Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(26)

Parameters, parameters…

Whose idea had that been? Hers. Yes! It was a damn good idea, too, because bad things were afoot. Very bad things, indeed. She’d been feeling Sarge on a physical level since he’d shown up and mowed down Carmine at the Third Shift. Since he’d boosted her up on the kitchen counter like she weighed less than a flea and proceeded to dirty talk her panties into a twist. Tonight, though, things had…shifted. Sarge had all those qualities she remembered. He was perceptive when it came to people’s feelings, especially his sister. He could laugh at himself. Facets of a man’s personality Jasmine had assumed couldn’t be maintained when being showered with all-out fan worship.

Sarge had not only maintained those qualities, he’d turned into an entirely different monster. One that had the nerve to show up with the perfect princess necklace and look like he’d just been hit with a cement truck upon meeting his niece.

What an *.

Because now the situation had graduated from wanting to jump Sarge’s bones to being interested in what went on behind those blue eyes. Why had he left Hook so abruptly four years ago? What had prompted his return?

Did he sleep with tons of groupies?

Do not ask. Do not even think of maybe asking that.

She shouldn’t care. Sarge’s bedroom activities before and after they slept together—of which she was still debating the wisdom—should be a nonissue. However, while it was on her mind…of course he slept with tons of girls on the road. He was a veritable rock star with almost irritatingly good looks. All of his female admirers were probably a shit-ton younger than her, too. How would she stack up to them?

Jasmine tugged her apartment keys out of her purse, striving for nonchalance even though Sarge had an elbow propped on the doorframe, watching her like a dragon from the shadows.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Don’t what me.”

God, since when did her lock stick? She tugged and jiggled, but the damn thing wouldn’t turn. Meanwhile, Sarge’s body heat was like an industrial-sized oven beside her. “I listened to your new album at work today.”

A flicker of surprised pleasure crossed his face, but he hid it just as fast. “Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She’d told River it was a podcast playing in her headphones, figuring she’d been honest with her friend enough for one day. “Were those…thoughts always bumping around in that head of yours? Or did they show up after you got stuck in a lightning storm or something?”

Sarge braced a hand on the doorframe and leaned closer. “Which thoughts are you referring to, Jas?”

“You know.” Finally, she managed to get the door open—and not a moment too soon, since Sarge was licking his lips like a starved lion, ready to pounce. “The way you talk about women.”

His boots thunked on the wood floor as he followed her into the apartment, shrugging off his coat as he entered. “Women plural, huh? Is that what you got from my songs?”

Jasmine hung her own coat in the hall closet, relieved to be facing away. “Oh, come on.” Don’t. Don’t doooo it. “I’m sure there’s been tons of opportunities on the road for…the kind of experience you need to write…those songs.” Callate estupida.

Finished hanging her coat, Jasmine turned—and bit back a scream, nearly tumbling backward into the closet. Sarge was standing close—so damn close—with a displeased expression on his face. He looked older, wiser…and just a hint weary in a way that she tried not to let fascinate her. “I have to feel something to write a song. I have to want.” He jabbed a hand through his hair, leaving it standing out at stray angles. “I’ve never felt anything close to that on the road. Ever. And I wouldn’t call waking up to someone you don’t recognize an opportunity. I wouldn’t even give it a name because that might give it some importance.”

A spiky ball rolled through Jasmine’s chest. “Sarge, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” He closed his eyes a moment, opening to reveal just a flash of temper. Pain. “Just do me a favor? At least for tonight, try to pretend like you don’t get a kick out of me with other people. Pretend it makes you f*cking ill, the way I feel when I slip and imagine the reverse.”

Jasmine was left standing on liquefied knees, heart knocking against her ribs as Sarge strode into her bedroom, the way a king might. She watched as he kicked off his boots, toeing them under her bed with a heated look over his shoulder. “You coming or do I need to come get you?”

“We haven’t talked parameters yet.” When his back stiffened, she felt a rush of frustration. “While you’re here, while we’re…together this way, I don’t want people in Hook to know about it.”

He’d stopped moving. “You want to explain why?”

The frustration broke into winged pieces, demanding to be let free. “You haven’t been here. You don’t understand.”

“Try me,” Sarge said, facing her with a hooded expression.

“I…failed. Okay? I failed where you didn’t. The most ambitious girl in town didn’t even make it through the Lincoln Tunnel.” She joined him in the room to begin digging through her underwear drawer, not looking for anything in particular, just needing an activity for her hands. “They’ve treated me differently since then. Carefully. With sympathy. If they know what we’re doing, they’ll see it for something it isn’t. Me trying to recapture the success I never really had in the first place. Through you. You know they will.”