At first I feel a little vindicated, because no matter how hard someone tries it’s simply impossible to recreate all that clanging and screeching on acoustic guitar. But it turns out it’s not just an acoustic guitar—I mean, itis, but he also has one of thoseplayback things that makes it sound like there’s a whole band up there with him.
But as painful as the music is to listen to, it’s nothing compared to the lyrics. As soon as he starts singing it becomes obvious he’s chosen this song specifically in an attempt to get under my skin. And it’s fucking working. I’m not a fan of this artist so I have no idea what the song’s called, but words and phrases like “closer” and “pleasure” and “passion” and “blow my mind” are repeated quite a lot.
And the whole time I can feel Jazz’s eyes following me as I move around the bar, boring into me with the same intensity from the other night. Like he’s trying to use laser vision to melt my clothes away.
And judging by the way my whole body feels like it’s on fire, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s working.
“He’s a fucking nightmare,”I say to Blake as we jog along the High Line on Thursday afternoon. “All he ever sings are nineties covers. Because according to him that’s the best decade of music, even though he wasn’t even born then so how the fuck would he know?”
“Itwasa pretty good decade,” Blake says reasonably. “Seattle Sound, Brit Pop, angry female rockers, disco revival, skate punk…a ton of great R’n’B…”
Okay,maybehe has a point. But until the past few days, I seriously had no idea just how many nineties songs had been about sex and desire. Not until Jazz Grimsay started singing them all in his admittedly very talented voice while following me around the bar with heat-filled eyes.
“Whose side are you on?” I snap at my brother.
He holds up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t realize we were declaring all-out war over nineties music.”
Fuck.I pull to a stop, lifting the hem of my t-shirt to wipe my face as I gather my breath. I’m being an idiot. What the hell does it matter if Jazz has a thing for me? I’ve made it clear he’s barking up the wrong tree, so if he wants to waste his time lusting after someone he can’t have, that’s his business.
I just wish the lusting wasn’t so fuckingblatant. I can sense his eyes following me around the bar and it feels like I have a fucking spotlight focused on me. It makes me feel all flustery and unsettled, which is discomfiting in and of itself because I’m not used to feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. But I’m also not used to being the subject of such glaring attention. Not just attention—objectification. Sexualization. Fuck, even just thinking about it has my body flushing hot with discomfort.
“Maybe we should come by one night?” Blake suggests thoughtfully. “Shay would love the nineties stuff.”
Oh god. No. I am desperately regretting unloading my frustration now, because the last thing I want is my brother and his best friend—and in all likelihood several of Shay’s rowdy siblings—coming to the bar and witnessing me getting serenaded with songs like “A.D.I.D.A.S.” and “Diggin’ On You” and “The Bad Touch.”
“Ah, I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” I hedge. “I’ll be pretty busy working…”
“Nah, it’ll be fun,” Blake says with a grin, slapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll work it out with Shay and Jamie. Not sure if Owen will want to go—it’s not really his scene—but you never know.”
Great.
9
Okay,I’ll admit it—“Blow Your Mind” wasn’t on the set list I spent so much time cultivating for last Sunday’s big return to the Whiskey Tango stage. And even if it had been, I definitely wouldn’t have planned to open my first set after a three-week break with acid jazz.
The crowd didn’t seem to mind too much, though; especially after I followed it up with Eifel 65’s “Blue,” and then “Beer” by Reel Big Fish—two crowd favorites that I very much doubt were played by any of the musicians who filled in here while I was away.
But there was one person who did seem to have a problem with my impromptu set change…
I couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to rile Damon up a little after that barb he made about my name, but I honestly wasn’t expecting him to get so rattled by the attention and—I’m assuming—the innuendo packed into the song. After the snark he threw at me when I first arrived on Sunday I kind of figured his response to my interest in him during our first meetingwas a complete outlier. Maybe he was just caught off-guard. Or maybe he really did think I was seventeen—although that was pretty unlikely; people usually mistake my age in the opposite direction. Or maybe he felt awkward about being impolite to his boss—not that I give a shit about that; the reason I like to unleash my “abrasive charm” in the first meeting is to weed out any fakers.
But evidently I was mistaken about being mistaken. So, needless to say, I’ve turned sexy serenades into a regular feature over the past week, and so far every one of them has elicited the exact same reaction: visible discomfort, skin flushing red, struggling to focus…
But so far he hasn’t asked me to stop…
I can tell he’s someone who’s not particularly accustomed to being made to feel uncomfortable, and I just can’t shake the thought that he actuallylikesit.
Helikesbeing rattled.
And I fucking love that I seem to be the only one who can rattle him.
Obviously I’m not pulling out the sexy stuff foreverysong. For one thing, there just aren’t enough nineties songs about sex out there. For another, it’s more fun to catch Damon off-guard. And for a third, it’s pretty much fucking impossible to concentrate on looping beats and melodies and harmonies when my cock’s about to tear through my jeans because I can’t peel my eyes away from hottest man alive as he tries to maintain his composure while I sing about sex.
Fortunately, there are some excellent options that don’t require too much additional concentration. As I’m approaching the end of my second set I take some time to lay down a simple back beat and then let it run as I layer the acoustic over it. I can tell by the way Damon’s body tenses that he can feel me watching him; a predictable blush hits his cheeks and he looksvisibly flustered, but I don’t think he recognizes the song at first because when I get to the chorus and he hears the words “I want to kiss you all over” he almost trips over his own feet and his face turns red enough to rival Elmo’s fur.
Once he’s recovered, he turns and hits me with a glare of obvious irritation. I just quirk an eyebrow at him and scan my gaze around the heaving Saturday night crowd, indicating that no one else seems to have a problem with my song choice.
That prompts him to roll his eyes and shake his head in exasperation. And the fact that he can be completely rattled and embarrassed one second, and then just slide back into his regular confident, self-assured skin a moment later is pretty much the hottest thing ever.
