New York || Damon Salvatore [1]

Chapter Seventeen

1976 — Manhattan, New York

   The Ground was packed with drunken guest ready to take their spot on the stage. It was karaoke night, something Frederick thought would be good for The Ground since a drunken audience would like to sweat off the alcohol by dancing and singing on stage. Damon thought it was a stupid idea, but he also thought it would be hilarious to see strangers make fool of themselves in front of a lot of other strangers. So, he sat by the bar with a glass of bourbon in front of him and watched the many strangers take their spot on the stage. There was a half-drunken man on stage, a beer bottle in hand while the microphone was on the other. He was singing "American Pie" by Don McLean. Half of the people were singing along, glasses or bottles raised up the air as if they were trying to toast the man singing. 

   "What about you, Cool Cat?" Freya asked behind him. He turned and looked at her, seeing how she leaned against the counter with her arms pressed together. She was staring at him, a grin on her lips, almost as if she were memorising him from head to torso, because that was the most she could see.

   Damon smirked and laid the now empty glass in front of her. "Another bourbon."

   Freya chuckled and grabbed his glass, rolling her eyes. With an amused smile, she poured the alcohol to his glass. "Anything else?"

   "I'd like for the hot bartender to come home with me," he said, smirking, the glass of alcohol to his lips. He wiggled his brows. 

   "Oh, you wish," she said, smiling at him. "By the way, it's your turn to get the groceries."

   He put the glass down and nodded. "Fine, give me a list."

   Freya pulled out a pen and paper from under the bar, and in neat and big handwriting wrote the list. It included an array of foods, mostly to fill the empty cabinets and fridge. They had been lazy for the past couple of weeks, which meant that the list was long and filled with many things, which also meant that Damon would have to make several trips from the car to the apartment. 

   When she finished writing the list, she handed it to him with an amused smile. With a sigh, he reached for it and read it over. It was a long list, two lines with small squares at the beginning so he could check it out when he got the item. He tsk'd and shook his head. "Freya, we're leaving for your parents in a few days. I'm going to get the ones that we really need." He grabbed the pen and scribbled out the majority of what she wrote.

   "Really?" she groaned. "Why are you taking out strawberries?"

   "Because they will either rot or you will eat them all," he explained, smiling to himself. "Do you know how hard it is to scrub rotten fruit from the fridge?"

   She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't know because it was me that did it."

   "Still," he smiled, "you said it was hard."

   "Fine," she smiled. "If I can't have the strawberries, you can't have the pickles."

   "They're in a jar," he said, making a face. "They are completely different to strawberries, Freya." He tapped the cap of the pen against the paper, watching Freya with a slight annoyed look. He then nodded and glanced down at the paper. "Fine, how about we make a compromise?"

   "Like the one where you asked me to marry you?"

   "Okay, that is an amazing compromise that we both like," he smiled. "This will be another. We can both get what we want. I'll get you frozen strawberries, that way they won't really rot."

   Freya stared at him for a couple of seconds, lips slightly pursed. She pulled away from the counter and nodded, the rag in her her right hand. "Fine. I like this compromise."