Page 3 of Rut Bar

That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Because the IRS agent doing Rut’s audit smells like a crusty, fluffy loaf of fresh baked bread and I want to take a huge fucking bite out of him.

Dammit.I’m suddenly regretting saving money by not extending the HVAC continuous air exchange to the office. Nate’s a beta and I’m the only one who spends a lot of time here, so it didn’t seem necessary. Now it seems very fucking necessary. My pussy throbs more intensely with every lungful of this alpha’s scent.

I need to get out of this office.

Right. Fucking. Now.

“Make yourself at home.” I run away before he can respond, gripping the railing for dear life as I take the stairs fast in my heels. At my tromping, Anthony’s head whips up from where he’s filling the bar’s cooler with fresh ice and he raises one dark brow in question.

All but two of the dancers have gone backstage for a quick break, and I glance at my watch and groan. It’s already five and our doors open in an hour.

Backstage in the dressing room, I scan the cluttered vanities and make sure there’s nothing illicit out. I don’t care what my employees do with their bodies on their own time as long as they show up for their shifts and work while they’re here and don’t bring messy drama with them, but they know better than to bring the hard stuff into my club. Not that it stops some of them. Things happen. Those employees don’t last long here.

I snatch a cheetah print thong off the floor and hold it with the tips of my nails as I find Darlene at her sewing machine and add it to her pile of dirties in need of cleaning. “The IRS guy is here,” I say over the furious whirr of her sewing machine.

She stops mid-stitch, pulls a lever, turns the black dress pants sideways, flicks it back down with a heavy thud, and starts sewing again without ever looking up. “What?”

“The IRS guy is here!”

“The DILF in the suit is the IRS guy?” As she talks, the pins stuck in the corner of her mouth move. She pulls the pants from the machine and snips the thread with a sharp pair of scissors. Despite the heavy fake lashes that pull her eyelids down, her eyes light up when she looks at me with a shit-eating grin.

With a strangled whine, I rummage through her stuff and find the bottle of scent nullifier she keeps on hand to freshen up the costumes. I tug the plastic cap off and shake it, then spray myself down, making a face when some of it gets in my mouth.

There.Maybe now he won’t smell how damp my panties are when I have to go back up to finish payroll so I can cut everyone’s checks on Friday.

“That bad?” she asks, amused.

I click the cap back onto the bottle and put it down. “I need everyone to be on their best behavior while he’s here.Best.Behavior. Especiallyyou, with your mouth.”

She shrugs one shoulder and smirks as she plucks the pins from her mouth and stabs them into a hole-riddled pincushion shaped like a tomato. “Honey, I’ve never heard any complaints about my mouth yet.”

I stare her down with a flat lipped expression, but the aging beta isn’t impressed or cowed by me. Darlene’s lived a fast, hard life, and a five-foot-three thirty-year-old omega doesn’t make her bat a single fake eyelash.

“Best. Behavior,” I stress, enunciating each word clearly. “He can make our livesvery hardif he wants to.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he can,” she cackles and fishes the next costume piece to repair out of her basket. It’s a Spanish matador vest with a matching red thong that’s missing some of its sequins. “Bet he makes a lot of thingsreal hard.”

She ignores my narrowed eyes. “We need to beniceandaccommodating.Andprofessional,” I reiterate.

“I’ll be as accommodating as that alpha wants,” Darlene says as she switches her black thread out for red. “Heard them say he’s really tall and broad shouldered. The kind that’s good for grabbing a hold of in the heat of the moment, if you know what I mean.”

I sigh and give up. Darlene is harmless. Horny, menopausal, fond of making suggestive comments, but harmless. I walk away while she sews, her machine running a mile a minute as she makes her repairs in time for tonight’s show.

I throw the back door open, and the dancers’ conversation dies as I interrupt their break. A few are smoking, some holding cigarettes to their mouths while others hold joints or vape pens. The nonsmokers sit in the plastic folding chairs we keep by the door or they lean against the laundromat’s brick wall and scarf down food from the taco truck that parks a block or two away most nights. My stomach twists with hunger at the decadent scent of charred pork and lime.

Nate is busy telling the newer guys about his time on Broadway, his hands waving as he talks, and even he pauses to look over his shoulder. His story trails off mid-sentence.

“Hey, guys. So the IRS auditor is here a day early. I’m giving everyone a heads up that he’s going to be here for a while, so we need everything to go smoothly and professionally for a bit. That means go easy on the drinking. I don’t want to see any illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia on the property. Weed is fine, but nothing else, okay? And absolutelynohooking up with customers backstage.”

There’s dejected murmuring, and then one of the new guys asks, “How long is he gonna be here?”

“Hopefully only a week or two.”

They all groan, and I raise both of my hands in a placating gesture to shush them. “I know. Believe me, I know. We just need to put our heads down and work and get through this and then he’ll be gone and things will get back to normal.”

“Is Rut gonna get shut down?” a newer dancer asks, dragging his cigarette butt along the brick wall to put it out.

“No! We are not shutting down and nobody is getting fired or laid off. Audits are a very normal part of doing business. This is actually a good thing because it means we’re doing well. Okay? Don’t worry about it. I’m handling it. Work with Nate and practice your routine for this weekend, then get changed into your waitstaff outfit for first call. Enjoy your break.”

---