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

EIGHTEEN

Oz’s heart nearly dissolved in a pit of acid as it dropped into his stomach, and he stared at Benedict.

And stared.

And stared.

“What do you mean ?” he asked finally. He wondered if he’d been drugged and didn’t know it. Was he dreaming all of this up? It sure felt like he was dreaming all of this up.

Benedict was still somber. “I mean, you don’t have to go back to work.”

Oz stared at him a little longer. “But,” he said, still trying to get his head around it. “Why?”

“Because—”

“Did we lose? Did Vito take Saveur, did?—”

“No!” Benedict looked ferocious as he spat the word, his lips curled away from his fangs, his ears pinned back, every muscle in his face tense. “I’ll never let that bastard have it. I kicked him and his goons—and all of the criminals—out of Saveur last night.”

“Oh,” Oz said, then blinked. “Wait, so you kicked everyone out? You banned all of the customers?”

“Er.” The felid scratched at the back of his neck. “Well, maybe not all of them …”

Irritation welled up in Oz, almost overwhelming. “Benedict, it’s a host club on Kateria. Who do you think is going there?”

“Well,” the felid said hotly, as though there was any way to defend what he’d done.

“I don’t have to go back to work, because there’s no job to go back to,” he concluded.

“That’s not it,” Benedict sighed, exasperation bleeding through the syllables.

Oz frowned. “How can there be? You banned all the clients! The ship was sinking before, but now it’s well and truly sunk. Good job, boss, way to scuttle the business, way to?—”

Benedict shook his head. “It doesn’t matter to you anyway!”

“Doesn’t matter?!” Oz was beside himself. “How can you even say that?! Saveur is the only thing I have, it’s all I’ve ever known, I?—”

“You’re free,” Benedict said softly, and everything else Oz was going to say died away.

“Free?”

Benedict nodded, and all Oz could do was stare.

“How?” he asked finally.

“Er,” Benedict said, rubbing at the back of his neck again. “I haven’t quite got that sorted out yet. I need to talk to Gwuill about the logistics, and I’m sure there’s some paperwork?—”

Oz dragged a hand down his face, then shook his head. “So I’m not free,” he grumbled, “and you’ve fucked up and now my job doesn’t exist.”

“Your job still exists, if you want it,” Benedict lobbed back. “And you will be free—just as soon as I can sort out the books. But I have to deal with this crap with Vito first.”

Oz swallowed the taste of hope from his tongue, letting it dissolve along with his heart. He wasn’t sure if he should be delighted that Benedict was so kind as to even consider freeing him—or pissed that the felid would dangle that in his face without actually having the paperwork signed. You’re free .

Did he have any idea how hard it was to hear those words? Tantalizing and terrifying all at once.

Oz took a deep breath and settled back against the plush pillows. He’d been having dizzy spells, which the vet—Dr. Jorg—had said was completely normal. Over time, as he recovered, he should stop having them. Stop feeling faint and breathless.

It had only been a few days, though, so everything Oz was feeling was perfectly normal. And the last thing Oz needed was more strain and stress, so he tried to quell all the emotions welling up inside him as he leaned back.

But that brought up a new set of emotions—desire pooling low in his belly at the mere thought he was in Benedict’s bed, under his sheets, with the felid sitting across from him. Kind, clueless Benedict, who wanted to free him. Who already thought of him as free .

It was enough to send his mind into overdrive, his pulse into hyperdrive, and his libido into orbit.

“Right,” he murmured. “Vito.” He let his brow crunch. “Have you found out anything else?”

Benedict shook his head slowly. “Nothing yet,” he muttered, glancing away. One of his ears flicked—a habit Oz had noticed he had when he was annoyed. “If it’s not the drugs …”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not the drugs,” Oz said, and he sure sounded more confident than he felt.

“You said that before,” Benedict muttered. “What else could it be though?”

“I think it’s a gambling debt.”

Benedict’s eyes widened. “Gambling?”

Oz nodded. “Since we can’t find anything on it—it was off the books. What else would be off the books like that?”

Benedict frowned, but he wasn’t going to come up with an answer. Oz knew there were plenty of other things that someone might want to hide, but …

La Chef had kept pretty meticulous notes on almost everything else, including suppliers and IOUs to traffickers. He figured she’d been at the poker table or the casino or something and she hadn’t wanted to seem like she was hard up or chintzy—not able to play in the same league as Vito and his boys—so she’d played too deep and lost. Maybe she’d been drunk or high or just angry, or maybe Vito had fleeced her—convinced her that he wasn’t a threat then took her for everything she had.

But she’d bet the restaurants, and she’d lost. She’d told him she’d come up with something else and pay him off, and he’d given her only so long to do it, or he’d foreclose on her little empire.

Oz still couldn’t figure why she’d fuck with Vito anyway, but that was beside the point.

“Maybe … I could have a look around here?” he suggested, glancing around the room.

“Hm?” Benedict turned back to him slowly, like being lifted out of a trance. He glanced around the bedroom. “In here? What do you think she’d have in her bedroom?”

Oz’s blood ran cold. He’d totally forgotten that Benedict had inherited the penthouse from his aunt. As much as this was Benedict’s bed and his bedroom now, it had belonged to La Chef before.

And then there was a curl of satisfaction—how would she feel about that? Oz, a Vetruvian slave, in her house, in her bed?

He hoped she hated it. Hoped she was spinning in her grave.

Benedict was still looking at him. He shrugged. “Maybe there’s a clue?” he offered. It was a long shot, but they were already grasping at straws. They were running out of time. They needed to turn over as many stones as they could.

Benedict sighed. “You should be resting,” he said.

Oz waved him off. “It’s not like I’m going to be lifting furniture,” he said. “I think I can rummage through some drawers and pick through some papers.”

Benedict stared at him for a moment longer, then said, “Sure.” His shoulders sagged. “We could use a clue.”

“We have to look for them,” Oz said gently. “They’re not just going to fall out of the sky.”

Benedict sighed, closing his eyes. “Kinda wish they would,” he murmured.

“Maybe,” Oz ventured, “you should pray?”

Benedict’s back went ramrod straight and his ears went right back. “Pray?”

Oz nodded meekly. Benedict claimed to be a monk, but in all this time, Oz hadn’t seen the felid pray or offer benediction to his god. He didn’t even swear oaths of fealty to the deity.

Benedict was still watching him, almost warily. But the felid slid out of his chair, coming to his knees by the side of the bed. He pressed his palms together, letting his eyes fall shut.

Oz felt a flush cross his cheeks as he watched. Then he forced himself out of bed, to the ground beside Benedict. The felid cracked open an eye, as though questioning him.

Oz ignored it as he lifted his own hands into the same pose as his boss. They glanced at each other, before Benedict closed his eyes again. His lips moved silently for a few seconds, before he finally cleared his throat and gave voice to the words.

Oz closed his own eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the rhythm of Benedict’s steady baritone. The words were unfamiliar—an entirely different language, he suspected—but the sound washed over him, soothing like a warm bath as the felid chanted.

If this was worship, then Oz could see the appeal, understand why so many people turned to it. People like him, who had nothing, no other way to shelter themselves from the harsh realities of the world. It would change nothing—he didn’t believe in any deity, and any deity that allowed slavery to exist in the universe was no deity he wanted—but it …

Felt like something .

Slowly, he turned to Benedict, just as the felid turned to him. Wordlessly, they shuffled around so they were facing each other, knees bumping awkwardly. He wasn’t sure which of them led, but they brought their hands to touching, fingertips kissing, palms whispering together, and Oz would have been embarrassed that his breath caught, but it felt more intimate than anything he’d ever done before.

He tried to copy Benedict as the monk continued chanting, fumbling over the words, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as he focused on the felid’s mouth, his lips. Now wasn’t the time for that kind of thinking.

Except that, apparently, it was the time, because Benedict leaned toward him, and he toward Benedict, and their hands twined, their fingers forming knots that felt like they’d hold forever, and their lips brushed together, for even the briefest moment.

And for that split-second, Oz thought prayer might actually have some substance to it. It might actually work; a miracle might have just happened.

Then Benedict pulled back and dropped his hands, a look of horror spreading across his face, and Oz’s heart plummeted.

“I am so sorry,” Benedict whispered, then rushed from the room, slamming the door behind him.