Chapter 3
““Give it Up”?” Damon’s brow arches pointedly as I swagger up to the bar after my first set. “Subtle.”
I flash a wry grin and shrug casually. “I had a request for Eurodance.”
He eyes me skeptically. “Uh huh. Do you actually want a drink or are you just here to annoy me?”
I smirk at him. “Can’t it be both?”
He rolls his eyes and turns to the back bar to mix my drink; as usual, I take the opportunity to let my eyes roam all over his incredible body, zeroing in on that gorgeous ass.
“Could you turn back around for a minute?” I tease as he hands me my drink. “I wasn’t done fantasizing about eating you out.”
His brows draw together in confusion. “Huh?”
I arch a brow. “Rimming you? Licking your ass?”
His face screws up in obvious distaste. “Urgh. That’s gross.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, you wouldn’t be saying that while it was happening.”
“Well, it won’t be happening so…”
I shrug. “We’ll see.” I take a sip of my drink and let out a moan, prompting Damon to roll his eyes.
“Did you know you only use the back bar when you’re mixing drinks for me?” I observe. “It’s like you’re inviting me to stare at your ass. Even after I told you I fantasized about fucking you,” I add with a pointed brow raise.
He lets out a derisive huff. “Or maybe I’d just prefer not to be drawn into ridiculous conversations like this one.”
“Uh huh.” I offer an indulgent smile and take another sip of my drink. “You seem pretty relaxed tonight for someone who’s apparently spent the last few days feeling strung out like a junkie,” I observe. “You didn’t even get particularly rattled when I played “Give It Up”.”
“I thought you said that was a request?” he asks wryly.
I shrug. “I can kill two birds. Or would you have preferred something a little naughtier like “Be My Lover”? Or maybe “Boom Boom Boom Boom”? Everyone loves The Vengaboys…”
“How about “Freed From Desire”?” he drawls.
I let out a huff of amusement. “That wouldn’t be very accurate, would it?”
“If the goal is accuracy you should have gone with “Mr. Vain,” Damon quips, prompting me to toss my head back with a loud bark of laughter that startles a few people around me.
He moves on to serve some waiting customers and I decide to leave him to it, heading to the other end of the bar to speak to Mel.
“I’ll help Damon close up tonight,” I tell her once I’ve managed to catch her attention.
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “Consider it a reward for working tomorrow.”
She huffs a laugh. “Please, I’m glad for an excuse to leave my sister’s place early tomorrow. I love them but my family is nuts.”
I let out a putter of laughter. “Then you could probably use an early night to prepare yourself.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely—thanks, Jazz.”
I smile and make my way back to the stage.
Considering Mel’s one of the few staff members not taking time off this weekend I’d be more than happy to let her off early tonight even if it weren’t Damon I’m left closing up with.
But the fact that it is him means I have an opportunity to continue our conversation from today.
And, if necessary, provide him with a…practical demonstration.
Once I’m back on stage and settled in ready to play, I lean into the mic and tell the modest crowd, “This one’s a request from Damon over at the bar.”
His head snaps up at the sound of his name and he eyes me warily.
I offer a teasing grin and start playing Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy.”
To my delight, Damon bursts into laughter, clearly making the connection to his “Mr. Vain” barb. And as the song continues he really gets into it, strutting around the bar and showing off some flashy flair tricks.
We like to keep the atmosphere light and fun so it’s not unusual for the bartenders to goof around like this during particular songs.
Shane has a weak spot for jock jams like “Jump Around” and “Whoomp! (There It Is),” and Gia loves all things teeny bopper.
Prior to tonight I would have said Damon’s jam was upbeat alt rock—I’ve seen him strut his stuff to bands like The Spin Doctors, Smashmouth, and Barenaked Ladies—so this is a surprising turn of events.
Especially considering how flustered and uncomfortable he usually gets when I single him out for a song.
But I guess in this case it was pretty clear I’m making fun of myself, not him.
Even so, I wasn’t just winding him up earlier when I said he seemed more relaxed tonight…
I wrap up the song just as Damon is sliding two cocktails across the bar toward a pair of very enthusiastic women. Several other customers at the bar applaud and I’m glad to see there’s a cluster of people hovering around the Tap at least, that’s what it looks like based on the way he’s smiling genially while shaking his head and holding his arms out in a helpless gesture while the bar patrons—all three of them blonde women in their late twenties, if I had to guess—pout and protest. Who knows—maybe they’re telling him he should have been truer to the song and taken his shirt off?
That’s definitely the feedback I’ll be giving.
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a hidden motive behind your generous offer to help close up so Mel can leave early?
” Damon asks, his skeptical tone carrying across the empty bar from where he’s currently occupied hauling chairs and stools onto the tables so the cleaners will have easy access to the floor tomorrow morning.
“It’s not particularly well-hidden,” I say with a shrug as I continue stacking dirty glasses into a dishwasher rack. “We have a conversation to finish.”
He lets out a soft huff. “Jesus, this isn’t still about my ass, is it?”
I chuckle softly. “No. But while we’re on the topic—thanks for this…”—I gesture in his direction to indicate the work he’s been doing—“I’m enjoying all the bending over and flexing muscles. Thanks so much for volunteering,” I add with a smirk.
Damon rolls his eyes. “This is called habit. I’m usually closing up with either Gia or Mel and I can get this done quicker.”
“We can swap if you want?” I offer. I know he won’t take it, though.
“There’s not much point—I’ll be done in a few minutes. If you can manage to stop bugging me, that is.”
I load the rack into the dishwasher and then step back to lean against the back bar, my eyes avidly watching every ripple and flex of Damon’s muscles as he gets on with his task. “Don’t worry. I’ll be good as gold.”
He glances around, brows furrowing when he sees me casually propped against the back bar. “What are you doing?”
“Feasting my eyes.”
“You’re seriously just going to stand there watching me until I’m done?”
I nod. “Yep. And if you feel like taking your shirt off go right ahead. I really don’t mind.”
Damon’s eyes roll so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of his head. “How considerate of you.”
The corner of my mouth curves up in amusement. “That’s what I’m known for.”
He snorts in incredulity and finishes stacking the chairs; then he strides back to the bar, eyes widening in obvious surprise when he sees the clean-up is all but done. “How…?”
“You know I own this bar, right?” I say with a wry grin. “I’ve managed to pick up a few things about how it works.”
It helps that, for a long time, stacking and unstacking the dishwashers was one of the few things I was legally allowed to do around here.
My grandma ran the place on my behalf until I turned eighteen but even as a twelve-year-old she insisted I take an active interest in the business, which is something I’m incredibly grateful for now.
But that did mean a lot of nights and mornings helping with clean-up and set-up.
Damon lets out a soft huff. “Right. Any particular reason those have been left out?” he asks, eyeing the glasses I’ve set on the bar top.
“They’re clean,” I tell him. “I’m using them as a visual aid.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “For what?”
I ignore the question and press on. “What do you need to make a French martini?”
He blinks at me, even more puzzled now. “You want me to make you a French Martini? Now?”
I shake my head. “No. I want you to tell me what you’d need to make one.”
“Okay…it’s a pretty simple one—just vodka, raspberry liqueur and pineapple juice.”
“And?”
He hesitates, frowning in thought. “Some recipes use lime juice…”
“What else do you need?” I ask with a pointed look at the bar top.
Damon follows my glance, letting out a soft laugh. “Well, I’d obviously need a glass to serve it in.” He selects the coupe glass from the array I’ve set out and holds it up. “One of these.”
I nod in approval. “You’re still missing something.”
His face screws up in thought before he finally says, “Ice?” I can tell he wants to add something along the lines of, “Well, duh.” Instead he opts for, “I figured that was kind of a given.”
“So did I,” I say with a shrug. “What about an Old Fashioned?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What the fuck is this? Has someone complained or something?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Just answer the question.”
He sighs with obvious annoyance but nevertheless accedes to my request. “Rye whiskey, bitters, a sugar cube, a dash of soda water.”
“And,” I prompt.
He rolls his eyes and selects the rocks glass. “I’d serve it in this with a couple cubes of ice.”
“Thank you. As you’ve just demonstrated, cocktail ingredients are incredibly variable. And even the method of mixing them can change. But there are two constants—a serving glass and ice.”
“And your point is…?”
“I’m using metaphor to help you better understand a situation you’re currently having trouble relating to,” I explain.
“S if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few weeks it’s that he’s a total snob when it comes to pre-mixed drinks, and pre-mixed cocktails in particular.
Mixology is a long-time passion and he takes it very seriously.
He rubs a hand over his face, letting out a sigh. “Maybe I don’t want ice in my drink. Maybe I just want a cold beer? And I like my whiskey neat…”
I arch a brow at that. “If you wanted the same thing you’ve been drinking since you were a teenager we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” My mouth curves into a teasing smirk. “And you’d still need a glass for the whiskey.”
Damon throws his arms up, letting out a huff of frustration. “I’m not a submissive. And I’m not being stubborn—it’s just a fact.”
“Okay, I think it might be time for another demonstration,” I tell him. Then I gesture behind him to the small stretch of wall between the bar and the door to the staff area. “Stand against that wall for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
He rolls his eyes but complies, taking a few steps and then turning so his back is against the wall.
“This is for demonstration purposes only,” I say with a tilt of my lips. “I promise your virtue will remain intact.”
He narrows his eyes at me but before he can say anything I close the distance between us and lift my arms to cage him against the wall.
I’m not touching him anywhere, but I’ve barged right into his personal space and I’m making myself at home. It doesn’t take long for him to react to the invasion. It’s similar to when I did this on Sunday night: flushed, panting, trembling…and I don’t need to check to know he’s hard as fuck.
I lean closer, biting down on my lip to hold back a groan when he—no doubt subconsciously—bares his neck to me. Fuck, I want to bite it. I want to sink my teeth into his skin and mark him as mine.
Fuck, get a grip, Grimsay—he hasn’t even agreed to sub yet.
“This is me dominating your space,” I murmur in his ear. “Which is something you seem to like a whole damn lot. Or is there another reason being this close to me has you panting like a little bitch? You can’t have it both ways, dirty boy…”
“Fuck,” he groans, tipping his head back against the wall.
“You know that magic power I have to turn you on?” I ask softly.
“It’s because I’m the S and you’re the M.
I know which buttons to push, which screws to turn, which threads to pull.
I know waking you up on a Sunday by calling you a whore is going to get you hard as fuck.
I know singling you out for blatant sexual attention is going to rattle you.
I know mocking you and shaming you while you jerk off is going to make you blow like a hydrant.
” I pause as I lower my right hand, running it over the front of his jeans and smirking at the groan Damon lets out as I start to rub his massive hard-on.
“And I know you’d rather have me make you come like this than get a hand job from every woman in the bar tonight.
You’d want me to send you home with a wet spot for everyone to see. ”
“Fuck…fuck,” he groans, grinding against my palm.
“Or maybe…” I move my hand from his crotch and reach up to grab a fistful of his hair in a tight grip. “I could shove you to your knees and come on your face?”
The strangled groan he lets out sounds almost inhuman and his breathless desperation when he starts pleading surprises me a little. “Do it…want it…fuck. Please, Jazz…want your cum on me…”
Well, damn…
Before I can react to that, I feel Damon’s hands gripping my waist and his cock grinding against my thigh.
Okay, this demonstration might be getting slightly out of hand…
I take a fractional step back before gripping both Damon’s hands and bringing them together to pin against the wall over his head. “I don’t remember saying you could use me as a scratching post, little bitch.”
Damon groans in what sounds like a mix of mortification, disappointment and arousal.
With restraint worthy of sainthood, I release my grip and take several steps back. “Okay, I think it might be time to end this demonstration.”