Chapter 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, I try to focus on the cocktail, but thanks to this fucking song I have last night’s…
interlude flashing 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 and the 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 actually disappointed.
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 Doubt isn’t my 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.
Once I’m alone in the peace and quiet of the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and take a firm grip of the counter, letting my eyes fall closed as I draw in a few steadying breaths.
All I need is about five minutes to chill the fuck out.
I’m not freaking out the way I was on Friday, so I know I’ll be able to get this hard-on to go down and get back to work without resorting to jerking off again; I just need to relax and clear my head…
Unfortunately, this plan is thwarted by the current bane of my existence, who waltzes into the bathroom only a few minutes after me, causing my softening cock to instantly chub out again. Clearly “Horny” was the last song of his set.
“I hope you’re not planning to stay in here too long,” he drawls. “Gia will think you’re having prostate issues again.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the baffling statement, my brow creasing in confusion. “Why would she think I’m having prostate issues?”
Jazz shrugs. “Because you’re old and had an “accident” the other day,” he says, lifting his hands to make air quotes.
I close my eyes at the reminder, my entire body flooding with heat and my cock straining further as any hope of salvaging my sanity flies out the window. “And I guess you didn’t bother to correct her?”
He quirks one dark brow at me. “Should I have told her you came all over yourself because I turned you on so much you needed to rub it out at work? I didn’t realize you wanted people knowing that dirty boy.”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, thrusting a hand through my hair in agitation. “You don’t turn me on.”
I’m not just being stubborn; I’ve tried testing it multiple times. I can acknowledge he’s an attractive guy, sure; but it’s in the same way I can acknowledge Owen is an attractive guy. It’s just a fact.
Even now, I’m standing here with my dick so hard it’s starting to hurt and I still have zero interest in getting a glimpse of what I’m sure would be a pretty fit body under his jeans and sweater. And the thought of kissing him and being intimate with him is just really fucking weird.
So I have no idea why the hell my cock got rock-hard all over again the second Jazz entered the bathroom. I just know it’s not because I’m secretly attracted to him or whatever bullshit he’s convinced himself of.
Undeterred by the rejection, Jazz props himself on the edge of the counter and sidles up closer. “Correction—you’re not attracted to me. But like I’ve already said several times, that doesn’t mean I don’t turn you on.”
“It’s the same thing,” I scoff.
He shakes his head. “No, you only think that because you’re stuck on the black and white setting you’ve been using for a lifetime of heteronormative, vanilla sex. Once you switch over to the gray zone your brain will stop fritzing out.”
I arch a skeptical brow. “The gray zone?”
“Yep—where it’s totally normal to be aroused by stimuli other than sexual attraction to someone.
” His mouth curves into a familiar smirk and he leans closer.
“I think I’ve well and truly proven over the past couple days I’m more than capable of turning you on and getting you off despite your lack of interest in running your tongue all over my naked body. ”
My face screws up at the thought. “Yeah, no thanks. No offense,” I hastily add, realizing how insensitive I’m being.
Jazz lets out a wry huff and settles back, seeming completely unfazed. “None taken. The shit that turns you on is far more fun and interesting.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
The Cheshire cat grin that forms slowly on Jazz’s face has me instantly regretting the question. “S as he’s about to open it, he turns back to flash me a cocky smile.
“Oh, and dirty boy—you’re going to find I’m not remotely hard to get.
Once you’re done working through all your misgivings and confusion and apprehension and you decide you want this… just come and get it.”