“Thanks.” I offer a soft smile and step away from the bar, threading through the crowd as I make my way to the staff area. I make a quick visit to the bathroom before grabbing my guitar from my office and returning to the main bar area.
As I approach the stage, I find Bree crouched down connecting up all the various cords. She’s done this for me hundreds of times, so it’s only a matter of seconds before everything’s set up.
“There you go!” she announces as she gets to her feet.
“Please don’t ever leave me for a job working backstage at Madison Square Gardens.”
She lets out a little snort and rolls her eyes, jumping down from the stage and getting back to her regular job of waiting tables.
Considering recent developments there really wasn’t much of a decision to make in regard to which song to open my set with tonight. Once I’m settled in with my guitar ready, I scan my eyes over the bar in search of Damon. He’s busy making some drinks and seems to be concentrating unusually hard on his task. I can’t help myself from observing him for a few more moments, noticing that even once the drinks are done, he seems determined to look anywhere but at the stage.
The corner of my mouth twitches and I decide to finally start playing, my amusement multiplying when I see Damon fumble a bottle of vodka—fortunately managing to catch it before it actually falls to the ground—and then turning to glare at me. I just quirk an eyebrow at him and keep singing “I Touch Myself.”
17
“Shit, that was a close one,”Shane exclaims, flashing a brief, wide-eyed glance my way before returning his attention to his waiting customer.
“The bottle’s wet,” I mutter, as if that would be an excuse even if it were true.
I let out a shaky breath and turn my focus back to the lemon drop I’m supposed to be mixing. Or, at least, Itryto focus on the cocktail, but thanks to this fucking song I have last night’s…interludeflashing through my head, edited together with clips from the bathroom the other night and that text exchange this morning. Which, of course, is no doubt the exact result Jazz was aiming for.Asshole.
Fucking hell, I need to get a grip. But damn, it was hard enough to shake off the effect of these inappropriate songs when they were just random ones; this targeted attack is likely to kill me.
I still have no fucking clue how I let that whole thing happen last night. One second I was hell-bent on ignoring his texts andthe next I was letting him listen to me jerk off while he talked filth in my ear.
And then this morning… he was right when he said I was baiting him. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until he said he couldn’t call and I was actuallydisappointed.
Seriously…What. The. Fuck?
With far more effort than should be necessary I manage to shake out of my dirty thoughts and ignore the blood rushing to my cock so I can get back to the task at hand. Fortunately, he gives me a reprieve for the next few songs, so I’m able to actually serve my customers and earn some much-needed tips.
But then he moves into “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks and all I can think about is that text from this morning: “…I bet if I called you right now all I’d hear is you panting like a bitch in heat…”
Jesus Christ, the songs don’t even need to be dirty anymore…
I can feel Jazz’s eyes on me as I move around the bar doing my best to ignore the tingling arousal coursing through me and focus on work. Despite my better judgement I lift my gaze to the stage as I’m waiting for a pint of beer to fill and, unsurprisingly, Jazz’s gray eyes are dancing with amusement, his mouth curving into a teasing smirk as he reaches an instrumental part of the song.Asshole.
Furious with myself for engaging, I shake my head sharply and get back to work.
Now I know how scary smart Jazz is it probably shouldn’t surprise me how easily he’s able to match seemingly innocuous nineties songs with inside references from the past few days to drive me fucking insane; but expecting it doesn’t make me anymore prepared for it, and after half an hour I’m pretty much at the end of my tether.
“You alright, man?” Shane asks me when he catches me cursing at a bottle of prosecco.
I let out a grunt of frustration and swipe a hand over my face. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired, and this bottle’s being tricky.”
“And I take it you’re not a big fan of No Doubt?” he asks, one brow quirked.
“Huh?”
“You were muttering something about wishing he’d play something different…”
Fucking hell.It’s one thing for the others to notice my discomfort while Jazz sings about sex and obsession—that’s a completely normal reaction. But there’s no reason whatsoever for me to be so rattled by songs like “Sunday Morning,” or Better Than Ezra’s “Desperately Wanting,” or “Hook” by Blues Traveler.
“They’re not my favorite,” I say with a shrug. It’s not a lie—No Doubtisn’tmy favorite band—but it’s nonetheless misleading considering I do actually really like their music. Under normal circumstances, at least…
I manage to get the bottle open and pour two glasses for the waiting customer and am just finishing up with the payment when Jazz decides to get unambiguous again.
I send him a hard glare the moment I recognize the Mousse T song and then let Shane know I’m heading to the bathroom. I don’t even attempt to ride it out, because I know I won’t be able to. Not with Jazz singing the word “horny” about fifty million times as though he’s announcing to the entire bar that I’m a dirty slut who can’t help himself from jerking off at work.
