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Summary
He smells him before he sees him, the scent competing over the sticky smell of stale beer and sweat. It smells like burnt sugar, a little bitter mixed in with the sweetness. He leaves the paperwork on the desk and steps out of his office, passing the bathrooms that he can tell Erica still hasn't cleaned.
A lithe, what Peter could only describe as a boy is standing in the middle of the empty bar, one hand gripping the dolly's handle full of boxes of Hair of the Dog; one of the few werewolf beers that doesn't taste of ass. (And Peter would know.) His mouth is slightly parted as he surveys the bar and Peter suppressed thoughts of what he could put in that mouth.