Page 12 of Jaded

“All right, some of this shit is pretty good.” But the way his eyes don’t lift from the screen, I know more thansomeof it is more thanpretty good.

“I take it you’re in the hard rock boat?”

“Fully.” He still hasn’t looked up from my playlist. “Good bands.”

I try not to puff up like a praised peacock. Anita returns to slide a glass in front of him—whiskey again. Somewhere in the background, the song’s moved on to Aerosmith, so I lift a finger like I’m pointing at the speaker. “The bad boys from Boston ain’t too shabby.”

“I don’t mind a little classic rock,” he agrees.

“The real question is,” I find myself saying as I lean forward onto the bar, “if you’re a rock star, where’s your guitar?”

His fingers curl around the whiskey glass, eyes flit sideways towards me. “On my living room couch.”

Ah, I've struck actual gold! “You serious? You really play?”

“Only thing that makes sense sometimes.” He tips the drink back, all at once again, sending the sweet-spicy tangle of cologne and booze in a wave against my skin, overriding the stale-alcohol bar air.

Dang, he smells good.

“I gotta agree there.” I shift the greens on my plate aside just for something to do with my hands, something to focus on that’s not, well, him. “That’s why music exists, whyartexists, right? To give life meaning.”

His glass taps against the countertop, and he leans an elbow against it. His eyes trail sideways. Towards me.

Again.

Damn, why is that gaze so intense—so intimate? His mouth curves. “That’s pretty deep for Tuesday at a bar.”

“It’s my specialty.” I angle my best grin in his direction. I’ve got a decent smile, if I’m being honest. Ain’t my first rodeo. “Going deep.”

He laughs, and that low murmur, and the answering flutter in my gut, is my reward for my boldness. My God, he’s beautiful. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Only if you want it to be.” I know I’m feeling bold cause I throw in a wink, just to make him squirm. I’ve never flirted with a straight boy before. It’s fun.

“You hitting on me?”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

He laughs again. “No, I’m kind of flattered.”

“Then please, allow me to keep going. We’ve only scratched the surface of my talents.” So not true, myLord, I am not good at flirting.

“Oh, there’s more?”

“Exciting,right? No, actually. I’m way too awkward.” I flash him a smile, then point at it. “Normally, that’s enough to make the boxer briefs drop.”

His mouth tips into an answering grin. “Is that so?”

“I dunno, is it working?”

He laughs again, and damn, if he wasn’t so straight, I’d almost think maybe it was working. “You might need a little more effort with me.”

“Darn.” I sigh, prop my elbow on the counter and tilt my head onto my fist. Like we’re in our own private bubble, the rest of the bar is a muted hum of voices and laughter around us. “Wanna give me some tips? You look like a guy who knows how to make some panties drop.”

“Would yours?” He leans onto an elbow.

“Who’s flirting with who now?” I shoot him another grin—you know, the boxer-dropping one—and shift just a tiny bit closer. “It’s okay if you are. I am very cute.”

He shakes his head, but his mouth’s relaxed, almost smiling. “For someone who says he doesn’t have game, you have a lot of game.”

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