Page 20 of Silver Edge
“No, I mean… Whatever.” My belly had obviously shrunk since I was already full after only eating half the container.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Drake trotted to the back door. “First band’s here for load-in.”
Screech.
I closed my container and dashed to the hallway. My nerves wouldn’t handle the band warm-ups.
Drake followed me out to the front and handed me a money bag. “Here. Tim should be here tonight to man the front door, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. I’ll introduce you to him and other staff as they arrive. Door opens in an hour for the first show, but it won’t get crazy until around ten. By midnight, we’ll close the ticket booth. You can hang and listen to the bands until the show ends at about one a.m. Then cleanup and inventory and we’re out by two a.m.”
“Got it, Boss.” I saluted.
“Don’t call me that.” Drake tossed the bag at me.
“Why not? Hawaiian does.”
Drake shoved his hands in his pocket. “Yeah, well, I don’t stand a chance in a fight with him. You, I can turn over my knee and spank.”
“I think that’s sexual harassment, Boss.”
Drake sauntered to the doorway. “Guess I should fire you now, huh?”
“I think you should get to work.” I shoved him toward the stage.
It wasn’t long until people started trickling in to hear the first band. From my vantage point at the indoor ticket booth, I could catch a glimpse every so often of the lead singer jumping around the stage. The more the girls screeched their delight, the more he jumped, kicked, and straddled the microphone stand. They weren’t bad.
Drake maneuvered through the mass of churning bodies in the mosh pit to the front doors with a goofy grin on his face. It was still sexy-as-hell, but adorable at the same time. “Not bad?” he asked.
“Not bad.”
He eyed the chain of people lined up beyond the end of the building. “The register broke again. I’ll man the door, so you can go help Walter. He’s freaking out. There’s a stool at the end of the bar. Don’t go into the bar area, and whatever you do, don’t touch an ounce of alcohol.”
“Yes, sir.” I saluted.
He rolled his eyes and perched one butt cheek up on the stool at the entrance like he had the night before in his office.
The song ended and patrons skittered to the bar as if a floodlight were illuminating cockroaches, ones that had sniffed too much exterminator spray.
I found the stool and started taking orders, exchanging money and shouting out drinks to Hawaiian. Sweat poured down his forehead. He obviously wasn’t having a good night.
After about twenty minutes, we found our rhythm and he high-fived me over the bar. The next band stepped up to the microphone and music pumped through me from the speaker a few feet away. From my location, I couldn’t tell if they were Battle of the Bands material or more appropriate for Battle of the Dumpster. Finally, the song ended, but my head continued to pound.
For weeks, we followed the same routine. Dinner together, club opening, Hawaiian and I working together. Every night Drake stood closer to me, talked to me, leaned into me, touched me. He’d order me to stay so that he could walk me home at the end of each shift, but I’d always sneak out before he knew I was leaving. Twice I spotted Hawaiian following me home; it’s hard for a man like him to be inconspicuous with his loud shirt and large frame. On the seventh night, I thought Drake was going to throw me over his shoulder like some caveman and carry me home. The man was obsessed with me being alone on the streets at night. On the sixteenth night, he managed to follow me to the street of the warehouse before I managed to lose him. Tonight, I knew I had to be extra strategic if I was going to make it out of the club and to my home without an escort.
I sat at my normal seat on the outside of the bar and planned my escape while making change.
“I’ll take a tall drink of you.”
That voice. It echoed through my memory and before I even looked up and confirmed my fear, I knew it was him. The skater from a few weeks ago.
My skin crawled, making the attitude that slipped from my lips all the more potent. “You’re wearing a non-alcohol wristband, so you can have cherry Kool-Aid and run home to Mommy.” I waved him away and looked to the next person, but his friend slid around me and gripped my hips, keeping me from escaping.
My back cat-arched. My skin, my hair, and my attitude, everything electrified. His touch halted the air from entering my lungs, halted the thoughts in my head, halted my ability to speak.
His blotchy red face lowered to my line of vision. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation. So, you think you’re better than us?”
The words slashed through the constrictor around my throat. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone, but I know your friend better get his hands off me.”
