t entirely the question Oz expected, but he bobbed his head in agreement. “Enough to get by, at least.”

“Excellent. Could you furnish me with a list of suppliers?”

Oz bobbed his head again, then paused. “Wait. You don’t have one?”

The felid tugged at the collar of his brown robe. “Er, not one that I can find easily, so I thought I might ask you and your staff for a list. Then I can begin contacting them and …”

“Placing orders?” Oz finished. He didn’t think La Chef had put the orders through the suppliers herself, so it was a little weird that Benedict wanted to do that. But maybe that explained the shortages and stuff.

“Er, well, actually I thought maybe about … deals?” He looked thoughtful, and Oz didn’t know why, but he liked that look on the felid’s face.

He shook himself out of his stupor. “I can get you a list,” he said, moving toward the sink. He was dismayed when Benedict paralleled him along the bar. “Tomorrow.”

“Right,” Benedict said, nodding. “Of course.” He glanced around. “You’re … busy.”

“Yup,” Oz agreed with a nod. “Very busy.” He wasn’t actually—the list of orders was only three drinks right now—but he didn’t want to deal with the boss longer than he had to. Something about Benedict’s presence was making him nervous. Not like some of the patrons did though. It was almost … pleasant.

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, nodding at each other, apparently unable to look away.

“Yo,” Shakes said, sliding across the bar, “you gonna tend bar tonight or what, Ozzie?”

Oz scowled, then snatched the tablet out of her hand. “Don’t call me that, Shakey.”

She flipped him the bird. “Then hurry up and make drinks, I got tips to earn.”

“Tips?” Benedict echoed, earning the petite alien’s attention.

“Yeah,” she agreed, dropping back off the bar so she could settle her hands on her hips. “Gotta get paid.”

“Don’t you … receive a wage?” the felid asked her, almost warily. His tail flicked.

“A wage?” Shakes laughed. She looked at Oz. “You hear this guy? He thinks we get paid!”

Benedict’s gaze flicked between the two of them. “Don’t you?” His brow crunched in concern.

Shakes laughed again, revealing all her fangs. “Me, I get tips at least. Better than Ozzie here though, he gets diddly-squat.”

Benedict turned to him, a look of horror on his face. “Is that true?”

Oz shrugged, then turned his gaze to the tablet, focusing on the drink orders Shakes had just handed him. He didn’t usually discuss his status as unfree labor with anyone, but it felt especially wrong to tell the new boss.

Fuck. Another pina colada. He groaned internally. “I gotta get to a store,” he grumbled, turning away, wracking his brain for a creative solution to the sudden shortage of coconut water in his bar.

“You don’t get paid.” Benedict sounded far away, almost hollow.

Oz shrugged again. “It is what it is,” he replied. “I’m doubtful many of my people get paid.”

“Oh,” Benedict said, and there were more questions on his face, but Oz shook his head and retreated into the kitchen before he could think anything stupid, like that the new boss actually cared .

Why would he? After all, he’d inherited his aunt’s empire, and he had to know what La Chef had been up to.

Didn’t he?

Oz stared at the wall as realization dawned on him.

Benedict had no clue at all what La Chef had been tangled up in.

“Fuck.”