Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. Written for fun, not profit

Author's Notes: Written for Ifreet.

Story Notes: AU of "Chicago Holiday" inspired by a viewing of said episode. This is the first chapter of the Leather Kisses series.

Stella slammed the cordless phone onto its base. Having left three voicemails--the last one ending with an "or else!"--on Janna Zuniga's answering machine, she tapped her right foot while considering her options.

It was more than obvious that Janna, a.k.a. 'DJ Jezebel', was not going to show up. Stella exhaled, feeling very annoyed at herself. She really should have known better, after all these years, not to accept one of Ray's offers to help her with staffing. Hadn't she always been Leather Kisses' sole owner? She had fought hard to keep it during the divorce proceedings, hardest than the time she stood up to her father when he tried to convince her that she didn't have a head for business. That she had never practiced (though she passed the Bar Exam) didn't mean she hadn't read her fair share of books on property laws.

She tapped her pen against the desk while looking though the one-way mirror that was in front of her and out to the dance floor. Cocking her head to the side, she made a face as the song came to and end . . . and started up. Again.

Thankfully, it was early enough, barely eleven p.m., that even the regulars knew the 'real' music (whatever that was these days) wouldn't be trying to burst out their eardrums for another hour. She could always ring DJ Leatherette up, whom despite being a former Navy SEAL had a music collection big enough to appeal to anyone from the S&M crowd to the random tourist who was looking for an 'adventure'.

Still, calling him this late meant having to fork over about an extra hundred dollars. On the other hand, it was Friday night and she knew people were in the mood to party. Having made her decision, she flipped her Rolodex open while cursing at Ray and his flaky acquaintances one last time.

A flash of movement to the right side of the floor caught her attention. There was a young woman--maybe young enough to be a teenager--wearing a short black dres and trying to squeeze her way to the bar.

Marcus was behind the bar, all by himself for another half hour before Delishious, the six-foot drag queen who was a fabulous bartender to boot, was due to show up. She liked the way Marcus worked . . . for the most part. He was efficient (his till was never off, not even by a penny which impressed Stella who had had to deal with the occasional sticky-fingered staff member) and charming enough to get everyone (down to the guy wearing the French maid outfit) to buy at least a couple of drinks. The problem with Marcus had to do with what was happening right this very moment: he never asked for I.D. as long as the clientele slipped a couple of extra dollars his way. Stella smirked with annoyance. That was sure to cause some trouble sooner rather than later.

She was about to call James, her main security person, and ask her to escort the teenager out when, seemingly out of nowhere, there was a guy wearing a very convincing Mountie dress uniform sliding next to the teen, taking her drink and handing it back to Marcus. The teenager pulled a face, turned around and walked away from the Mountie and toward the ladies' bathroom.

Stella settled back on her chair, found DJ Leatherette's number and spent the next ten minutes discussing and eventually agreeing to the DJ's fee for a last-minute replacement. Having doused that fire down, she then went through the payroll ledger and started to figure out everyone's salaries including her own. The staff was sure to be dropping by the office to pick up their paychecks once the club closed its doors at 5:30 a.m.