Chapter 10
The past few nights 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 it very well…”
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, it is a 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.
“Yes!” Shay cries out, throwing his arms in the air with completely unwarranted enthusiasm.
Jazz startles at the outburst, glancing up to eye Shay, Blake and Jamie with obvious curiosity.
I have no idea how Shay recognized the song with just the beat to go from, but as soon as Jazz adds the guitar riff I know what it is. And so does Blake.
I roll my eyes and just barely manage to stifle a groan as I watch Shay and Blake slam their palms together in a show of excitement that would be better suited for a Superbowl game.
He just had to play this song…
“It’s the disease song, isn’t it?” Jamie asks, his scrunched-up nose indicating an enthusiasm level similar to my own.
“It’s called “One Headlight,” red. We’ve been over this many times,” Shay says.
Jamie catches my eye and lifts a hand to swipe through the air above his head.
I let out a wry chuckle and shake my head. “I’ll go get you your vodka,” I tell him. Shay and Blake are both now singing along like drunken sailors and I figure it’s probably a good idea to clear the area before Shay decides to start moonwalking.
I’ve known Shay for decades because he and Blake have been best friends since college.
If I was surprised to find out my brother was seriously involved with a guy almost twenty years his junior, it was nothing compared to my shock when I learned the same thing about Shay.
It wasn’t so much the age gap as the fact that Shay’s been a commitmentphobe for as long as I’ve known him, so finding out he’d actually settled down with a twenty-five-year-old British guy was kind of mind-blowing.
Add in the fact that Jamie is the long-lost son I helped Blake connect with last year and it’s enough to make me seriously consider writing to a daytime talk show.
And did I mention Owen is Shay’s younger brother? My head is hurting just thinking about that whole dynamic.
Thank god all of Shay’s and Owen’s other siblings are paired off already. The last thing I need is for Blake getting it into his head to set me up with one of them so I can officially join the huge, crazy Kelly family.
When I return to the bar, I get to work making Jamie’s vodka, lime, and soda. It’s not a remotely complicated drink so it shouldn’t take long.
Shouldn’t being the operative word.
I fill a glass with ice and grab the open bottle of vodka from the back bar.
I’ve just started pouring when I hear an opening riff that makes my head snap up.
I’m used to hearing this performed on piano, but there’s absolutely no mistaking the tune.
And when I glance at the stage I find Jazz staring right at me, mouth curved into a familiar taunting smirk as he launches into the first verse of “Hard to Handle.”
Levity dances in his eyes and I know he’s reveling in the embarrassed flush that’s just hit my cheeks. Fucking asshole.
I shoot him a hard glare and get back to Jamie’s drink, attempting to ignore the uncomfortable prickling running across my skin as I sense Jazz’s continued gaze on me.
Fucking hell. This song isn’t even that provocative but compared to everything else he’s been playing this week it’s practically obscene.
And The Black Crowes are one of my favorite bands. How the fuck does he know that?
I finally manage to make Jamie’s drink—although it takes far longer than it should for something so simple—and I garnish the glass with a twist of lime zest and a pretty pink flower. It’s not something I’d usually do for this drink, but I know Jamie will love it.
Jazz finishes the song just as I’m returning to Blake’s table with Jamie’s drink. I let out a sigh of relief; if last week is any indication he’ll let me stew for a while before starting the torture again. Hopefully Blake and the others will be gone by then.
I don’t recognize the next song at first, but then I hear Jamie cry, “It’s Britney, bitch!” and realize it’s a sultry acoustic version of “(You Drive Me) Crazy.”
Fucking hell. So much for a break between torture sessions.
When I reach the table I’m momentarily distracted by Jamie swanning around in his chair and crooning along—very much out of key—to the song, while Shay looks on with fond amusement. Blake, however, is eyeing me with concern, bringing my focus back to my present feeling of unease. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I grate out through a jaw full of tension.
Blake glances up at the stage, then back at me, brows creased together. “Why is he just staring at you like that?”
I shrug. “Just something he does sometimes. I guess he gets a kick out of making me uncomfortable.”
“That’s pretty messed up.”
“Yeah, well, I told you—he’s a dick.”
He glances back toward Jazz again, his expression more curious this time. “Why does it make you uncomfortable?”
My brows creep up at the question. “You mean him staring at me while singing nineties songs about sex and obsession?”
Blake shrugs. “I know why it would make someone uncomfortable. But this kind of thing usually rolls right off you.”
I’m not going to lie; I’ve been wondering the same thing.
A lot. I have no idea why Jazz is different.
He just is. Maybe it’s because he’s doing all this on purpose.
He knows exactly how to get under my skin and he enjoys it.
Or maybe it’s because I’m so fucking aware of him, and I have no idea why.
I shouldn’t be able to sense him staring at me.
I shouldn’t even notice the songs he’s singing.
The truth is, he’s been taking up way too much space in my head lately and that is what makes me more uncomfortable than anything else.
“Yeah, well, this is different. The kid just rubs me the wrong way, I guess.”
“If you’re really uncomfortable you should do something,” Blake says.
“It’s fine.” No fucking way am I giving Jazz the satisfaction of complaining about this. And it’s not that big of a deal anyway. It’s just music. And staring. And brazenly revealing sexual fantasies. And an asshole kid that won’t get the fuck out of my head.
I return to the bar to give Gia a hand. It’s still early so it’s not super busy yet, but there are still enough people waiting that I feel guilty just standing around shooting the shit with my brother.
Fortunately, Jazz lays off the blatant staring for the rest of his set, but it seems as though the floodgates have opened and all the songs he’s been holding back for the past few days are now coming out. There’s nothing too overt, thank fuck, but I know it’s only a matter of time.
After about half an hour, he finishes up his rendition of Sublime’s “What I Got” and sets his guitar down. Then I watch in horror as he makes a beeline for Blake’s table, a characteristic smirk on his face.