I let out a breath of laughter. “Definitely not. But has the menu been updated?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think so. Pretty sure the others are still using egg whites.”
“Well, that’ll have to change,” I say decisively. “Drinks need to be standardized, andthisis the standard.”
Damon looks mildly surprised, and I have to wonder if he’s been under the impression that I’ve been ordering from him all week purely for the purposes of messing with him. I mean, yes, I have been messing with him, but that’s just the cherry; his drinks are freakin’ amazing.
I drain the rest of my drink and offer a teasing grin. “I’d better get back up there. Any requests?”
Damon quirks a brow at me. “I don’t know. Are you capable of singing anything that isn’t about sex?”
I let out a wry chuckle. “Well, so far tonight I’ve sung four songs about addiction, three songs about suicide, and three songs about domestic violence—one of which featured a murder plot.” I flash a teasing grin and lean over the bar so I can talk in his ear. “Are you capable ofhearingany songs that aren’t about sex, dirty boy?”
A sharp intake of breath is Damon’s only response to the pet name. But it’s enough to confirm everything I already suspected.
Still grinning, I slide back from the bar and stroll back to the stage, turning off the music currently playing through the sound system. I reconnect my equipment and reset the looper, making sure I have a clean track, then I grab my guitar and settle onto my stool.
Instead of proceeding with the setlist I have planned out, I decide to mix things up a bit. I’ve already seen how Damon reacts when I sing about sexy stuff; now I want to see what happens when I take that away.
I start by laying down the opening riff of “I Want You” by Savage Garden, which prompts Damon to toss his head back and let out a groan of frustration. Imayhave snooped on his Spotify profile, so I’m not surprised to find he recognizes this song even before the lyrics start. And when I transitioninto “Affirmation” and play that instead, his consternation is so predictably amusing I have to force myself not to laugh out loud.
I keep it up for the rest of my set, avoiding anything even vaguely sexual and opting for songs with a little more depth instead. It’s a good thing I’ve been away for three out of the past four weeks—it makes it much easier to go rogue without breaking my rule of not playing the same song more than once a month.
The longer my set goes on without a sexy song, the more confused Damon seems to get. And it’s fucking adorable.
10
The past fewnights at work have been strange. Jazz is no longer singing his innuendo-packed songs, which should be a relief, but for some reason it feels…weird.
It’s not that he’s lost interest—he’s still just as brazen as ever when he comes up to the bar—but for some reason that I’m sure makes sense in Jazz’s creepy head he’s purposefully staying away from any song with even a hint of a sexual undertone.
It’s confusing as fuck, and I’ve spent way too much time and brain power over the last few days trying to puzzle it out. And the fact that I even care is frustrating the hell out of me.
“This guy’s pretty good,” Shay says with a bob of his head, tapping his fingers against the table as Jazz strums out Pearl Jam’s “Last Kiss.”
“Don’t say that in front of Damon,” Blake says dryly. “According to him the kid’s the anti-Christ.”
“Not possible,” Jamie says. “A bloke that hot can’t be the anti-Christ. I’ve got no idea what this song is but he’s singing itverywell…”
I roll my eyes as I set Shay’s and Blake’s beers on the table. Bad enough they’ve followed through on Blake’s suggestion to come to Whiskey Tango, now they’re complimenting Jazz as well? Bunch of Benedict Arnolds.
“Haven’t you heard of the devil in disguise?” I say to my nephew.
“I’ve heard of sexy as fuck musicians who look like they know how to suck a cock,” he says with a shrug. “Does it really matter if he’s the devil?”
I arch an eyebrow at Shay, wondering why he’s not reacting to his boyfriend so obviously drooling over another guy. A guy way closer to Jamie’s age, no less. But Shay merely shrugs. “What? He’s allowed to look. And he’s only telling it like it Is.” Turning to Jamie, he adds, “And the song is “Last Kiss” by Pearl Jam. Fun fact—it’s their only cover and also their top-selling single.”
“No offense babe, but there’s nothing fun about that fact,” Jamie drawls. Then he turns his attention back to the stage, his expression softening. “Aw, he looks sad. Or is that just a sexy brooding thing?”
I let out a frustrated groan. “Please stop talking about how sexy he is. His ego is inflated enough.”
“He does look a little sad, though,” Blake observes thoughtfully. “Kind of…pensive,”
“Well, itisa song about a guy whose girlfriend dies right in front of him after a brutal car accident,” Shay points out.
I glance to the stage but all I see is Jazz leaning down to grab his water bottle, having just finished the song. If some rare phenomenon did occur I’ve obviously missed it.
Jazz takes a long drink and then settles back with his guitar again, using it to tap out a soft beat that somehow sounds like it’s being played on a full drum set.
