Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,1

their predecessor.

Yeah, I’ve thought of ending my life. Things have been rough. Real rough. But there’s something deep in my spirit that keeps pushing me to hang in there, promising me things will get better.

I’m still waiting.

Back home, I sang forty minutes an hour then had a twenty-minute break. Human vocal cords need time to recover. Here in space? Breaks are unheard of. I just keep pushing through my shift, trying to lose myself in the music so I don’t focus on the shitstorm that is my life.

At least the blue asshole quit heckling me and went elsewhere.

Two hours later I’m on the homestretch. I have about an hour left, and, miracle of miracles, my owner found a prostitute and has given me a room of my own for the night. It’s been a while since I’ve had that luxury.

The blue jerk is back. I’m certain he’s a gladiator, you can spot one at fifty paces. I imagine it's because they live in barracks like a bunch of unruly frat boys their entire lives. He’s weaving and squinting and is having trouble finding his rowdy friends even though they’re loudly enjoying themselves in the front row.

He plops into his seat, roaring drunkenly to his friends about how much he won at the klempto tables. I have to admit, if he won even a tenth of what he’s bragging about, he’s a hell of a player.

“You should get a new line of work,” he yells.

I finger my slave collar and retort, “I do what I’m told.” It wasn’t a good response. He obviously doesn’t care that I’m not doing this for fun.

“Your owner should put you in a job where you don’t have to open your mouth except to suck cock.”

Motherfucker! That was the worst thing anyone’s ever heckled me with, and in the dive bars I sing at, that’s saying a lot.

“Boys,” I say to the group he’s with, “why don’t you take the blue devil to his room? He can’t sleep off his ugly, but he can sleep off his booze.”

They try in vain to get him to shut up, but he keeps peppering me with insults. After a while, his friends get tired of fighting him and leave, but he stays put, glaring at me. I have no idea why he’s got it in for me, but he won’t stop.

Finally, my owner approaches him—that’s a first—he’s never been proactive about protecting me before. I assume it will be a quick exchange that will result in the ugly blue asshole leaving. Instead, their discussion gets serious as pink, round, play-dohey Drenken sits down at the table with him. Their conversation gets so quiet, my shit detector starts screaming warnings.

Something’s going on between them and it involves me. My sense of self-preservation tells me the outcome is going to wind up making this day a lot worse.

It’s time for my last song, and I belt it out, but I could be singing the lyrics to “Old MacDonald” for all the emotion I put into it. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on between Drenken and the Devil.

Before the last word is out of my mouth, Drenken calls me over. “Eel,” he says. The fat pink piece of shit is too lazy to say the two syllables of my name. “Eel, come over here. Meet your new owner.”

No! This can’t be happening. I’ve had four owners, all of whom were grabby bastards who treated me heinously. But this? Blue Devil hates me. He’s going to abuse me worse than all four of them combined.

“Eel. Your new owner,” Drenken says in a careless attempt at introductions.

“Eel,” Blue Devil says drunkenly. His lips keep moving, but even my translator can’t make sense of his inebriated gibberish. I do, however, catch the word ‘room’.

Great. Time to get intimately acquainted. I can only hope he passes out or his junk doesn’t work.

Drenken unceremoniously gives my pain/kill collar controller to Devil and slogs off in his characteristic rolling, chubby gait. My table companion is about to nod off, so I have a moment to inventory him.

Between his craggy horns and his gold-green eyes with the snake-like pupils, you’d think he’d look hideous. The description sounds like something out of a horror flick when you add in black shoulder-length dreadlocks and some suede buttons on his face and collarbones. Somehow, though, everything pulls together into an almost handsome, albeit alien, look. It’s his personality and perpetual scowl that tip the scales to make you think