After Hours Daddy
A.W. Scott
Chapter One
Konnor Thomas Angstrom
The stage doesn’t look as arousing with all the lights on.
My cheeks heat as the thought comes. Thinking about how last night went, I force myself to shake off any impending arousal and pay attention to the orientation speech the boss is giving us.
“As I said in your interviews, this is a professional environment that requires high energy at all times on show nights. This means getting plenty of rest and hydrating beforehand. I don’t want anyone passing out. Do we all understand?”
The six of us chant, “Yes, sir!” in an odd, military-like way.
“You’re all dismissed for now. Be ready for your first shift later tonight. If you’re late, you’re fired.” With that proclamation, he jumps off the side of the stage and heads for a set of stairs to the side. I trail his path with my eyes, wondering just where all the behind-the-scenes spaces lead.
So far, I’ve only had the barest of tours. It’s going to take me a while to get everything figured out. Hopefully someone will take mercy on me if I screw up tonight.
“Can you believe we get to work here?” the guy beside me asks, his voice full of excitement.
I try to mimic him by injecting as much joy into my voice. “Heck yes! It’s going to be great.”
Clearly I don’t do that great of a job convincing him I’m cool because his lip curls a bit before he saunters off. It’s the same old same, even here. I thought working for It’s Raining Men, the premiere male dance show in Vegas, would put me in a more welcoming group.
Growing up, all I knew were the judgmental stares of those around me. Even my parents couldn’t understand why I wanted to paint my nails or keep my hair long. When they refused to let me continue to grow it out, I saved my chore money to buy wigs in various colors.
The habit stuck with me even as I got older. Now I have a massive collection of wigs and all the accessories a person with luscious long hair might need.
Nervously, I run my fingers through the ends of my burgundy wig as I turn to head toward the entrance. It’s best if I leave now rather than getting caught in another awkward half-exchange. The other new hires might be cool. Or they might be like the first guy who blew me off.
Weaving around the empty tables and chairs, I’m nearly to the entrance when I feel arms come around me. “Gotcha!”
I scream bloody murder as fear takes over. What the hell is going on? Is this some kind of initiation thing? Am I about to be tortured? I was just supposed to be a support staff guy. I don’t want any extra attention.
“Woah… hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. Shit!”
The words are muddled, almost like I’m underwater. It takes everything I have to remain standing when the person lets me go.
Spinning around, I stare down the attacker. Unfortunately for me, he also happens to be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.
Mr. Grabby has a buzz cut, though I suspect his hair is really light when it grows out. The way the light hits it is too bright to be a brunette or darker. His jaw is chiseled, and his eyes are bright with an emotion I can’t name. What I can name is the color of his eyes: light brown.
The detail helps calm the raging storm inside me. It’s not a complete fix. Just enough to even out my breathing.
“There we go. Good to know you’re alive. I really am sorry about the confusion. I thought you were someone else.” He scratches the back of his neck. The move shows off his perfectly sculpted bicep.
Dammit.
Don’t drool, Konnor.
Do. Not. Drool.
I’m a sucker for muscular men. Especially the lean kind like this guy is. I’d bet anything he’s one of the dancers.
“How did you confuse me with someone else? Who were you trying to attack?”
His eyes go wide. “Attack? No, that’s not—oh, geesh. It wasn’t supposed to be an attack. I’m in a really elaborate game of tag. Part of the rules include when we’re here at the club, we have to bear-hug the person. It’s easy to tap someone when we’re all working, so this makes it harder.”
