by Tessa Bailey
Jasmine pressed the phone to her ear and edged away from the group of men. “Hey, Riv. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Kind of? I don’t know.” A long pause. “My brother just showed up on my doorstep. Out of nowhere.”
“You’re kidding. Sarge?”
“The one and only.”
A smile sprang unbidden to Jasmine’s lips. She’d always had a soft spot for the kid. Forever pressed up in the corner of the Purcell family’s living room, hair across one eye, playing that beat-up guitar. So quiet and thoughtful all the damn time. His steady intensity would have unnerved her on a guy so young—seven years her junior, if she recalled correctly—if he hadn’t displayed on countless occasions what a massive heart was hiding underneath all those Judas Priest T-shirts. One afternoon, during the hottest summer she could remember, Jasmine had caught him leaving a plastic bag on his elderly neighbor’s porch. Having assumed he was doorbell-ditching like most boys his age, she’d started to read him the riot act, until she’d seen what was inside. About a dozen old VHS tapes.
“Mrs. Grant doesn’t have a DVD player, so I picked these up from the thrift store. Gunsmoke, The Andy Griffith Show…” he’d explained, before vanishing into his own house without giving her a chance to commend him. Yeah, she’d known Sarge would be successful at whatever career he decided on, but she’d never expected such a rapid rise to fame. For music, nonetheless. A dream she’d always harbored for herself that never came to fruition.
Her smile slipped away. When her younger self had encouraged Sarge to follow his dreams, she’d been so confident in her own abilities, positive she would ultimately be the one whose talent earned her a pass out of Hook. But it had been Sarge’s destiny the whole time. God, he would pity her now. The girl who’d once been almost smug in her mentoring was now nothing more than an assembly-line fixture.
Jasmine realized she’d been silent for too long and shook herself. “That’s great, right? You’ll have Sarge home for Christmas.” When River released a slow breath down the line, a realization began to creep in on Jasmine’s end. “Or maybe we’re not happy about this.” She hesitated. “Marcy?”
“Yeah. She’s been asking about her father again.”
Jasmine toed the ancient barroom floor, hating River’s dejected tone of voice. She’d heard way too much of it lately. “What can I do?”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but can Sarge use your spare room? I can’t bear the thought of him staying with strangers.” River made an agonized sound. “Maybe I should have just let him stay here—”
“Of course he can use the room,” Jasmine broke in. “Don’t think any more about it. We’re only a few blocks apart—it’ll be just like he’s home, except you won’t have to pick up his socks.”
A meaty arm snaked across Jasmine’s shoulders, beer breath drifting along her neck. He murmured something about her dress fitting her perfectly, a sentiment that unfortunately made its way to River’s ears. “Oh, Jesus. Carmine took you back to the Third Shift, didn’t he?”
“A night wouldn’t be complete,” Jasmine answered, squirming away from her date, who instead of taking the hint, only tightened his hold. “Listen, I have to handle this. Send Sarge over with a fresh change of clothes and I’ll make sure he’s comfortable.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re a saint.” A brief pause. “Hey, Jas? I know this goes without saying, but you can do a thousand times better than Carmine.”
“Now you tell me.” Jasmine’s laugh was hollow as she disconnected the call and replaced the phone in her purse. Could she do better? She wasn’t so sure. Knowing her face was in full grimace mode, she patted Carmine on the chest in a placating manner, the universal signal for go home, you’re drunk. “’Kay, big guy. Thanks for the eats. I’m going to ask the bartender to call me a cab.”
“What? No way. I’ve only had two friggin’ beers.” Ignoring her reticence, he tried to turn her into the cradle of his body. “Maybe I’m drunk on the way you look in that short dress.”
“Yeah. I heard you the first time. Not for nothing, but compliments usually come at the beginning of a date.”
“Awww, I was working up to it.” He leaned in for a kiss, but she dodged him. “What’s this about someone staying at your place? Won’t they interrupt what we’ve got planned?”
“Perdón?” Jasmine’s spine snapped into a straight line. “Of which plans do you speak? I’d answer carefully.”
Her shock was obviously the opportunity Carmine needed to go in for the kill. His chapped lips stamped down onto hers, big, grabby hands tugging her closer. Without being given time to suck in a breath, she had exactly zero oxygen in her lungs to sustain her as he mashed their mouths together. Feeling the beginnings of panic when no one came to her aid, Jasmine’s hand flew up and connected—smack—with his cheek. Once, twice. A third time.
Even after she slapped him, it took a few seconds for him to pull away. “What the fuck, Jasmine?” After a glance over his shoulder that found his group of buddies busting their guts laughing, Carmine’s hand closed around her right biceps. Tight. Tighter. “You’ve been asking for that all night, so I finally give it to you—”
Poor Carmine never saw it coming. To be fair, neither did Jasmine. One second, she was gearing up to knee Carmine in the family jewels and the next? He was on the dingy floor with an even bigger man straddling his neck, taking a punch to the face that gave even a pissed-off Jasmine sympathy pains. She couldn’t see her rescuer’s face, but through her haze of shock, she had one simple yet dominant thought.
Hello Shoulders.
They were broad and flexing and badass. Shoulders that made her think of Tarzan swinging through the jungle with a tiny blond woman clinging to his toga-covered body. Soap commercial shoulders that usually had frothy suds coasting down them in delicious rivulets while the man with a big white-toothed smile on his face lathered. God. Her rescuer could barely keep them inside his white long-sleeved T-shirt.
In Jasmine’s periphery, she could see a crowd was beginning to form around the brawl—a far bigger crowd than a fight usually warranted in the Third Shift. Some of them even had cell phones out, filming the action. What gives?
In an almost unconscious movement, Jasmine sidled around the fighting twosome to get a better look at her savior, but Carmine—finally realizing his ass was being kicked—rolled the newcomer over to lay a right cross of his own. Jasmine cringed at the thud of flesh on bone. Her date’s victory was short-lived, however, because Shoulders had the edge again within a split second, pinning Carmine down with a forearm to the throat, leaning down to get in his face.
“Took her three slaps to make you stop? Are you serious?” He pressed harder on Carmine’s jugular. “When a woman hits you, that’s a pretty accurate signal that she’s not into it.” A left hook crunched the cartilage in her date’s nose. “You know who else isn’t into it? Me. Can you tell?”
Carmine’s eyes were wide as saucers as he struggled to breath. Or speak. It was hard to tell since Shoulders commanded Jasmine’s attention. There was a familiarity about the newcomer…but she couldn’t know him. A woman remembered raw, commanding men like him. Men who spoke with conviction. They were a rare breed, and if she’d made his acquaintance, it would have stuck.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jasmine saw Carmine’s buddies set down their brews and hasten toward the fight, obviously intending to intervene. Jasmine stepped into their path, holding up a staying hand while tapping Shoulders with the other one. “Look, I really appreciate this, but you better take off before it’s five on one.”
Jasmine swore his wide, muscled back shivered beneath her touch. “What?” His tone was amused. “You wouldn’t be in my corner?”
God, that voice. Comforting and thrilling. Smooth and gritty. “You’re right, it would be five on two. I’ll take the bald one. He has a bum knee.”
His head turned just slightly, enough that she could see the rugged stubble on his chin, the strength of his profile. “I ap
preciate the offer, but you’re done fighting off men for the night.” As if pissed at the reminder of Carmine’s treatment, he cursed under his breath, regarding his opponent like a slime-covered slug. “When I let you speak, your first words better be an apology. We clear?”
Carmine’s eyes shot irate sparks, but after a beat, he nodded. Her rescuer removed his hold and stood, yanking Carmine to his feet by the shirt collar. “Sorry,” Carmine spat in her direction just as his friends reached them. Jasmine automatically tried to insert herself between Shoulders and the drunk locals, but he seemed to anticipate her move, grabbing her wrist and holding her away.
The men squared off for a tense moment before Carmine’s bald friend tilted his head one way, then the other. “Hold up. Sarge Purcell?” He elbowed Carmine in the ribs, who grunted and doubled over. “Old News. It’s the guy from Old News. I fuckin’ love that band, man.”
While everyone in the bar seemed to swell closer, repositioning themselves to get a better look at Shoulders with cell phone cameras at the ready, Jasmine’s jaw hit the floor in utter astonishment. Nuh-uh. No way in Hook was this giant enforcer with Tarzan body parts the kid she used to babysit. When he’d left Jersey, he’d been eighteen. Tall, sure. Handsome, yeah, okay. But growth spurts the likes of this weren’t possible, were they? She’d seen him on TV, of course. But television-size and life-size were two very different things, apparently, because Sarge had been remodeled from a one-story colonial into a big brick mansion.
Jasmine slid her grip around his elbow, noticing his muscles go taut, but too curious to analyze that reaction. She turned him around to face her and couldn’t stop the words poised on her tongue from stage diving. “Hol-y, hol-y shit.”
Sarge Purcell had turned into a man while he’d been gone.
And when he stepped closer, forcing her head back, and ran intelligent blue eyes over her face, Jasmine realized she needed to block all further thoughts pertaining to shoulders or Tarzan or soap rivulets. Those thoughts made her a pervert, didn’t they? Claro que si. Of course they did. Worse than a woman who simply found a too-young man attractive in passing, because she’d known Sarge as a preteen for God’s sake. Ribbed him when he shaved for the first time and nicked his face in ten different places.
Oh, but there was nothing left of that preteen inside this man with the bleeding lip and a five o’clock shadow. Until he stopped drilling her with those baby blues and smiled, the edge of his mouth kicking up just a notch. There he was. Thank God. Deep breaths, girl.
“You still know how to pick ’em, huh, Jasmine?”
“Hmm—what?”
Sarge jerked his chin toward Carmine. “You shouldn’t be in this place, with that guy, looking so pretty.”
You babysat him. You babysat him. “Turned into quite a smooth operator on the road, didn’t you?”
A little bit of light left his eyes. “Something like that.”
Why did she feel guilty all of a sudden? Shaking herself out of the weird trancelike state she was encapsulated in, Jasmine forced a welcoming smile onto her face. The kind you gave to the sweet kid you were babysitting when you’d brought him cookies as a surprise. “Word on the street is you’re staying with me tonight.”
His headshake was unrushed. “No. I’m not.”
A little insulted, Jasmine poked him in the chest, declining to consciously acknowledge he was hard as granite. “What? You’re too much of a star now to stay in my tiny two-bedroom apartment?”
A rain cloud moved across his face. “It’s not like that.”
“What’s it like?” Jasmine didn’t take any pleasure from delivering the guilt trip, but she needed to come through for River. Her single-mother friend had been dealing with far too much lately without wondering if her brother was spending the holiday in an impersonal hotel room. Even though the thought of Sarge’s mile-wide frame squeezing through her front door gave her an uncomfortable case of nerves.
She needed to stick to a game plan. As of now, that game plan was to treat this hot rock-star ass like the twelve-year-old boy in her memory. And if she was worried he would look around at her meager possessions and throw sympathy in her direction, she had to put it aside for tonight. “You still like grilled cheese? Come over and I’ll make you one.”
He barked a laugh. “Jasmine, I just handed your date his ass. How’s about you start treating me like I’m twenty-two?”
Twenty-two. Jesus. She’d still had stars in her eyes at that age. Ready to take on all comers. Giving the finger to anyone who said you can’t do it. But Sarge? Sarge had done it. “You might be older now, but you’re still a kid compared to me. I’ll be thirty years old—”
“The day after Christmas.” He’d obviously surprised himself with the interjection, but hid it with a cough into his fist. “I know.”
He wasn’t the only one nursing shock that he’d remembered her birthday. Damn, she was usually the one putting people through their paces, but Sarge two-point-ohhhh couldn’t seem to stop surprising her. “Look, it’s late. If you want to find another, fancier place to lay your head tomorrow, I won’t stop you. But your sister asked me for a favor and that means I’ll drag you home caveman-style tonight, if necessary. So what’s it going to be?”
“There you are, Jas,” Sarge murmured before pausing to consider her. “All right. Let’s go.”
Chapter Three
Funny enough, among the three band members that made up Old News, Sarge was considered the levelheaded decision-maker. The planner. The one who reminded everyone to get at least an hour of sleep the night before a show. That wasn’t to say he didn’t occasionally drink his body weight and tell his deepest secrets to a convenient ficus, but considering the spoils at his disposal, he was almost embarrassingly well behaved for someone NME Magazine had deemed “Rock’s Naughty Prince.”
That title, however, hadn’t come courtesy of his behavior. Oh no. It was the song lyrics he wrote. He’d dug himself a deep hole on the first album, nearly every song about wanting to—well…have sex. Have sex with Jasmine to be specific. Since he’d never been the type to discuss his feelings out loud—potted plants notwithstanding—he’d written them down. He’d written everything down. Needs, fantasies, observations about how Jasmine filled out a bathing suit that he’d had no right to make.
Four years had given him a little clarity on what his mind-set had been at eighteen, the year he’d grown sick of watching her date men who didn’t deserve her. Thinking she’d finally acknowledge him as a man, but realizing that eventuality was nothing more than a pipe dream. God, he’d hoped like hell never to go back there. To that deeply fucked-up, needy place where his dick filled the leg of his boxers just from looking at her. To the place where his heart rammed itself against his tonsils¸ mind racing, trying to figure out what she’d say next. How he could respond to make her smile.
In town less than a goddamn hour and he was already there. The difference being, now he knew how to satisfy a woman, knew how to make her achieve pleasure with the use of his body. And having that knowledge somehow made it worse to look, but not touch.
Sitting beside him in the cab was the woman he’d been in cataclysmic lust with since middle school. She was bright-eyed from too much wine, her tight red dress was snug around her crossed thighs…and she was giving him a patient babysitter smile from across the cracked leather seat.
Being the calm, objective individual his bandmates knew him to be, he shouldn’t be perceiving Jasmine’s amused expression as a dare. A goad. Ah, but he did. Four years hadn’t changed a single thing—but maybe it didn’t have to stay that way. Maybe he could fight his way free of this permanent straitjacket she’d laced him into eons ago by accepting that dare in her eyes. Throwing down his own gauntlet. Finally indulging his fantasy and then kissing it good-bye, once and for all.
Bad idea. Such a bad fucking idea. She’d flung a spear straight through his chest once, and four years hadn’t made her any less capable of doing it again. Two new songs had already
written themselves since they’d met eyes at the Third Shift, another one halfway composed in his head. Could he remain mentally detached enough to work his way free of her spell if things were to get physical? Wasn’t living free of Jasmine haunting him worth the risk?
There was only one way to know for sure.
“That bloody lip looks pretty ugly,” Jasmine said. “Does it hurt much?”
Sarge ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, encountering the metallic tang of blood. He hadn’t even been aware of the injury, probably too distracted by a certain someone in sky-high heels. God, he was a mess. “I would say, ‘You should see the other guy,’ but I don’t think you should. See him again, that is.”
On the other side of the plastic partition, the cab driver whistled low under his breath and received an arched eyebrow from Jasmine. “I’d already decided that before you cleaned his clock, but your concern is duly noted.”
“Good.”
She breathed into her hands, rubbing them together for warmth. “You’ve changed a lot. I remember when I couldn’t drag a single word out of you.”
Remembering the way he used to clam up, losing all ability to speak at the sight of her in his living room, he wished he could go back in time and tell that kid to grow some courage. He had it now. In spades. It was time she knew about it. “Maybe I was just saving the words up.”
“For your songs.” A gorgeous smile lit up her face, one that was unique to Jasmine. She never showed her teeth, just pursed her lips in a way that plumped them, her eyes tilting at the ends. It made you her instant coconspirator. Or if you were Sarge, it sent a giant moose stampeding through your stomach. “When they come over the loudspeaker on the factory floor, everyone sings. Before you, they only ever did that for Bruce. And pre-country Bon Jovi.”
Sarge felt his lips tug at the image. “What about you? Do you sing when they come on?”
Her smile wavered. “No. But not because I don’t like your songs,” she rushed to add, mischief lurking in her eyes. “I just don’t want to show anyone up.”
