Page 8 of Rut Bar

Half an hour passes and I barely make any progress as I crosscheck receipts to expenses on her first quarter reporting. My mind keeps getting distracted by her juicy citrus scent.

I’m constantly aware of her in my periphery. Every sigh, every carding of her fingers through her hair, every creak of her chair. She likes to tuck herself into a ball and sit cross-legged, her shoes kicked off. The intimacy of witnessing such a small thing makes me long to slip out of my jacket and do the same.

My hand is halfway to the first button of my jacket before I realize this is madness. I reach for the folder containing her 501c paperwork instead. I’ve read the same three paragraphs a dozen times before I’m forced to admit this is going nowhere fast.

It’s not cowardice if it’s for her benefit. That’s what I tell myself anyway when I gather up her incorporation paperwork and January’s documents and collate them into a folder I shove into my briefcase.

“I’m going to head to the office. I forgot something I need,” I tell her as I rise and avoid looking at her.

“Oh, okay. Have a good night.”

This time, she lets me head down alone. The club is nearly wall to wall with patrons. The omegas are five deep as they ring the raised dais that acts as a stage where three muscular and nearly naked alphas dance with synchronicity. They’re dressed as cowboys, but they’ve forgotten their jeans underneath their chaps. Big silver and turquoise belt buckles draw the eye to their tiny and well-stuffed paisley printed thongs.

One after another, they take their cowboy hats off and fling them into the crowd. And then one steps forward, the spotlight tightening as he reaches for his hip and uncoils a rope. He makes a show of stretching it between his hands, his arms splayed wide as he shows off his bulging arms and pecs, then turns so his audience can glimpse his broad back and bare ass.

The dancer ties the rope into a lasso and whips it over his head, and the omegas scream. I’m awestruck by the show as much as the rest of the crowd is. While there are some omegas sitting at tables or hanging at the bar, mingling with the alphas and betas in the crowd, most are ringed around the stage watching the floor show.

It’s no wonder Veronica hit her first five-million-dollar year. This club is a goldmine. In college, I hung out at my fair share of rut bars, but I’ve never seen one packed with so many betas and omegas. Normally, the alphas outnumber the omegas ten to one. At Rut, it seems like a more normal mix of dynamics.

The crowd’s energy peaks, and I’m pulled from my thoughts as the alpha dancer lassos a woman at the front of the crowd and makes a show of reeling her in. She giggles and blushes as he helps her on stage so he can treat her to a private dance that’s not so private. They sway like lovers, and he’s careful to keep his touch to her hands and arms as he guides her hands over his abdominals. After a brief moment of hesitation, she touches him in earnest.

That’s my cue to leave. I slip out the door and let it bang shut behind me. The noise dies down to a dull roar as the thick door keeps the worst of it contained. The mountain of a man who guards the club’s door nods at me, and the line of patrons waiting behind the red velvet rope perk up at the prospect that their entry is coming soon.

Once I’m safely ensconced in my car, I drag in a deep breath, hold it, then exhale slowly until I settle. “Don’t be stupid,” I tell myself. It’s not like I could compete for her even if I wanted to.

The alphas who work for her are built. Young. Healthy. Their bodies are whole. They’ve honed their physique at the gym and chiseled it to perfection. They’re in their prime and they’re handsome.

The young beta bartender who clearly wants her has that bad boy edge to his looks that drives women wild. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, much closer to her in age than my forty-one.

I can’t compete. I spend more time behind a desk than at the gym and my body shows it. I’ve gone soft around the middle from too much takeout and not enough sit-ups. Even if I wanted to get back into shape again, it’s hard to do at this age without intense exercise, which hurts too damn much.

It’s fine. It’s not like I want her attention anyway. Scent compatibility doesn’t guarantee a good relationship.Remember how things ended with Jenna.

With my spirit completely crushed, I slot my keys into the ignition and turn the engine over, then pull out into traffic.

It takes me over an hour for me to get home, where I promptly strip and collapse into bed in only my underwear. I’m too old to be coming home this close to midnight. Before I’m fully rested, I’m awake as the sun rises and prods me from sleep. Half dead to the world, somehow I make it through a shower. When my jacket is buttoned and my hair has been sufficiently combed into order, I head to the office.

“Morning,” Andrea says from the front desk. A ringing phone interrupts whatever she was about to say next.

“Good morning.” I leave her to it and head to my desk, unpacking my files from my briefcase and pulling out my coffee mug. Hopefully the pot is fresh. I’m going to need it to get through the day.

Mark sees me and uses his coffee cup to wave. “Oh, hey, Brendan. What are you doing back so soon? Aren’t you doing a field case?” He cuts in front of me to nab the last of the coffee and sets the stained but empty pot back on the burner.

“I am. It’s a distracting place, though.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it is,” Mark says. He blows on his hot black coffee and takes a sip. “It’s that bar called Rut, right? My girl’s been trying to get me to take her there for forever, but I don’t know, man. I’m not really interested in seeing a bunch of dudes’ junk waving in my face.”

I remember how the blond alpha dancer’s barely concealed cock jumped inside the too small thong underwear as he gyrated on stage. The half-naked alphas weren’t the thing distracting me, but I’m not planning to elaborate on that to Mark. “Mmm. I’m gonna try to get through the more important paperwork here.”

“See ya,” he says as he shoves his hand in his pocket and walks out while sipping his coffee.

I sigh and dig out the huge tin of grounds that we keep in the cabinet and scoop some into a fresh filter. After a few minutes, the water’s heated enough that coffee percolates into the pot. My fingers tap against the counter as I wait for it to finish brewing, then click it over from brew to warm.

The first sip makes me human again, although it burns my tongue. I settle at my desk and get to work, checking over Veronica’s nonprofit paperwork. I can’t say that a nonprofit running a for-profit rut bar is something I’ve ever come across before. It’s not that unusual for nonprofits to run for-profit businesses, but usually they’re closely related entities. I’m not sure what a rut bar has to do with… omega protection services?

The paperwork is vague and I make notes for questions to ask Veronica the next time I see her. If she loses her 501c status, then her taxes just got a hell of a lot more complicated and I’m looking at several months of work instead of two or three. That’s not in either of our best interest. The longer I’m there, the more I have to smell how delicious she is.

Sharon pokes her head over the cubicle divider. “Oh, hey, you’re back! I knew I heard a noise. I thought you were out in the field again?”

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