{Gait}

Matt ripped the hood from his head. The coarse black material stifled him. Suffocated, he shed the black bodysuit that shrouded nearly every identifiable trait of him aside from his height and the chain around his neck. The badly lit, all-black locker room was left empty to protect their anonymity between shifts. The bench supported his heavy muscles as they weighed down his skeleton. Sweat dripped from his face and splashed on the floor. The cool water from a standard issued bottle soothed him. The scalding water from the shower revitalized him.

But nothing would get him clean.

Bleeding knuckles, freshly raw with his misdeeds, accused him. The echoes of screams in his sullied memory judged him. And the evidence of his hedonism—hard, as always—condemned him.

Lucy wouldn’t like this place.

With her name on his lips, Matt finished his self-gratification on a growl. Angry for enjoying the inhumanity so much. Without her…

This was all wrong.

The all-black hall to the all-black stairs up to the all-black catwalk took him to the all-black door. With one good shove, the redheaded man left Hell behind and squinted into the whiskey lights. The Emporium, with all its vices, glared like a beacon from Heaven.

Matt wanted to go back down. Immediately. But…

“She’ll be here any second.” Razor waved him across the kitchens to the addition. All the spaces were left hollowed and vacant until the doors opened.

Apparently, Sagan asked after Matt at her last encounter with the Pain Curator. Always attempting to ease her, the crafty alien made sure this time she’d see him. Smart move.

“I got it.” Matt rushed to help Razor carry experience supplies for tonight’s refresh. They paused near one of the advanced booths. Curious, Matt asked, “Hey, boss?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Razor turned from his task with the same congenial smile he always wore when Matt called him that. “Yes?”

“How do the ports work?”

The Pain Curator pushed a dark blue hand through his light blue hair and whistled, impressed. “If downstairs can’t satisfy you, I can’t imagine the ports will stand up to the task.”

Matt ignored whether he found satisfaction in the basement. Instead, he pressed, “I’m curious about the extra immersion you advertise. And I should know in case a customer asks me.” That should convince him.

Dark gray eyes scrutinized the redheaded human. After a heartbeat, Razor shrugged and explained, “Ports pump all the chemicals from an experience into the nacre’s interface via an implant. Give or take an enhancement or two.” He pointed to his own sternum. “Here. The client can port in and enjoy the moment even more emphatically than the donor.”

Matt frowned and threw in another boundary tester, “But you don’t have one.”

“No. I don’t.” The Pain Curator finished loading an experience capsule into the booth and indicated for them to move along to the next one. He knelt at each panel to load a fresh kaleidoscope of experiences. Concentrating on his task, he continued, “Contrary to what some may think, I’m not that interested in sampling the product. I’m more interested in my clients and how they respond. The more interesting the response, the higher the priority.”

“Full service customer support?” Matt offered with a false grin.

Razor chuckled while shaking his head in amusement. “Something like that.”

“Where do I rank?”

They both turned to find Sagan with her hands on her hips. She wore a man’s white silk shirt belted at her waist, and the sleeves rolled to her elbows. It swallowed her short frame, skirting the top of her black thigh-high boots. Short blond hair messed. Heavy eye makeup smudged. Tan skin glowed. Honestly, the JBF look worked for her.

The alien beside Matt stared at the Seamswalker. Almost gaped. A tension rippled across him, rolling over the considerable muscles throughout his body. Razor shifted and transformed for Sagan.

His voice calm, his tone even, he answered with a truthfulness that the redhead found disturbing given what occurred over the last five seconds, “You’re my favorite.”

Matt fucking believed him, and now he worried for Sagan.

After one more second, the excitement melted from the alien and the professionalism returned. He calmly stood from the panel and straightened the carbon fiber suit. Prepared for his next performance.

Judging by Sagan’s narrowed gaze, it’d better be Oscar worthy.