Page 5 of Rut Bar

“Nothing. Tony’s my uncle, so I didn’t pay anything.”

Of course he is. I shouldn’t be surprised because Anthony’s family is humongous and they’ve lived here for generations.

Anthony takes the stairs down, and I swivel in my chair so I can watch him move around the club through the window. He goes back to the bar where one of the other bartenders is chopping fruit to garnish drinks.

As if he sees me watching him, he lifts his gaze and stares up at me, his lips curling into their resident bad boy smirk.The pantymelter.A lock of hair falls in his eyes and he reaches up, carding his fingers through it as he smooths it back into place. His stare turns into a smolder.

The distance makes enjoying this feel safer, although it’s probably not. He doesn’t need any encouragement. Anthony’s been flirting with me for years.

He flirts with everyone.

I shudder out an exhale and swivel back to my computer and my salad, kicking my shoes off and pulling my feet up to sit cross-legged while I eat and work. I tear the garlic bread into pieces and mix it into the salad, then stab my fork through all of it like it’s a salad sandwich.

God, it’s so fucking good.

I’ve eaten the entire thing and finally finished payroll when the club’s music changes abruptly from talk radio to the heavy thump of bass. The first patrons of the evening roll in, groups of omegas in business attire who want to grab a cocktail after work before heading home to their partners. They won’t stay the whole night. It’s too early for that crowd, but they appreciate the view.

Jamie steps out from the back, the black curtain flicking into place to obscure the back room. He walks up to their table to take their drink order.

He’s oiled his body to show off every single dip and curve of his toned physique, his bare torso and thick arms on full display. I know from experience how the tight black pants—real ones, not the breakaway kind—hug his ass. Instead of a shirt, he’s wearing a tiny business collar and even tinier tie that doesn’t make it past his nipples. White shirt cuffs wrap around his wrists, and cufflinks with Rut’s logo catch the light as he scrawls on his order pad.

The omegas eat it up, blushing and whispering to one another as he scribbles their orders down on his notepad and takes it over to the bar. They turn in their seats to watch his ass while he walks away. The door opens, and my bouncer Dan lets in a few more omegas, a couple of women and a slender man. Their group sits at the bar.

I watch the entire scene with a smile, proud of what we’ve all done. It’s been hard work, but the results are worth it. My mom would be happy for me once she got over the shock of it all. A rut bar designed specifically for omegas instead of alphas. It’s genius.

I’m seriously thinking of opening another location. Miami? Vegas? New York City? The possibilities are endless. I break into goosebumps just thinking about it.

A snap breaks me out of my thoughts as I swivel away from the window. The auditor stares down at his ink splattered hand, the remnants of his broken pen sitting on his legal pad. He looks up sheepishly and pulls an actual honest-to-goodness handkerchief from his pocket, then wipes the worst of the ink off. Rather than doing him any good, he ends up smearing most of it around.

He wraps up his broken pen and drops it all into Nate’s trash can. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to head home for the night.” He packs up his things, unplugging his charger from the wall and closing his laptop. When he’s done, he latches his briefcase and goes to leave before hesitating in the doorway.

“I’ll… see you at noon tomorrow?” he asks.

Spurred into motion, I stand up and follow him to the stairs. “Noon. Right. I’ll be here. Let me walk you out.”

“That’s unnecessary, but thank you. I can see myself out.”

“Oh, uh…” I bite my lip, worried I’m about to offend him. “I’m so sorry, but we don’t allow unmated alphas who aren’t staff to wander around during omegas’ hour. It’s omega members only until seven and then the doors open to the public. Wait, are you mated?”

I flick my gaze down to what little of his throat I can see above his shirt collar and then down to his ink stained hand. No ring, and if he has a bite mark, it’s hidden by his suit.

“No. I’m not mated.” His broad shoulders stiffen as I follow behind him. We stop at the top of the stairs. “Wait, you’re serving customers, but you’re not open to the public right now?”

“Omegas only, yes,” I answer.

“Wouldn’t that be considered discrimination? If you’re open to the public at all, then you’re not really a private club.”

My lips firm and I take a deep breath as I get ready for the speech I’ve had to recite so many times in the past couple of years. “Under the federal civil rights laws and the Omega Protection Act of 1978, private clubs, religious organizations, and nonprofits are allowed to discriminate based on sex, gender, and dynamic. The amendment in 1981 added new protections for organizations for omegas and women where there are safety concerns. You’ve heard of female-only gyms and women’s and omegas’ shelters, right? It’s the same concept. Right now, from six to seven, we’re only open to omega club members and all our proceeds go to support omega shelters. At seven, the doors open to the public.”

He blinks at me until it’s uncomfortable, even with the thump of the music filling the silence. “You’re running a nonprofit within your business?”

My eyes widen. “No! God, no. That would be illegal. A for-profit company can’t own a nonprofit because a nonprofit can’t technically be owned. No. The nonprofit that I run owns Rut.”

His mouth opens and closes a few times, and then his shoulders round.

I think I’ve broken my tax auditor.

“It’s all outlined in my paperwork,” I say, getting worried. Did he not read my detailed letter I sent them along with my certificate of formation?

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