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

TWENTY-NINE

Benedict peered at himself in the mirror, gingerly tapping the bruising along his nose. At least the swelling had finally gone down. He still looked like he’d been in a bar fight—although, he supposed he had.

With a sigh, he let his hand fall away from his cheek. There was really no helping his poor visage at this point, so he was just going to have to face the day with a shiner and a still-busted nose.

He stepped out of the bathroom and almost walked straight into Abbot Bartholomew. The old monk had his hands tucked in the sleeves of his robe. He nodded at Benedict, then said, “We need to talk.”

Benedict barely held back the sigh that brewed in his chest. He’d known this was coming since the brothers arrived on Kateria a few days ago. Benedict was grateful to them—and Mugs, he supposed, for convincing them to come to his rescue—but he kind of wished they’d never set foot here.

It had been three days since Oz had been kidnapped, three days since Vito was arrested, and three days that the brothers had been cluttering up his house. He hoped Abbot Bartholomew was going to tell him that they were all going home now.

Benedict already knew he wasn’t going with them. He was staying here on Kateria.

Abbot Bartholomew said nothing as he led Benedict out of the penthouse, to the elevators. They were silent on the ride down to the ground floor, and they were silent as they wended through the hustle and bustle of the morning streets—tourists flocking to breakfast, residents flocking to work.

They walked three blocks until they arrived at … well, Benedict guessed it was some kind of park, judging from the vegetation and the smattering of benches. How had he not known there was a park so close to his house?

The sounds of the crowded streets faded as they traversed the path. Here, the morning was still and quiet. It reminded Benedict of the abbey, and he almost ached for it.

Was it always so difficult, leaving things behind?

He crossed his arms and waited. Abbot Bartholomew tucked his hands behind his back and looked pensively up at the trees as he strolled to a stop. “Kateria is a very different place,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Benedict agreed.

“I have seen many amazing things in the last few days,” the abbot continued. “And I have seen many things I do not like.”

Benedict shuffled his feet a little bit, waiting for the abbot to get to the point.

A long pause followed. Then, Bartholomew said, “This place has changed you, Benedict.”

He wanted to argue that it hadn’t—maybe he’d always been like this. Maybe it wasn’t so much that he’d changed but that it had woken up his original nature or something.

He waited patiently for Bartholomew to continue anyway. The abbot obliged him, turning to walk deeper into the park as he said, “You know our brothers abhor violence—it is not the way of God. And we are meant to be celibate, to keep our physical bodies as free from sin as possible.”

Benedict bit back a snide comment—he knew how hypocritical that was to say. Almost all of the brothers had indulged in sins of flesh at some point, whether it was food or drink or sex or something else. And they’d been the ones toting machine guns around. Mugs hadn’t had an easy time getting the weapons back either.

Bartholomew said, “Kateria is not a place that is friendly to our vows.”

“No,” Benedict agreed. If pleasure was sin—and it was in the view of the order—then Kateria was a monument built on top of it, a heaping mountain of sin and temptation.

Bartholomew sighed. “I knew that before I let you go,” he admitted. “I had … heard certain things about Kateria, knew of it and its reputation. I did not harbor much hope that you would be able to keep your vows here. You certainly left with the best of intentions …”

He paused again as they watched a bird flit from branch to branch. “I hope you still have good intentions,” Bartholomew said finally. “But whatever they are, I do not believe that you can fulfill them as a member of our order.”

“I—”

Bartholomew turned to him, offering a small, sad smile. “Not everyone is cut out to be a monk,” he said. “And some people who are monks should not be monks—they fulfill God’s work better from other positions.”

Benedict let the words wash over him, searching for the truth in them. Bartholomew’s smile warmed. “I think you are such a person—you’re wasted in a monastery. You could do so much more good here.”

“That’s what I wanted,” Benedict protested. “I wanted to come here and save souls, because there’s so much sin and?—”

“Yes,” Bartholomew agreed, “you did say that.”

“I don’t think I have to stop being a monk to do that,” Benedict finished, and Bartholomew smirked.

“Benedict,” he chided, “you’ve already stopped. I’m not exactly sure when, but this place … You’ve not been a monk for some time now.”

Benedict stared at him, surprised. Bartholomew clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about what you’ve done over the last two months, Benedict. How much of it aligns with what you promised God when you swore your oaths to the order?”

Benedict’s stomach churned. “I?—”

Bartholomew shook his head. “Don’t try to justify it, Benedict. Just tell me the truth. How much of this aligns with your vows?”

Benedict looked down at his feet, studied his shoes. One of his laces was untied. “I wanted it to,” he said at length.

The abbot smiled. “We all want that,” he replied. “We all always want our actions to line up with our values. But, as you can see …”

Benedict sighed, letting his shoulders sink. He’d come here with such good intentions. He’d wanted to turn his aunt’s empire into a force for good, to help the downtrodden, to save souls.

Instead, he’d become a slave owner, gotten mixed up with mobsters, given in to violence, and taken advantage of one of the people who were in bondage to him.

That didn’t line up with his oaths at all.

He looked up at Abbot Bartholomew imploringly. “I … can still do good, can’t I?”

The abbot’s smile softened as he landed a hand on Benedict’s shoulder. “Of course you can,” he said. “Benedict, being a monk and taking vows doesn’t make you a good person, and not being one, breaking your vows, doesn’t mean you can’t be good.”

Benedict nodded, one ear flicking. “So …”

He met the abbot’s gaze again. Bartholomew’s eyes were warm with something like … pride?

“You’re a terrible monk,” Bartholomew assured him. “But you are striving to be a good person in a world full of terrible things. Just look at it—Kateria is designed to be the epitome of sin, full of temptations, exempt from the rule of law. It harbors some of the worst criminals in the known universe. And here you are, wanting to be good. To do good.”

Benedict flattened his ears. “It’s just … hard,” he said, feeling as though someone had removed a pin and let him deflate. All the tension, the adrenaline of the last few weeks flowed out of him.

“Of course it is,” the abbot declared. “Taking vows and sealing yourself away in an abbey makes it easier. Being out here in the world—no, that’s difficult.”

Benedict didn’t feel like he deserved any of the praise the abbot was heaping on him. Hadn’t he broken his vows? Wasn’t he being kicked out of the order?

“Now,” Bartholomew continued, “the question is, what will you do to try to live up to your values, now that you’re out here in this wretched world? Will you let it beat you down and become like everyone else—become a villain? Or will you strive to be good in God’s eyes, do His work among the people?”

Benedict was silent for a very long moment. Then he said, “I still want to free them.”

Abbot Bartholomew tipped his grizzled head. “Free who?”

Benedict almost flinched; the abbot had no idea how bad it was. How bad Benedict had been. “The … workers,” he offered. “At the restaurants.”

Abbot Bartholomew’s face fell. “They’re …”

Benedict screwed his eyes shut and nodded. He expected a reprimand, but instead, Bartholomew simply said, “Then hurry up. You’ve been here for months now—stop dragging your feet.”

“Yes,” Benedict agreed instantly. Then he twisted his hands together and ventured, “I want to keep the restaurants though.”

Bartholomew quirked a brow.

“And pay the workers, but also help the … the less fortunate.”

A satisfied smile spread across Bartholomew’s face. He squeezed Benedict’s shoulder. “Then you’ll do that,” he said. “I have no doubt that is your path forward here.”

Benedict felt a tentative smile curl his lips. He wanted to say more, to blurt out how he needed to apologize to Oz, how he wanted to free Oz and ask him to stay and help him, to stay forever. He wanted to shout from the rooftops that he was in love with the Vetruvian.

But Abbot Bartholomew didn’t need to know any of that.