Page 83 of The Pleasure Contract

I’ve been spending the last few days avoiding him, if I’m being honest. I’m not even sure if I want to go back to his apartment at all. I’ve been trying to corner Glex to talk to him about his support, but seeing him around here is about as rare as tits on a unicorn. Zyre seems to be avoiding me, too.

So I’ve been left to stew on my own. Nothing useful to do except wonder when I’d decided to let Az take up so much space in my heart that it feels painfully hollow and empty now that I have to force him out.

Is this how Mom felt when she found out what Jerry planned to do?

I can’t help feeling even worse about this, though – because I should have known. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, this bitch got dickmatized.

“The dick wasn’t even that good,” I say out loud to the empty room.

DJ hovers closer to my shoulder, playing one of the soundbites she’s managed to find in her huge Earth sounds archive. “The lie detector test determined… that was a lie.”

I side-eye the hell out of that funky little floating ball. “Was that Maury Povich?”

She doesn’t answer.

I huff and start playing with the vase of twinkly black feathers in front of me. I’ve been aimlessly wandering the floors of this building I’m a guest in, and found myself on the weird restaurant floor. “Okay, so it was good dick,” I concede. “But that doesn’t excuse him from this bullshit behavior.”

DJ continues to stay silent – just the constant faint electrical hum she emits whenever she’s active.

“And I know, I know, I haven’t confronted him, but part of me thinks if I do, then I’ll know for sure that he said those things.”

DJ quietly bobs in mid-air. Judging me.

“Because I’ll know if he’s lying to me face to face. I’ll just know. But right now, there’s still the possibility that this is all some kind of hoax. A fake video. AI or whatever.”

That loud, sound-loving sphere says nothing.

“And yeah, I know. What about the pleasure contract? How could anyone have known if he hadn’t been talking like that? But-”

I turn in my seat, facing the sanctimonious little space-ball, and point in her direction.

“I just don’t want it to be true, okay? God! Shut up, DJ! I’ll talk to him about it after the game!”

* * *

This is the first time in more than a week that I’ve been able to spend any time with Glex.

I’d considered not attending Az’s big game today, but decided that I should – even if it’s purely to continue my talks with the Senator about his support.

The atmosphere at the arena is so different from how it had been during the training game. There are people everywhere, even still outside the arena, trying to get in. The stands are already packed, and I can see some waving banners with Az’s full name painted on there in big, bold letters.

The ‘Lords’ Gallery’, where we are, is much more subdued in atmosphere compared to the general fan areas. There are important-looking Xavianns milling around, talking in amiable tones, the occasional smug chortle, or self-satisfied laugh punctuating the low murmur of conversation.

Zek has already scooted off behind the bar to make sure whatever they’re going to serve me is human-friendly, and Glex practically pulls me in the direction of a group of smartly-dressed Xaviann males. I almost flinch at his unexpected touch, but go with him, eager not to throw friction into any of today’s interactions – even if I can feel some Xavianns stare at me and the male who definitely just crossed a line.

They welcome us to the fold and peer down at me with curiosity. And I’m not sure why, but standing with these huge businessmen, or politicians – or whatever they are – feels way more intimidating than being around Az and his athlete buddies. Which doesn’t even make any kind of sense, because that drakball team are practically giants of their own species – and they’re experts in combat sports. But these guys? Looking at me like I should be an exhibit at a zoo? Yeah, it’s starting to make me sweat.

And it’s not like they’re unkind in any way; it’s just, when they ask me questions about Earth or humankind, I don’t really think they care what my answers are. They’re whatever the opposite of Vel’s human fan club is, I guess. Not that I expected them to fawn over me or anything, but at least be interested enough to let me finish my responses before they move on with their very important male-Xaviann business talk.

After standing around listening to three conversations about investments, I decide now really isn’t the time to try and engage with Glex or any of his friends. Perhaps I’ll be able to get his attention a little later. Right now, I don’t think he’s willing to hear anything that isn’t centered around political or monetary gain.

Before slinking away from his circle of friends, I eye the dark liquid in Glex’s glass. Perhaps he will be more willing to discuss my mission with me after a few more of those. I’m not giving up, just trying to be tactical.

I make my solitary way over to the glass wall overlooking the playing arena, aware that there are eyes on me as I move. It’s something I’ve become used to, as I’m often the only alien species in any given room here.

The arena looks the same as it had before the game the last time I was here – except that the stands are buzzing with activity. That oil-lick gray of the ‘terrain cells’ shimmers, waiting, ready to be used – molded into whatever the Arena Masters can think up.

Someone in the stalls starts a chant. I can’t hear the words, but there’s a rhythmic stomping to it – a rhythm that the terrain cells seem to pulse in time with, like they’re conscious and joining in with the hype.