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

SIXTEEN

Oz woke up in a very fluffy, very white, very warm bed.

None of those things were words he’d use to describe his own bed. Blearily, he looked at the ceiling, trying to identify it. He clearly wasn’t in his bed, so where the hell was he?

“You’re awake.”

That was Benedict’s voice, rich and smooth, and oh hell no, Oz was not having that dream again, was he?

The lime green felid appeared by the side of the bed, and apparently, he was having that dream again. Okay. All right.

He hated his subconscious sometimes.

“How are you feeling?”

There was nothing Oz could do about it, except roll with the dream until he inevitably woke up—probably frustrated and longing, but he’d deal with that when he was staring at his own water-stained ceiling, not whatever mystery place he’d landed in here.

He snuggled back in the blankets, hoping the look on his face was come-hither, and stretched his arms above his head. “I’m?—”

His breath caught as pain snaked through his shoulder, lancing up and down his side. He opened his eyes wider.

Benedict’s expression morphed into a mask of concern. “Does it hurt? Should I get some more of the painkillers?”

Slowly, Oz shifted his gaze back to Benedict. “Painkillers?”

The felid nodded. “You were shot, remember?”

Oz pursed his lips, letting his gaze rove the room. He did remember something about that. Farq, trying to rob them. The open window. Benedict falling through it like an absolute clown. Oz had thought that only happened in old movies.

“Right,” he said, slowly lowering his arms with a wince.

He scanned the room again. “Where … am I?” This didn’t really look like a hospital room. Not that Oz had ever been in a hospital room—most hospitals around here didn’t treat Vetruvians. Something about them being too difficult to understand.

Benedict glanced around. “Hm? Oh. My place.”

“Your place,” Oz echoed, letting himself sag against the pillows. Benedict’s pillows. In Benedict’s bed. In Benedict’s penthouse.

The flush rose to his cheeks against his will. Was he sure this wasn’t a dream?

No, a dream wouldn’t have loose threads in the duvet. This was real.

He looked at Benedict again. The felid had (thankfully) moved away from the bed. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need anything?”

Oz tried to think, but his brain was full of cobwebs and the only answer he could conjure was you , which was a completely unacceptable answer. So he cleared his throat and said, “No, I’m fine.”

Benedict turned a glower on him. “You’re not fine,” he snapped. “You were shot. You lost blood, and now you need to rest and recuperate.”

Oz let that sink in. “Rest. For … how long?”

Benedict sighed. “The vet—err, doctor. Didn’t really say.” He wrung his hands. “I … didn’t really ask for a timeline.”

Oz stared at him. “The vet.”

Benedict pulled his ears back. “None of the hospitals would …”

“So you took me to a veterinarian?” Oz knew Vetruvians were looked down on, but damn, that stung his pride.

“They agreed to at least look at you,” Benedict grumbled. “Which was better than anyone else.”

Oz dropped his gaze to the duvet. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I …”

“It’s bullshit,” Benedict spat, and Oz jumped. It was shocking to hear his straitlaced boss swear. “But they saved your life, Oz, when no one else would even touch you, so …”

“Yeah,” Oz sighed. “Yeah, that … makes sense.”

Silence fell over them. Benedict shuffled his feet awkwardly, then said, “Let me get you a drink and something to eat.”

“Fine.” Oz didn’t want anything to eat or drink, but that didn’t matter. He needed time to think, and he couldn’t do it while Benedict was standing there. His owner was too distracting.

The idea that he was in Benedict’s bed was also terribly distracting, and Oz tried not to think about it while he picked at that loose thread, listening to dishes clattering in the other room as Benedict riffled around for food and drink.

Farq had tried to rob them after they’d opened the safe and discovered the drugs. He had no idea what had happened after Benedict had fallen out the window and he’d gone after the felid. After he’d been shot. Everything was a blur, bits and pieces he could try to sew together, but there was no cohesive narrative.

Obviously, Benedict had tried taking him to at least one doctor or hospital, only to be turned away. Somehow, they’d ended up at the vet’s. And then the doctor had recommended that Oz go home to rest and recuperate, for some indeterminate length of time. So Benedict had just … taken him home.

Oz was glad of that—his own apartment wasn’t much. Which was to be expected. La Chef wasn’t the kind of person who put her slaves up in the lap of luxury. Instead, she let him and the other staff have the privilege of residing in some pretty rundown tenements she rented to them. The heat barely worked, the a/c was always busted. Half the windows didn’t open, and there were water stains on the ceiling for a reason. The floorboards were curling up, the doors didn’t close right, and Oz barely had more than a threadbare mattress and a thin sheet. It wasn’t exactly the picture of comfort . Add in the fact that he lived alone, and the other residents barely acknowledged their neighbors …

It wasn’t a good place for anyone to rest and recuperate, not for any length of time.

Benedict bustled back into the room. He glanced around, then dragged one of the nightstands to the side of the bed, before placing a plate with cheese and crackers on it down, followed by a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Oz said. “How long do you think I’m going to have to stay here?”

Benedict sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His forelock immediately sprang back into place over his forehead. “I’ll see if I can ask the vet who performed the surgery,” he said.

“Surgery,” Oz echoed. Stars, things must have been worse than Benedict was letting on. He twisted his head to look at his shoulder, which was a mess of bandages.

“We have to change the dressing twice a day,” Benedict said, catching his gaze.

“Twice daily?” Stars, Oz really wouldn’t have survived on his own.

Benedict nodded. “I’ll change it before I go to the office, then stop in and help you change it again before I go to Saveur.”

“Why would you go to Saveur?” he snorted. “You don’t need to?—”

Benedict sighed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, yes I do,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize Sassa and Mig didn’t get along.”

Oz’s eyes widened. “You put Sassa and Mig in the same building? Is Saveur still standing?”

Benedict heaved another sigh, this one accompanied by that bashful smile of his, and Oz’s heart started pounding for no good reason. “Barely,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed. “I figured Mig’s a good bartender, so she could cover for you—The Pub has a few bartenders, right, but Saveur only has you …”

“But … Mig. Sassa.”

Benedict laughed. “Yeah, after the first night, Mig asked if she could go back to serving brews at The Pub, and I let her. Sassa’s minding the bar at Saveur, but that means we’re down a host. So. I’m filling in.”

Oz swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, imagining Benedict in that skimpy uniform of his, truly playing the host shtick now, simpering and winking at customers, running his hands up their arms and …

He shook himself violently, nearly knocking the water off the nightstand. Benedict jumped to his feet. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Oz wheezed. “Fine.”

Benedict handed him the glass. “Here, have some water.”

“Thanks,” Oz said, then winced when he took the glass in his injured hand.

“Sorry. Here,” Benedict said, taking the glass back and tilting it to Oz’s lips.

“I can manage,” Oz tried to say against the rim of the glass, but water spilled into his mouth and he had to swallow to avoid choking. He shook his head and pulled away to indicate he was done.

Benedict sighed as he set the glass back down. “Anyway, it’s only temporary,” he said. “A couple of months, and I bet you’ll be right as rain.”

“Months?” Oz couldn’t believe that; Benedict was going to let him stay for months ?

“How long do you think it will take?” Benedict gave him a quizzical look.

Oz fiddled the with the duvet again. He honestly didn’t know how long it would take him to recuperate. He’d never been shot before. And he hoped he’d never be shot again.

Instead of saying any of that, he said, “We only have a couple of weeks to figure out what Vito wants.”

Benedict heaved another huge sigh. “I know,” he muttered. “Farq made off with most of what we found in the safe too.” He rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t think the drugs were what Vito was after,” Oz said.

Benedict turned to him, his eyes flashing. “No?”

Oz’s heart skipped a beat, having that gaze turned on him, and it took him a moment to catch his breath. “No,” he said. “I don’t think his goons knew what was in the vault.”

Benedict frowned. “But what did he want then?”

Oz shook his head. “That … I’m not sure.”

Benedict rubbed a paw down his face. “Right. Well. I guess we’ll just have to keep digging.”