Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)

Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)

Tessa Bailey




Chapter One


A series of knots tangled in Sarge Purcell’s stomach as his best friend and band manager, James, slowed his sixty-nine Mustang to a stop outside the familiar redbrick house. Damn, it looked smaller than the childhood home in his memory. Had his family really managed to fit inside those walls comfortably? Still, it was bigger than the impersonal motel and hotel rooms he’d been crashing in for the better part of four years. There might even be a home-cooked meal with his name on it, if he played his cards right.

Sarge put a hand out for James to shake. “I guess this is the end of the road, pal of mine. Try not to get emotional.”

The always-stoic James didn’t even glance in his direction. “I’m crying on the inside.”

“Right.” Sarge shook his head, well used to James’s dry sense of humor after touring twenty-nine countries with their band Old News. Neither he nor James had anticipated staying together quite so long, both of them the epitome of a loner, but they’d ridden the wave created by Sarge’s first single when he’d been fresh out of high school. James had discovered Sarge at an open-mic night, put him together with a drummer and bass player, then prayed for magic.

Crazy enough, it had worked.

An independent record label contract and five studio albums later, however, Old News was ready for a break. Not a breakup, just a much-needed breather. With an important upcoming decision to make concerning the band’s future, they were each taking some time to think. No better time than Christmas.

Which is what landed him on his sister’s doorstep unannounced with a patched-up duffel bag, his guitar, an amp, and four years’ worth of blown-off holidays, rushed phone calls, and all-out shitty brothering to explain.

James hit him with a long-suffering sigh from the driver’s seat. “You didn’t tell her you were coming, did you?”

“No, but it was strategic.” Sarge adjusted the rearview mirror to point in his direction. “She’s less likely to tell me to f*ck off when she can see this face.”

“Your face has been on the cover of a hundred magazines. Everyone is sick of it, including me.”

“Yeah.” A weight pressed down on Sarge’s chest. “I’m kind of sick of it, too.”

The two men exchanged a rare, serious glance, but looked away just as fast.

“Get out of my car.” James revved the car’s engine. “I’m staying in Manhattan at the Standard hotel if you need anything. Try not to, please.”

Although Sarge was grateful to his manager for not pushing him to elaborate on his cryptic statement, he couldn’t resist giving him a hard time. “Funny, I don’t remember you saying the same thing to Lita,” Sarge said, referring to Old News’s female drummer and renowned troublemaker. “In fact, isn’t she staying at the Standard, too? What an odd coincidence.”

“Out.”

Laughing to himself, Sarge pushed open the door and climbed out before removing his gear from the trunk. When it was lined up on the curb, he leaned down into the passenger-side window and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Maybe if you stopped bailing Lita out, she’d stop wreaking havoc wherever she goes.”

A muscle ticked in James’s jaw. “If you make a decision about the contract over the holiday, you know where to reach me. Don’t wait too long. Record labels aren’t known for their patience.”

“Yeah. Neither are you,” Sarge said, straightening. “Believe me, the contract…and everything that comes with it will be on my mind, all right? In the meantime, don’t miss me too much, J.”

As soon as the Mustang turned the block’s corner, Sarge faced the house and let his grinning smoke screen drop. One good thing about being back in Hook, New Jersey? No one found it unusual if you looked miserable. Hell, the town’s unofficial motto was, “No one escapes the Hook…might as well give up now.” That sentiment had never felt truer than it did as he stared at the two-story colonial. At eighteen, he’d blown out of the godforsaken factory town not caring if he ever returned.

A broken heart and wounded pride could make a man do crazy things.

Even now, the woman responsible could be inside with his sister, drinking wine after a long day of work at their assembly-line jobs. She might be discussing her latest love interest, the way she’d done countless times while he listened from the next room. So. Many. Times. The hearing—the knowing—hadn’t even been the worst part, though. Oh no. That had come when he finally entered the room and she ruffled his hair. Completely unaware of the jealousy storming inside him like a hurricane bent on destruction. Without a clue that he thought about her every minute of the day, even when she wasn’t babysitting him.

Jasmine Taveras. His lifelong obsession and curse.

Did he want her to be inside? Hell yeah. Because four years away should have gotten Jasmine out of his system. That’s what he’d intended when he’d bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles after graduating from Hook High. Forgetting her. Now, however, when faced with the prospect of meeting her face-to-face, the traitorous organ within his rib cage had already found a rapid baseline, which increased in pace the more he allowed her image to surface. Jesus H. Christ. As a teenager, whenever she was breathing in his vicinity, every fiber of his biology would stretch, begging to wrap around her and harden into cement so she could never escape. He’d been too young to cope with those rushes of hormones then, but that damn sure shouldn’t be the case now.