41. P.I.M.P. #2
The second the door closes behind Jasmine, the room notices her.
Eyes drift to her.
Elbows pull back.
Hips shift.
The crowd parts,
chatter coming in through the earpiece.
Andrew’s posted up in the corner—
hands fast,
Jersey smirk dragging behind.
Every pour’s so damn pornographic.
Every hip lean, a fuck scene.
He’s already ringed in maybe four girls, all with their tits spilling over the bar. Another handful hovers a few feet away, next in line for his attention—all laughing and hair-swinging each time they glance over at him.
He dips down over the bar to hear a blonde, skinny black tie grazing the counter’s edge, forearms cut and flexed, veins catching the pendant light.
He’s happy, not broken-hearted.
Confident, not cracked.
Fucking liar, pouring drinks,
playing hot bartender.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, bruised face, bruised ego, bruised heart, all bitter, camped out across the street in all black—the stalker with a shiner.
Tell me how that’s fair.
“That’s him,” I mutter into the mic. “The six foot sweet-talking bastard with the jawline. You’re gonna have to find a way—”
Jasmine slices through with an “excuse me” in that honey-thick accent, hand grazing a hip here, brushing a forearm there, gliding between a redhead and a sequined mini.
The girls back up on instinct,
and then she’s in.
“Okay... or that…” I trail off.
Jasmine slides onto a stool, back arched.
Andrew glances over mid-pour.
His hands keep working, but his eyes…
they land on her
and forget to leave.
Fuck. Not fun anymore.
My grip on the binoculars goes white-knuckle. “Phase four,” I spit into the mic. “He’s gonna ask what you want to drink. Make him choose for you. Make him think you’re a mystery.”
From across the street, I watch as Andrew leans in and taps the bar with two fingers. “Startin’ you off with somethin’, or you waitin’ on somebody?”
Jasmine crosses her legs, meeting him halfway.
“I am here for someone… but he is late,” she says.
“Maybe you surprise me, bartender? With a cock—mhm,” she chuckles at herself.
“Cocktail.” She tilts her head, laying her accent on thick, as if she’s a foreigner who doesn’t know any better. “This is word, yes? Cocktail”
Celie’s cackling, kicking her legs,
her back bouncing off the backseat.
I groan. “Fuck, she’s good.”
“Cocktail it is.” Andrew drops his fist onto the bar with a panty-soaking smile. “Think I can manage that without gettin’ myself into trouble.”
Did he—was that a flirt?
Ice clinks in the shaker, tiny glass bones rattling through the mic.
A splash of gin.
The pop of champagne.
He pours slow, foam spilling over the top, eyes probably drifting between her mouth and the drink. Then he leans in, the mic catching his next breath. “French 75—bubbly on top, hits hard underneath. Thought you could handle that.”
She takes a sip and licks her lips. “Ahh, so you test me. I like this.”
After Celie texts her, the glow of her phone catches her cheekbones.
She glances down, a small gasp slipping out. “Oh no…” she frowns, looking up at him, wounded. “He say… he not coming. Think I am… a scam?” Her bottom lip pushes out, eyes big with a fake pout. “You think I look scam?”
He uses a towel to his hands.
“Sweetheart, if you’re a scam, you’re the reason guys fall for ‘em.” He rests his hand on the edge of the counter, glancing at her phone, then back at her.
“Stay anyway, yeah?”
He slides her another grin.
“I’ll keep that glass full, see if I can make you forget all about him.”
My mouth falls open.
I snap my head back.
Celie and I stare wide at each other.
“Oh, shit, girl. I think I’m fucked.”
I bury myself back into the binoculars.
Jasmine’s gone statue-still—marble skin, stone eyes, every inch of her frozen.
Shit. He’s got her tongue-tied.
“Jasmine, speak,” I snap, and she jolts like I cracked a whip. “C’mon, girl. He’s smooth, but you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. Get it together.”
I grind my eyes into the binoculars until the bruise on my cheekbone is bruised.
Celie folds over the driver’s side and laughs into the mic. “Go ‘head, mama, drop somethin’ wild. Make him sweat. I want Six-Point-Five trippin’ over his own dick.”
I slump, groaning loud.
“Celie, please—”
She sits back. “What?
“I live for watchin’ boys get shook.”
Andrew tops off someone’s drink with a lemon twist.
Jasmine traces a fingertip along the stem of her glass, eyes never leaving his. “You make very dangerous drink,” she says, licking a drop from her lip. “Now I wonder… what else about you is dangerous?”
I nearly choke on my own spit.
“Holy shit.” Celie laughs behind her hand, her wide eyes cutting to me. “Nah, we goin’ straight to hell.”
“Aight. Take it down a notch,” I hiss into the mic.
But it’s too late.
Jasmine’s already halfway there.
“You know you look… how you say, more than a man. You have… alluring appeal…”
The crowd noise spikes, but it muffles fast into the background as my gaze narrows on the way he grips the edge of the bar.
“Alluring appeal?” he asks.
There’s no stopping her. “You like to taste what is forbidden, no?” Her accent teases every word. “You ever think about doing something… illegal?”
I snap forward with a laugh
and thunk my forehead on the window.
“For fuck’s sake, Jaz—
“he’s gonna think you’re a prostitute.”
Andrew’s smile’s caught between
curious and concerned.
Celie’s gripping her stomach, half-screaming in the seat. “Nah—this is pimp shit. We’re literally the motherfuckin’ P.I.M.Ps.” She gasps for air. “Waitin’ outside for our bitch. Like we about to collect our cut.”
Another bartender appears behind Andrew. He claps Andrew’s shoulder, mouth at his ear, eyes on Jaz. Whatever he says makes Andrew’s brows tick up,
makes his smirk rise after,
makes his eyes lock on Jasmine too.
I can’t hear a damn thing,
but I don’t need to.
I know the language of men
hyping each other up.
Andrew lifts his chin, tucking one end of the towel in his back pocket. “Illegal, huh? That French 75’s the closest I get to illegal in this place…” He shrugs, grabbing a glass from under the bar. “Unless you got somethin’ better in mind.”
Jasmine lowers her lashes.
“Like… maybe a crime of passion, yes?”
Celie snorts behind me.
I double over the binoculars,
another thunk into the glass.
Andrew pushes off the bar with a laugh.
All three of us in perfect sync,
all from Jasmine’s bullshit.
He holds up a finger when a crew of drunk girls storms the bar, waving bills and screaming for shots.
He entertains them, lines up the glasses and pours skillfully down the row, his eyes slipping back to Jasmine.
Soon as the shots are pushed forward, he’s drifting back to her, palms hitting the bar, all heat and indecency in his voice. “What’s your name?”
“Jasmine,” she seduces breathy, and I want to throw my earpiece out the window.
My heart’s always been good at playing dead, but I hate the way she’s lying there—
chalk outline, blood gone cold—
like she heard him and decided,
Yeah… no point gettin’ back up.
“Crime of passion,” he repeats, amused.
“You’re trouble, huh?
“Got it written all over you.”
He’s wearing a striptease smile, the one that says keep going without ever saying it, letting her push it further, inch by inch, while he keeps his hands clean.
“Jasmine, crank up the heat,” I tell her.
She keeps her eyes on him as she brings the drink to her lips.