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

NINETEEN

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

Benedict might have cared more about the obscenity of his internal monologue, except that the so-called dirty words paled in comparison to the fact he’d just kissed Oz.

Oz, who was a slave. Oz, who was legally his property, and he could do whatever he wanted with the Vetruvian, and Oz couldn’t say no.

Add in the fact that they were praying and Benedict was supposed to be a monk and being unchaste was breaking his vows?—

He raked his claws through his hair, grinding his teeth together. He needed to sort himself out.

Clearly, being on Kateria was corrupting him. Maybe there was something in the air, some kind of … chemical or something they pumped into the atmosphere here that messed with people’s brains.

It sure would explain a lot . Otherwise, he had no idea how so much sin could exist in one place, along with so little regard for right and wrong.

Maybe he should have stayed at the abbey. Maybe he should have never left, told Farq and the lawyer and whoever else to take La Chef’s empire and stuff it. Give it to someone who actually wanted it.

Like who? Vito ?

He hated that sardonic voice in his head, the sinking feeling in his chest. God had willed this. God willed him to inherit his aunt’s “empire,” to come to Kateria, so he could do good. So he could set things right.

And he would, just as soon as he could get his head screwed on straight when he was around Oz. The Vetruvian made it so very difficult to concentrate.

Right then, he was hiding out at The Pub. In an hour or so, he’d make his way over to Saveur and deal with their dwindling pool of patrons. Sassa was still pissed at him, and he didn’t blame her. Business had been down every night for the last week, fewer and fewer people coming through the doors, and he still hadn’t done anything about erasing her debt. About freeing any of them.

He heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair as he leaned over the bar, staring at the chipped wood of it.

An arm landed in front of him, and he glanced up at Mig, who peered down at him. She looked … smug. Knowing. Wise.

It was a look he’d seen Abbot Bartholomew wear a lot, but on Mig, it didn’t bring him any comfort.

“What’s eatin’ ya, boss-man?”

Honestly, he didn’t know why Mig and Sassa didn’t get along. Maybe they were too much the same person.

“I, uh …”

“I’m listening,” she drawled. She slung a beer down the bar for another patron, wiped down a glass with another arm, and still somehow looked nonchalant about listening to him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, and the admission was both relief and miserable. He had no idea what he was doing, about anything.

“Does anyone?” She sounded practically glib, and Benedict glowered at her.

“I’d like to think someone does.”

She shrugged and set down her glass, picked up another. “Some of us have half an idea about some things,” she offered. “Like me, for example. I know a lot about beers. Not much about anything else, though.”

“You know how life works,” he blurted, then ducked his head, because that was a ridiculous thing to say.

“I know how life works here ,” she corrected. “I wouldn’t know a damn thing about living like a monk. And, let’s be honest, I probably couldn’t hack it.”

“You’d be a nun, for starters,” Benedict fired back.

Mig plowed on like she didn’t hear him. “So, if you’re feeling like a fish outta water here on Kateria, I suppose that’s because you are .”

He took a thoughtful sip of his beer instead of responding. Mig cut a sidelong look at him. “You’ve never had to deal with mobsters. Never had to deal with a bunch of criminals who frequent your businesses. And you handled it like a monk would—not like, say, your aunt, because you’re not her.”

“Not a criminal mastermind, you mean.”

Mig tilted her head, a sign she agreed with him. “So you did what you know. Back at the abbey, I bet you’d haul any criminals out by their ears, right?”

“Depends on what they did,” he murmured. “And, well, if they repent or not.”

“Right. And Vito and your aunt and their ilk don’t repent, now do they?”

He sighed. “No.”

Mig shrugged. “So you handled things like a monk, because you are one. That maybe isn’t how most people would do things around here, but …”

“But?”

Mig shook her head. “It doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice.”

He let his shoulders sink. Her words should have been a balm, but they stung instead, nettling him more. He might not have done anything wrong; he might have done everything right by Abbot Bartholomew’s standards. But it still felt like he’d fucked up royally, done more harm than good.

He thought again of Oz, and his stomach swam with guilt. “I don’t know, Mig. Ever since I got here, it’s like the whole world has been turned upside-down and I don’t know left from right or right from wrong anymore.”

“Mm,” she said.

He leaned heavily on the bar and tried to avoid her gaze. “And I’m doing things I would have never considered back at the abbey.”

Feeling things. Kissing slaves. God, how far had he fallen?

“That’s because you’re not back at the abbey,” she said sagely. “The world there and the world out here work differently, so you have to … adapt.”

“Morals shouldn’t be flexible. My vows are not flexible.” As far as he was concerned, that was the opposite of a vow. His word should have been unbreakable. He was supposed to resist temptation, yet here he was cracking.

“Far as I can figure, anything rigid in this world is just asking to be broken,” Mig said, busying herself with some more pint glasses. “The world is full of broken people, and most of them are broken because they weren’t able to flex enough to keep up with the situation. Being rigid makes you brittle, and brittle breaks so easily, Benny.”

He tried to bristle at the nickname—should she really be so casual with him?—but he couldn’t find any anger. He watched her for a moment or two, her smooth, fluid movements, so practiced. He could almost picture Oz apprenticing under her, learning how to bartend. “What I’m doing,” he said slowly, “it’s not right. I’m taking advantage of people. The staff at Saveur. The people here. You.”

He waited a beat, then said, “Oz.”

Mig didn’t even look up. “Have you tried asking him what he wants?”

Benedict paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “Huh?”

Mig shrugged again. “You say you’re taking advantage of him. But have you asked him how he feels about it?”

“I … haven’t, no,” he said, feeling a bit sore.

Mig smiled, but it wasn’t gentle; it was full of daggers, edgy, and he wanted to shudder. “Try it,” she suggested. “You might be surprised by his perspective.”

Benedict took that delayed swig of his beer, then set it down with a decided thunk. “And you?” he asked, feeling a little petty.

Mig’s eyebrows jumped. “Hm?”

“What do you want?”

She stared at him for a moment, then glanced around. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m happy as is,” she said. “I like the hours. I like this place. I even like some of our patrons.”

She paused then, clearly hesitating. “I’d like to own it,” she said. “Silly as it is, I care about this place, almost like it is mine. I know it’s not, but …”

Benedict nodded as she trailed off. He knew the feeling; he’d often felt like the abbey was his, even though he wasn’t the one in charge. He’d always been comfortable there. It was his home, for so long.

With a sigh, he pushed off the barstool. “I have to go,” he said.

Mig drew back, like they didn’t just have some kind of heart-to-heart. “See you tomorrow, boss-man,” she said as she turned her back, the moment broken.

Benedict hesitated a second or two more, then headed out into the street.

Saveur was bustling when he walked in; he could hear the chatter from the front room, the music turned up louder than it had been in nights, trying to entice the patrons to buy more, drink more, spend more. He flattened his ears against his head as he tied on his apron. He took a deep breath, then stepped out of the kitchen, into the bar, eyebrows rising as he looked at the overflowing dining room.

He should have been delighted, but—he was disappointed. He was hoping for another quiet night, so he could contemplate what Mig just told him.

Figure out how the hell to ask Oz what he wanted. Figure out if Oz wanted what he did.

The mere thought was terrifying.

He caught Shakes by the arm as the minuscule alien drifted by. “What happened?” he asked, eyes still glued to the crowded tables. There were aliens quashed in at every booth, extra chairs pulled up around tables. Bodies crowded the dance floor, and the karaoke bar was full too.

“Fleet of freighters just came in,” she said, gently shaking him off. “Mugs brought ’em all over here.”

“Mugs?” Benedict echoed, but she traipsed off without an answer.

He glanced hurriedly around for Sassa, but she was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, he grabbed one of the tablets, then scooted around the bar and headed for the floor.

Almost immediately, an ugly purple alien was flagging him down. “Benny!” he bellowed, like he knew Benedict or something.

Benedict was pretty sure he’d never seen the guy in his life. He tried not to let his confusion show as he drifted closer to the table. Time to do customer service, he supposed.

“Evening,” he said when he was close enough. “Are you enjoying Saveur so far?”

“Enjoying?” the alien bellowed. “Could ask you the same thing! Seems like ya made some changes since ya got here, hm?”

“Well,” he drawled, glancing away.

“Cleaned up a little bit,” the alien said with a grin that showed off his yellowed teeth. “Something your auntie needed to do but never did.”

Benedict couldn’t help the way his brow furrowed. “Did you … know her?”

The alien’s eyes widened with mock surprise. “She never told you about me? Me, the great Mugsly von Baron?”

Why did that name ring a bell? He stared at the purple alien, trying to place him.

Mugsly made a face. “I guess she didn’t mention me then,” he said, shrugging. “Just as well.”

Benedict frowned at him some more. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” Mugsly said with a sly grin, leaning back in the booth. “I’ll get my dues.”

Benedict opened his mouth to ask what the hell this guy meant by dues, but Mugsly stood up in the booth, cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing, “Shots for everyone!”

A cheer went up from the crowd, and Benedict felt the vibration of the voices like the toll of a bell he was standing too close to. “Shots,” he echoed.

“For everyone, including you,” Mugsly said with a nod, and Benedict turned back to the bar, horrified.