“Who the fuck do you think you are, Whistler? You don’t get to treat me like this, not now, not ever.” I yanked the door open and left him standing there, intent on burying myself in the few remaining tasks before the show began. I willed my cock to soften. I felt frustration rising in me to a breaking point, but my breakdown would have to wait. Shit, he had horrible timing.
By the time the music started, the place was packed—a great problem to have. I’d hired two bartenders to manage the crowd. The new songs were a hit, and the band ran out of CDs to autograph. Coupons for free downloads were given away after that. There were T-shirts and other paraphernalia, too. I avoided Chuck as much as I could, working hard behind the scenes to keep things running smoothly. By the time the evening was over, I was exhausted.
“You need help cleaning up?” Dorian asked, his arm around Laramie as they walked over to where I stood behind the bar, checking supplies.