Chapter 8
“Oh my god, is that Jazz?” Ava asks Jamie in a theatrical whisper as the man in question approaches our table at Whiskey Tango Foxtrot—because, of course, this is where the twins decided they wanted to spend their Friday night. “You were right, he’s super hot!”
Jazz’s brows shoot up. “Weird, but I’ll take it.”
“What do you all want to drink?” I ask the table.
They each give me their drink orders and I start rising from my chair, but I’m halted by a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Damon, relax. It’s your day off,” Jazz says genially, his fingers clasping my shoulder to keep me in place.
I barely manage to stifle a groan at the feel of his tight grip, my thoughts flying back to the one other time I’ve felt his hands on me—that “demonstration” on Wednesday night.
I shudder as I recall the way he trapped me against the wall, his hand grinding against my crotch, the rough grip of my hair. ..“I could shove you to your knees…”
And suddenly I’m rock hard as my brain fills with images of Jazz manhandling me and restraining me and physically dominating me in ways I can’t even think of, mingled with memories of that intense fantasy I had last night.
The feel of Jazz’s hand squeezing my shoulder again draws me out of my daze just in time to field the question Blake is directing my way.
“You want a beer as well, D? We’re getting that pale ale you’ve got on tap.”
I nod. “Yeah, thanks. Sounds good.”
“Is that everyone?” Jazz asks, releasing his grip of my shoulder.
The question is met with nods and murmurs of assent. He gives us a thumbs up and starts to walk away backwards. “I’ll be back in a minute. Chloe’s floating around if you guys want food, or there’s the QR code on the table.”
Once he’s gone, I turn my attention to the other side of the table where Ava and Jamie are locked in a hushed discussion that I’m assuming is about Jazz based on the not-so-furtive glances Ava keeps darting at the bar.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head in exasperation. I really hope they’re just discussing song requests or something because my situation is weird enough without my teenage daughter getting a crush on the guy I’ve become unnaturally obsessed with.
Opting to re-direct my kids’ attention, I say, “So, Blake’s pretty sure he’ll be able to get tickets to the hockey tomorrow if you guys are interested.”
Ava draws in a dramatic gasp, her eyes lit with anticipation. “Red Wings?”
I nod, grinning. “Yeah, they’re playing the Rangers.”
Joel nods. “Yeah, I’m keen.”
“I’m so there,” Ava gushes. “Can’t wait to show those loser—”
“There will be no throwing food items or yelling at random strangers,” I warn, issuing my daughter with a stern look.
“What about drinks?” she hedges. “Can I throw drinks?”
Next to me, Blake lets out a rumbling laugh. “You know, I always think of Ava as a female version of you, but then she says stuff like that and it’s like Valerie’s right here.”
“Try sitting with both of them,” I say dryly. I catch Joel’s eye and he nods in commiseration.
“Speaking of Mom,” Joel says, “Ava and I were talking about Christmas—”
“I thought we were going to wait to bring this up,” Ava hisses at him.
Joel just shrugs. “The opening’s there now.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “We get the whole Thanksgiving here, Christmas in Detroit deal you and Mom worked out. But does it really have to be only you for Thanksgiving and only Mom for Christmas?”
“Way to make it sound like we’re having a shit weekend, dumbass,” Ava chides, smacking Joel across the shoulder.
“Ow—That’s not what I meant,” he insists, sending an irritated look in Ava’s direction. “This weekend’s been great so far. But it was still really weird not having Mom there yesterday…”
“It was weird for me too,” I admit, offering a soft smile.
Ava and Joel exchange hesitant glances before Joel plows ahead. “We were kind of thinking maybe Christmas doesn’t have to be as weird…if you come to Detroit?”
I stare at their matching hopeful expressions for a long moment, feeling completely blindsided.
Of course it seems totally obvious now, thinking back over the conversation, but it wasn’t something I would have considered within the realm of possibility before.
“Uh…I’m not sure how that’d work. Christmas is supposed to be Mom’s thing. ”
“It’ll still be Mom’s thing,” Ava insists, waving a dismissive hand. “But we’ll get to see you too.”
“And you guys are always saying how you’re still best friends,” Joel points out. “Don’t you want to spend Christmas with your best friend?”
I arch an eyebrow at my son. “I don’t want to trample all over my best friend’s carefully planned Holiday.
” Knowing they’re unlikely to let it go anytime soon, I let out a sigh of resignation.
“I’ll talk to Mom and see what she says.
But no promises,” I warn them, sending them each a firm look.
“Even if Valerie’s fine with it there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to get the time off work. ”
The conversation ends as Jazz arrives back with beers for Shay, Blake and myself. Chloe follows behind him with a tray containing Jamie’s mojito and the twins’ cokes.
“Jeez, look at the pour on that,” Shay says, holding up his beer glass and eyeing it impressively. “Perfect head.”
“Well, exceptional head is one of my very special talents,” Jazz says, the words full of so much innuendo he may as well be wearing a bright pink t-shirt with bold, black type that reads I LOVE SUCKING DICK.
“Mine too,” Jamie says with a snort.
“I can vouch for that,” Shay says with a grin, clinking his glass against Jamie’s.
“So, Jazz, are you going to start playing soon?” Ava asks nervously, blushing furiously and twisting her hair between her fingers.
Jazz’s lips twitch with amusement. “I don’t usually go on until about eight on Fridays but I guess I could start my set a bit earlier tonight seeing as how I have all these special guests.
” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his phone.
“I’ll have to wait for Mel to get here so Gia’s not alone at the bar—should be about half an hour. ”
“Jamie says you only ever sing nineties songs?” Ava asks.
Jazz nods. “That’s right. Any requests, Ava?”
“Oh my god, he knows my name,” Ava gushes to Jamie in a quiet voice that’s still loud enough to be heard around the table.
I roll my eyes. This is getting ridiculous.
“I could go some Spice Girls,” Jamie pipes in, giving Ava a reassuring pat on the arm. “You know, British pride and all.”
Jazz rubs his chin, frowning in hesitation. “I’ll put that down as a maybe. I’ve already done two Spice Girls songs this week.”
Jamie sighs. “In that case I also want some All Saints, B*Witched, Mariah…”
“So basically every manufactured female pop act from the nineties?” Jazz asks wryly.
“Hey, Mariah was not manufactured,” Jamie protests, before reluctantly admitting, “I’ll give you the others, though.”
Jazz lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’m not promising all of those. Come back Tuesday if you want girl power.”
“You have a specific night for female music?” Ava asks, looking far too interested considering she’ll be well and truly back in Boston by Tuesday.
“Not purposefully,” Jazz says with a snort of amusement. “But my grandma and her friends are difficult ladies to say no to, especially when they all gang up together.”
That sounds…interesting. Maybe I should switch to work on a Tuesday so I can witness this phenomenon.
“I want to see something more impressive than the Spice Girls,” Joel says, eyeing Jazz with obvious skepticism. “Unlike all of them—” He tosses a thumb to his right, indicating everyone except himself and me—“I can’t be dazzled by how hot you are so I want to see some actual talent.”
Jazz lets out a rumble of laughter. “I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
I offer a wry smile. “Actually, that’s one of the few things we have in common.”
“Well, I can be dazzled by his hotness,” Shay says with a grin. “But I like the idea of giving him a challenge.”
Blake nods his agreement and then the two of them start conferring in hushed whispers.
“Okay,” Shay says with a decisive nod as they break apart. Then he frowns in hesitation. “You’re absolutely sure it was 1990?”
Blake nods. “Positive. I remember dragging my first ever girlfriend to the music store after school to get the cassingle.”
Shay lets out a snort of amusement, shaking his head. Then he turns to Jazz, tilting his chin up as he throws down the gauntlet. ““Thunderstruck.””
Jazz’s brows creep up and he takes a moment to glance around the bar, which is relatively quiet given the early hour. “Maybe if it picks up later—I’m not wasting AC/DC on a crowd of sixty people.”
Blake smiles. “We don’t have anywhere to be. But we have a back-up option as well.”
Jazz arches a brow at him. “And that is?”
““Right Now” by Van Halen,” Shay says.
Jazz nods. “Alright.” Then he turns his attention to Joel. “Will that be impressive enough for you or do you have something else in mind?”
Joel frowns thoughtfully. “I guess AC/DC would be pretty cool. I don’t know the Van Halen one, though…”
“Do “Space Jam” by Quad City DJs,” I tell Jazz. “I’m sure that’ll satisfy his lofty expectations.”
Joel’s brows draw together. “I don’t know that song either.”
“Yes, you do,” I assure him, letting out a soft laugh.
“It’s the one from Mom’s cheerleading championship.
” When they were kids Ava and Joel were pretty obsessed with Valerie’s old cheerleading videos, and especially her college championship; they even came up with their own cheer routines and brought some of their friends into it, which was ridiculously adorable.
Joel’s eyes light in recognition and he grins at Jazz. “Oh, yeah. Wow, if you can pull that off I’ll definitely be impressed.”
Jazz’s lips curve up in a teasing smirk as he glances my way. “Oh, I can pull it off. But are you sure you wouldn’t rather “C’mon N’ Ride It”?”
I shrug. “If you didn’t have all your weird rules you could just do them both.”
His eyes flash with surprised delight for a brief second before a devilish gleam settles in his gaze.
A rush of heady anticipation surges through me; I’ve just given him the green light to taunt me with his inappropriate songs in front of my entire family—including my kids. And I’m actually excited about it.
“Ava has a challenge as well,” Jamie announces, drawing Jazz’s attention.
“I do?” she asks, looking a little stunned.
Jamie leans in to whisper something in her ear, prompting her to smile and nod.
“Oh, right, yep—Celine Dion.”
Jazz’s brows creep up. “This is quite an eclectic table.”
“But if you think you can’t manage it…” Jamie teases.
“Oh, don’t you worry, I can manage it,” Jazz says with a cocky grin. “But now I’d better get back to helping Gia out. Everyone okay for drinks?”
We order another round and Jazz returns to the bar, this time sending Chloe over once the drinks are ready.
Blake and I are in the middle of a conversation about the tickets for tomorrow’s game when a hubbub of excitement sweeps through the bar, catching up Ava and Jamie along the way.
I notice Joel rolling his eyes at Ava’s enthusiasm, while Shay gazes at Jamie with fond amusement.
Jazz takes a few minutes once he’s on stage to get himself organized and test his equipment, then he settles on his stool in front of the microphone, his guitar in his lap. I’m expecting him to open with one of the requests from our table, but I suppose I should have known he’d be contrary.
The second I hear the opening riff of “Creep” by Radiohead a thrill rushes through me and I have to work not to react.
My eyes clash with Jazz’s for the briefest of moments and he offers me a teasing smirk before glancing down at his guitar as he starts to sing.
He’s not brazenly staring at me today; perhaps out of deference to my kids, or perhaps because he doesn’t have to.
I don’t need to feel his eyes on me to know this song was chosen specifically for me.
It’s a completely ridiculous thought but it almost feels like I’m being rewarded for my boldness.
And yeah, I know how crazy it is to be using the word “reward” when less than a week ago I would have been crawling out of my skin with agitation from this kind of attention.
It’s pretty incredible what a little mental adjustment can do, and I can see now why Jazz has been so insistent on me sorting out my shit.
He follows “Creep” up with Chris Isaak’s “Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing”, and then “Nasty” by Janet Jackson and, needless to say, I’m hard as stone by the time it occurs to me that he may very well be intending to target me for an entire set.
I somehow manage not to groan out loud as I consider the possibility of sitting here with my family for another forty-five minutes while my Dom—fuck, that’s what he is, isn’t he?
—sings song after song reminding me of all the filthy, depraved behavior I’ve engaged in over the past week and how much I’ve fucking loved it.
Dom. Jazz is my Dom. I marvel at how easy and right that label feels and mentally slap myself for fighting so hard against it.
Whether intentionally or by coincidence, Jazz has been dominating me since the very first time we met; it’s no wonder my reaction to him was so viscerally different to anyone else I’ve ever met.
“You must be glad he’s given up,” Blake says quietly after Jazz has just finished with Faith No More’s “Midlife Crisis.”
“Huh?”
He nods at the stage. “Jazz. You guys seem to be getting along better than you were last week,” he observes. “And he’s cut out the singing thing. I’m assuming he finally got the message…”
The irony couldn’t be starker as Jazz launches into Presidents of the United States of America’s version of “Video Killed the Radio Star,” prompting my cock to throb painfully as my mind flashes to the filthy videos I’ve sent him.
Realizing I haven’t answered Blake’s question, I hastily nod. “Yeah, we’ve…come to an understanding, I guess you could say.”