Page 160 of Rut Bar

“It’s funny how we call them assless chaps,” Darlene says. “All chaps are assless.”

“I never thought about it, but you’re right.” I pull on my straw and feel my core clench as Jamie’s sweet taste blended with alcohol hits my tongue.

“They’re only assless because they’re not wearing jeans underneath,” she says. “I’ll put velcro under the fringe on the sides and make them tearaway pants.”

“Mmm. Sounds good,” I agree.

“I could order some thicker rope,” Brendan offers. “I’d have to learn how, but I’m sure I could teach them how to wave a lasso around on stage. At least enough to make it look good.”

Darlene cackles. “I love it. Told her you were a yummy thing under that business suit. You fit right in here, don’t you, handsome?”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” Brendan pulls me tighter against him, his hand drifting down to cup my ass and squeeze.

I suck on my straw too hard and let out a hiss, pressing the heel of my palm against my head. “Ugh, brain freeze.”

“I’ll take it. Looks better than mine,” Darlene says, grabbing the drink from my hand.

“No!” I snatch it back before she can take a sip. My face and ears heat in a blush that makes her eyes squint with suspicion. The last thing anyone needs is Darlene drinking one of Anthony’s special drinks. “You won’t like it.”

Darlene arches one penciled-on eyebrow. “There’s not a liquor on God’s green Earth I don’t like.”

“I’ll go get you something better,” I insist.

Before Darlene can question it anymore, I pull Brendan toward the bar and ignore his guffaws of laughter. Anthony looks up from the blender he’s pulsing.

“I need a drink for Darlene,” I tell him.

He pours the blended mix into a line of five waiting glasses and scoots them toward the edge of the bar toward the dancers waiting there. “Darlene’s had fifteen shot’s worth of drinks already. I’m not making her anymore. Rut opens in an hour.”

“Fifteen! How is she still standing?”

“Hmm… Looks like she’s not. At least not without help,” he says.

We all turn and gawk, spying Darlene slow dancing to a fast song with a bewildered and somewhat amused looking dancer. I shake my head. My phone chirps and a glance shows me a text from Nate saying they’ve shut the doors because they’re at capacity. I tap his name and call him. He answers on the second ring, shouting to be heard over the loud music on both of our ends.

“Why’d you shut the doors?” I ask.

“Because we’re at capacity?” Nate asks, confused.

“Well, open them.”

“We’ll get shut down by the fire department.”

“That’s the point.”

“If we get shut down, nobody will see my show. It’s a strip club. That’s bad for business.”

“And what do you think your line’s going to be like tomorrow if the fire department comes and shuts you down tonight because of overcrowding on your opening night?”

I wait a beat and give him a minute to let the thought sink in. Nate’s a smart man with good instincts, but he’s new to night club management. He can do choreography in his sleep, but it’ll take some time for him to develop a good business sense. The nightclub world is small. You have to stand out or you’ll get lost, especially in a city like New York. I know he’ll get there, though.

“You’re diabolical,” Nate says, laughing.

“That’s show business, baby,” I tell him.

“Open the door,” Nate says to someone on his end, his voice muffled as he speaks away from the speaker. “Yeah, I know I said to close them, but now I’m telling you to open them. Pack them in. I’ve got a show they won’t want to miss. I’ve gotta go. Bye, Vee.”

“Bye.” I hang up and open up a web browser, looking for the non-emergency number of the closest precinct. I tap the blue phone number and it doesn’t take long for someone to answer.

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