"I like working the bar." Evan slid a shot of bad vodka across the counter. His customers didn't think it was bad, but his bouncer and best friend, Pyotr, never missed an opportunity to tell him it was shit.

Speaking of his best friend, the burly Russian alpha was leaning against the bar with a sardonic twist to his lips. Evan ignored him.

"We need more people," Pyotr repeated, his voice barely above a growl. The customer with the vodka moved away in a hurry.

"Shouldn't you be at the door? You're scaring off the customers." Evan grabbed his rag and started scrubbing at a sticky puddle where someone had knocked over a Cosmo. Or maybe they'd dumped it on someone.

That was always a possibility in this neighborhood. The place tended toward chaos if he took his eye off it for a second. Maybe Pyotr was right.

"You pay me to scare your customers. Don't change the subject." Frowning, Pyotr glared around the room, causing a few people to pale.

Evan had never understood it, but people found Pyotr terrifying. Sure, he was enormous and built like a tank, especially next to Evan's five foot nothing, but he was a teddy bear once you got to know him. Most people never made it that far, deterred by the thick, ridged scars that traced his face and neck.

"I'm not changing the subject; the subject was over. I like working the bar. It's my bar; if I want to work it, I can." Evan stuck his tongue out at the alpha and turned to mix up another Old Fashioned for the guy in the corner.

"You haven't done the books since last tax season. If you won't hire an accountant, you should at least give yourself enough time to do the paperwork, or the IRS is going to come down on your head again."

Pyotr leaned over the bar to fill himself a cup of water. "I'm just saying, a waitress or two, someone to run the bar when it's busy ... maybe, God forbid, even give you a day off every once in a while."

"What am I going to do with a day off?" Evan asked, ducking out from behind the bar to drop the drink off for Corner Guy. He wasn't a regular, but he did come in relatively frequently, and left good tips. Evan liked to keep those kinds of customers happy.

Pyotr was still propped against the bar when Evan came back, watching him with a resigned grimace that came across a little homicidal the way it made his scars pop out. "I don't know," he said, his accent thickening for a moment. "Maybe you go on a date. This is not rocket science. If you had someone at home, you wouldn't work seven days a week."

Rolling his eyes so hard it hurt, Evan pushed him out of the way as he ducked back behind the bar. "Now why would I want to make some poor schmuck miserable like that?"

"Not all relationships are unhappy."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

Hurrying to the other end of the bar to take an order, he noticed the good ol' boys at the pool table getting loud. Evan pointed at the alpha. "Get to work, or your boss might catch you goofing off on the job."

"My boss is an asshole," Pyotr muttered, but stomped off, his heavy footfalls shaking the tables he passed.

Within minutes, the whole group was grumbling as they packed it in, Pyotr looming over them. None of them were drunk enough to want to make a scene, something Evan was careful to avoid if he could.

That was another reason he wasn't sure he wanted to hire anyone else. He hadn't had an incident in almost six months.

"Hey, breeder! You gonna get me a damned drink, or am I gonna have to teach you how to treat your betters?"

"Son of a bitch," Evan groaned, slumping until his forehead brushed the bar top. He'd been doing so well. The guy at the other end of the bar was one of the white-collar types, buttoned up and professional. Not the type Evan would have pegged to make trouble, especially without a group of similar people behind him.

The group of good ol' boys paused in the doorway as Pyotr hesitated. Pushing upright, Evan waved him away. The other group was full of construction workers, and if they made trouble, he needed Pyotr's lead fists there to make them rethink that decision.

"Sorry for the delay," Evan said, stopping just out of reach of the asshole. "What can I get you?"

Evan decided to call the guy Lawyer Larry as he straightened up and looked down his nose. "I think you can get me a free drink. For the inconvenience," he said, his teeth bared in a mocking smile.

"That's against state regulations," Evan said with an equally fake smile. "Liquor tax and all.”

Larry flushed red, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Evan could see the words form before they ever cleared his mouth. "I want to speak to your supervisor."

Evan smiled. This was what he loved about his job. "See," he said cheerfully, "that's going to be a problem, because I'm the owner."

It was so satisfying to watch the jaws drop. Every time. Of course, his regulars didn't even look up from their drinks. It wasn't like it was a secret.

"Bullshit," Larry blurted, his eyes narrowed. "Everyone knows that omegas don't own businesses."

Red-hot anger burned its way up Evan's neck, and he crossed his arms. He could have quoted facts and figures on omega-owned businesses, or pointed out that his name was on all the licenses, hung up where the patrons could see them. Evan Gregerson. His picture was even on some of them.

He didn't bother. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Larry loomed over the bar, his gaze leaving a slimy feeling as it tracked over Evan's body. "Listen here, you little shit, you can get the owner out here, or I can call the health department on this dive. Do you understand that, or do I need to use smaller words for you?"

Laughter, loud and mocking, echoed through the bar, and for a moment, Evan worried that he'd finally lost his mind. It wasn't him, though. It was Corner Guy, cracking up like he'd never heard a joke so funny.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Corner Guy asked, his eyes hard as he wandered over and clapped Larry on the corner. "What kind of an asshole pisses off the guy who makes his drinks? That, my friend, is a good way to end up with bad margaritas."

That was about the time it all went to shit. With more than half his attention on the bar, Pyotr didn't notice the drunken idiot pulling his fist back until it caught him across the cheek.

Evan took one step forward as the Russian stumbled back, shaking his head like a bull that had just been stung by a bee. He should have been paying more attention to Larry, who took the distraction as an opportunity to lunge across the bar and try to grab Evan.

Corner Guy didn't even flinch, twisting Larry around so smoothly that Evan couldn't have picked apart the move if he'd tried. The momentum carried the buttoned-down asshole into the middle of an empty table, where he cursed and struggled to his feet, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Corner Guy.

There was a roar from the other side of the room, and Evan winced. Pyotr had a man under each arm, the burly construction workers squirming like over-excited toddlers in his massive fists. The third guy wasn't sober or smart enough to give up, so as Evan watched, Pyotr slammed their foreheads together. The guy dropped like a rock, and Pyotr spat on his jacket as he stomped away to dump the other two outside.

"You son of a bitch! I'll sue you for this," Larry shouted. At some point, while Evan had been distracted, Larry had taken a good hit to the face, his nose bleeding profusely.

Corner Guy didn't look particularly upset at the threat, his arms hanging loosely at his sides as he planted his feet between Larry and the bar. "Yeah?" he asked, an amused lilt to his voice as his lips twisted slightly in profile. "I'll give you my card, and we'll see how far you get."

"Do you know who I am?" Larry asked, the effect spoiled by the nasal tones as he tried to stop the bleeding.

"Not a clue, man," Corner Guy said with a cheerful shrug. "Do you know who I am?" Evan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the sarcastic little bow that Corner Guy made.

"I'm Brent Richmond," Larry snapped. Evan racked his brain, but couldn't think of any importance to that name. Lawyer Brent just didn't have the same ring to it.

Corner Guy seemed to recognize it, though, a slow smile stretching his lips. "Oh, hey. Good to meet you."

It would have all seemed very casual, if it hadn't been for the leashed tension in Corner Guy's body, like a shark just waiting for the moment to strike. "I'm Kurt. Kurt Villanueva."

That didn't mean anything to Evan, either, but Lawyer Brent's eyes widened and the fight went out of him like someone had popped a balloon. "Like hell you are."

Corner Guy — Kurt — rolled his eyes. "You want to give me your business card? I'll swing by your office tomorrow as proof. I've been meaning to stop in and talk to Ryan anyways. He's your boss, right?"

He paused and smiled wider. "No, wait. He's your boss's boss's boss."

"You asshole," Brent said, but it was weak and defeated. "Fuck you." Grabbing a stack of napkins off the nearest table, he stalked out the door.

Pyotr glared at him all the way, his hair barely out of place from his own fight as he planted himself beside the door. "You come back, I’ll do more than break your nose," he growled at Brent as he squeezed by.

Evan sighed, rubbing his temples. "So much for my record," he muttered. At least no one had broken any bottles. Or tables. Those tables got expensive.

"Sorry about that."

Dragging himself out of his thoughts, Evan looked up at Corner Guy. "Not like you started it," he said, trying to force a smile. It didn't work as well as he would have liked, because Corner Guy still looked concerned.

Kurt. He didn't look like a Kurt. Tall, but not as broad as Pyotr, his dark hair was cut in an expensive style, the kind you had to go in every week to maintain. He had a deep tan that emphasized his outdoorsy look, like he'd just come back from yachting in the Mediterranean.

He didn't look like a Kurt at all. Esteban, maybe, or Ricardo.

"Why Kurt?" Evan almost knocked his head on the bar. That hadn't been what he meant to say.

Corner Guy blinked at him. "My dad's best friend growing up was named Kurt." He shrugged and smiled until the corners of his eyes crinkled. "He loved kids, apparently, and Dad promised to name one of his after him."

Smiling back, Evan leaned against the bar. In the many lights of the bar, Kurt's eyes were deep and liquid, like fresh coffee. "My papa threw a dart at the baby book," he said, figuring one confession deserved another.

"When he found out he was having twins, he just picked another one with a hole punched through it. I could have been Eloise. I'm Evan, by the way."

Kurt threw his head back and laughed. Tearing his eyes away from the strong line of his jaw, Evan tried to ignore the way that Pyotr was staring at them.

"Well, I'm the only boy in my family, so imagine if I'd been born second. My sister Catherine would have been Kurtina." Leaning against the bar, Kurt grimaced. "Course, then I would have probably been Charles or Achilles, and wouldn't that have made school fun?"

Evan laughed, busying his hands with mixing up another Old Fashioned. "What's wrong with Charles?"

"Nothing, exactly; but guys like that, the ones with money anyway, end up a little too much like our friend Brent." He glanced at the door thoughtfully. "He won't bother you, you know. Especially after I talk to his boss tomorrow."

Setting the drink on the table, Evan pushed it across to him. "On the house. So you really do know his boss?"

Kurt snorted, toying with the glass. "You could say that." He glanced at Evan out of the corner of his eye. "He's married to my sister."

Eyes wide, Evan choked on his next breath and ended up cough-laughing until tears dripped down his cheeks. "Are you serious?"

Tipping his head sarcastically, Kurt saluted with his drink and downed half of it in one go. “Oh, yeah. I wouldn't even have recognized the name, if I hadn't heard so many complaints about what an insufferable pain in the ass he is. If you ever see him again, I'll be surprised."

"Oh, darn," Evan muttered, snapping his fingers. Across the room, a table of regulars called for a refill on their pitchers of light beer, and he sighed. "Duty calls."

Kurt saluted, turning back to his table.

There was a small rush that let Evan get lost in the rhythm of serving drinks, but eventually, it slowed down again. Left to his own devices, he cleaned already-spotless surfaces. Over by the door, Pyotr shifted and cleared his throat, the sound echoing like a landslide across the room.

Evan rolled his eyes. "Quit being pushy," he mouthed.

"He's good in a fight," Pyotr said in Russian, making no effort to lower his voice. "Could be handy."

"He's obviously already got a job."

"So? Side hustle is a thing now. Everybody is doing it, even rich alphas." Pyotr smirked, his scars throwing ominous shadows across his face.

Shushing him with one hand, Evan glanced at the corner. Settled back at his table, Kurt had his phone in one hand, paying no attention to them whatsoever.

He had been useful.

As much as Evan would love to deny it, scenes like tonight were entirely too common in his life. It was one reason he kept Pyotr on the payroll. That, and he was mildly concerned about what the Russian got up to when he was out of sight.

Not that Evan thought his friend was involved in anything … shady, but people tended to get the wrong idea. He didn't ever want a repeat of the night he’d had to pick Pyotr up from the station at three in the morning.

Pyotr still swore it had been a case of mistaken identity. Evan wasn't so sure.

Crossing his arms, he leaned against the counter, avoiding the Russian's surprisingly judgmental gaze. The bar had gone six months without an incident. That was good — great, even.

Evan's eye fell on the battered calendar hanging on the back wall. He'd have to reset the counter, and he'd been so proud to have almost made it to May.

May? Oh shit. One of Pyotr's “vacations” was coming up. No wonder he was pushing so hard.

Pyotr raised an eyebrow at him. Evan sighed.

"So, hey." Making a token effort to act naturally, Evan wiped halfheartedly at the corner table with his bar rag.

Kurt grunted without looking up from his phone. "One moment. You little shit."

"Excuse me?" Evan actually looked over his shoulder to make sure there wasn't anyone else he could have been referring to. All the nearby tables were empty.

"Not you. Come on, come on. Yes!" Stabbing victoriously at his phone, Kurt did a ridiculous little dance that jostled the table hard enough to put a few of the empty glasses on it in jeopardy. "Ten minutes ahead of schedule. Suck that, National Economist. Next round's on me."

Evan startled a little as those intense brown eyes were suddenly focused on him. “Er ... was that one to me?"

Kurt's eyes crinkled with humor. "Yes."

"Oh, okay." With the sinking feeling that he was being laughed at, Evan turned to go back to the bar.

"Sorry, sorry, wait." Warm fingers burned against his arm as Kurt caught his wrist. "I was a dick. You wanted to talk to me?" He didn't pull Evan around, just held him there until he'd finished speaking, and then let go.

"It's nothing," Evan said, trying to ignore the way his hand tingled. He turned around with a shrug. "I'll get that drink for you."

"My sister always tells me that if I insist on talking to my stock trades, people are going to think I'm a giant asshole. It's a bad habit, but I think it's kind of my good luck charm."

Kurt grinned sheepishly and leaned over the table, his phone resting next to him. The screen was still on, a blur of numbers flowing past too quickly for Evan to process.

"Being an asshole?" Evan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kurt laughed, loud and obnoxious. "Yes, absolutely. The bigger asshole I am, the more money I make. Yesterday, I tailgated some poor schmuck for six blocks and made two million dollars."

He raised his glass in a toast, tipping back the remains and getting hit in the face with the ice. It just made him laugh harder.

Shaking his head, Evan didn't bother to hide his smile. "Sounds like you have a good system there. Let me go get you another drink."

He hadn't even made it a step before Pyotr's deep, rumbling voice shook the floorboards. "Hey, dude. You want a job?"

"For the love of..." Evan slumped, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Ignore him, please," he told Kurt. "Unlike you, he's an asshole as a hobby."

Kurt laughed at him. Not so much his mouth, which was pointedly not smiling, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. Evan hadn't even known eyes could do that in the shitty lighting of his little bar. "And I'm what? A professional?"

"You make money off it," Evan retorted. "He can't even hire anyone. Fucking Russian alphas think they own everything."

"I may know a guy like that," Kurt said with a grin. "How are the benefits?" he added in a shout that carried across the room.

By now, every person in the room was watching them, most of them getting entirely too much enjoyment out of it. Evan crossed his arms and glared at Pyotr. He'd started this mess; he could finish it.

"Not bad," Pyotr said, smirking at Evan. Why were they friends again? "Flexible schedule, easy work. Occasionally, you get to punch someone."

"I hate you. You're fired," Evan said, throwing his arms up and heading for the bar. "Do you hear me? I'm hiring him to replace you."

Pyotr just grinned wider, cracking his knuckles in a way that made even the regulars go a little pale.

"Sounds like fun," Kurt said. His eyes followed Evan as he swiped at the bar top, and Evan stared back, refusing to be cowed. It was instinct to straighten his spine and lift his chin after a lifetime of dealing with alphas who thought they could roll right over him. Even if his skin did prickle with heat at that warm gaze. "I'm up at weird hours anyway. Might as well get paid for it."

Over Evan's shoulder, the warning timer went off, reminding him that it was closing time. He hadn't even noticed how late it had gotten. “All right, that's it. Everybody get the hell out of my bar."

A groan swept through the room, but the regulars dragged themselves to their feet without much of a fight. Kurt got up and wandered toward the door, stopping to clap Pyotr on the shoulder. He didn't seem intimidated at all, either by the other alpha's size or the scars.

Evan sighed. "If you're serious about taking the job, there's some paperwork you'll have to file," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the now-empty bar.

He fully expected Kurt to laugh it off; instead, he slouched over to the bar with a delighted grin. "Job paperwork. Like a background check? Tax forms? This is so exciting."

Bewildered, Evan glanced at him through his lashes. He seemed genuinely pleased. "Two million dollars in a day, and paperwork is what makes you happy?"

Kurt shrugged. "Never had a job before. Not one with paperwork, anyway. I've been managing money since I was old enough to register my own trades." He leaned over the bar and fluttered his lashes. "Two million is a slow day, you know."

Evan stared at him. He'd known a lot of different people since he came to Miami, but this guy...

"Are you serious?" Also, was that flirting?

The million-dollar asshole was flirting with him. As Kurt's future boss, this should probably have concerned him more than it did.

"Yeah. One time I got blackout drunk and puked all over my best friend's car. Man, I made so much money that night. I wish I could remember how I did it." Kurt sighed wistfully.

"You know how to balance books?" Pyotr asked, coming to lean against the bar next to them.

"Would you shut up about the books?" Evan growled. "I will get to it."

"Yes," Pyotr said, nodding solemnly. "When the IRS audits you. Again."

"I'm not an accountant," Kurt said, judging Evan with one raised eyebrow, "but I'm not bad at the basics. I can always call a friend of mine if I run into anything interesting."

"No friends," Pyotr said, and Evan almost dumped the drip tray over his head. "Evan doesn't think they're trustworthy."

"Your friends," Evan said. "Your friends aren't trustworthy. You won't even tell me the names of the guys you hired last time.

“And no," he added, raising his hand as the alpha opened his mouth to protest, "Ivan the Spider is not a name.” Pyotr shrugged, gesturing broadly with his massive hands.

Chuckling under his breath, Kurt shook his head. "My friend has a name and a consulting business. I promise it would be all aboveboard."

"Boring," Pyotr singsonged.

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here," Evan said, pushing the big Russian toward the door. Given their relative sizes, it should have been completely ineffective, but Pyotr allowed it. "I'll see you tomorrow, jerk."

Once the door closed behind him, the big room felt surprisingly intimate. Kurt's dark eyes glowed in the bar neon. As Evan wandered around turning things off, he realized it was just the heat in Kurt's eyes that made them glow.

"You want to come up?" he asked. "To fill out paperwork."

Kurt smiled slowly, his eyes dipping as he gave Evan a long once-over. "Sure. To fill out paperwork."