Chapter 8
Much to my dismay, it only takes two days for my assumptions about Jasper Grimsay’s role at the bar to be completely upended.
“Thank god we’ve got Jazz back tonight,” Gia says with a sigh. “People have been getting really antsy.”
I glance up from where I’m crouching behind the bar, stocking the fridge with containers of sliced fruit and edible flowers and mint leaves—all the random garnishes and ingredients that might be needed for drinks later. “Over jazz?”
She nods as she continues her task of sliding clean wine glasses onto the rack above the bar. “Hell yeah. Pretty sure some of the regulars were about to riot.”
I get to my feet, feeling a little off-kilter.
I knew this was a whiskey-themed bar when I got the job, but I don’t remember Gia saying anything about jazz music.
I’m really not sure I can do a whole night of it.
I know there are people who absolutely love it, but to me it sounds like a whole lot of clattering and screeching with long stretches of boring thrown in-between.
“Is this just a special thing for tonight?” I ask hopefully. “Or is it a regular Sunday thing?”
“No, it’s most nights of the week.”
I stagger back a little in shock and have to clutch the bar to keep myself steady. “Most nights? Isn’t that a little…excessive?”
Gia shrugs. “It’s his bar. If he wants to sing every night that’s his call. And, trust me, people want him to sing.”
I frown in confusion. “Huh? Who are we talking about?”
She finally turns to look at me, one eyebrow arched. “Jazz, obviously.”
“Wait—Jazz is a person?” I let out a heavy sigh of relief and slump against the bar. “Thank god. I thought I was going to have to quit. No way can I put up with that much jazz music.”
She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“No, here you’ll just have to put up with an endless string of nineties covers.
But don’t worry, he mixes things up a lot.
You never hear the same song more than once a month.
” Her brows drawing together in puzzlement, she adds, “I don’t get it, though—didn’t you guys meet the other night?
He said he introduced himself on Friday. ”
I stand up again and run a hand over my face. “I don’t know. Maybe. There were a lot of people here Friday night.”
“Ah, speak of the devil,” Gia says brightly as the front door swings open and Jasper Grimsay strides in, unwinding a scarf from around his neck and shrugging off his leather jacket.
“Wait—this is who you were talking about? This is “Jazz”?” I ask Gia incredulously.
“I think the air quotes are slightly unnecessary,” Jazz drawls, before his lips curve into a sly smirk and he adds, “but I’m dying to know everything Damon’s been saying about me.”
“Actually, I was just saying how much I hate jazz. Even just hearing the word makes my ears bleed.”
Next to me, Gia lets out a snort of laughter and shakes her head. “This is going to be interesting.”
By about eight pm the bar is completely packed—far busier than it has been any of the previous Sundays I’ve worked here. Or Fridays or Saturdays for that matter.
“What’s going on?” I shout at Gia over the noise of the crowd. “Was there some big event on today I forgot about?”
“I guess word’s got around that he’s back.”
My face screws up in complete skepticism. “You cannot possibly be serious.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when I see Jazz striding to the stage, guitar in hand. And the crowd actually cheers.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck’s wrong with everyone? It’s not like he’s Ed Sheeran.”
Gia just shrugs, offering a wry smile. “They love him.”
“Why? He’s such a dick.”
She grins and shakes her head, moving off to serve another customer, while I pour out the cocktails I’ve been shaking.
“Hey everyone, it’s good to be back,” Jazz says, prompting another unnecessary cheer. “As you might have already noticed, we have a new bartender on staff here—everyone say hi to Damon.”
I feel like a deer in headlights as a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes turn to gawk at me. I give a cursory wave and fortunately the crowd is quickly distracted when Jazz starts talking again.
Or, at least, it would have been fortunate if he’d moved off the topic of me.
“Apparently he’s a massive fan of jazz music,” he says with a teasing smirk. “So I thought I’d give a warm welcome by kicking things off with some Jamiroquai.”
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, it is, but he also has one of those playback 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?”
“It was a 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, maybe he 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 fucking blatant.
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.