Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(3)

“Yes. Of course.” Misery lurking in her expression, River reached out and squeezed his arm. “Come back Thursday night? Around dinnertime?”

“You know it.”

Sensing River wouldn’t like shutting the door in his face, Sarge threw her a reassuring wink and turned to head down the stairs. Laid out in front of him, the residential block where he’d spent his youth seemed unfamiliar—like a crude depiction of hazy memories penciled out by a sketch artist. The sidewalks were broken up by tree roots, the telephone lines sagging under the weight of tied-together sneakers. There was a basketball hoop in every driveway, but no kids made use of them. It was quiet, except for traffic passing on the avenue, the occasional honk or greeting being yelled through a car window.

It wasn’t the first time in his life he didn’t know where he was headed. But it was the first time he knew he couldn’t go back. To anything. To anywhere.

“What’s your next move, Purcell?” he muttered under his breath.

Two blocks down, he could just make out the neon beer sign in the window of Hook’s local dive bar, the Third Shift.

His feet were moving before a conscious decision had been made.

Yep. Times like these, a man went out and got shit-faced.





Chapter Two


When it came to men, it was slim-ass pickings in Hook, New Jersey.

Lack of selection had to be responsible for Jasmine wearing her best dress within the Third Shift’s decaying, smoke-stained walls. Seriously. The ramshackle joint was seconds from falling down around their ears—why didn’t anyone looked concerned? Probably because each and every patron was half past wasted, shouting to be heard over a played-out Bruce Springsteen CD that always skipped on “Born to Run.” Her date—if one could give him such a legitimate title—was the loudest of the local dimwits, sloshing beer over his meaty paw as he expounded on his theories concerning factory politics. She’d heard it all before. Many times. God knew she loved a working-class hero. After all, she happened to be one herself.

But…carajo! Sometimes she just wished they would stop complaining about life’s unfairness and shut the f*ck up.

If forgetting about her sweaty daily grind on the assembly line wasn’t the point of going on a date with one of these dudes, what was? She’d put on a dress and lipstick to remind herself she was a woman, not just a cog in a machine. Or the outspoken coworker who was always nominated to speak on everyone’s behalf to the boss man. There had been a time when she’d wanted more. Much more. Life didn’t always work out the way you expected, though, and she’d learned to be content. Mostly. When she didn’t think too hard about what might have been. Lofty ambitions were no longer part of her psyche, but a decent date once in a while wasn’t a lot to ask.

The night had started off pretty standard. Her date, Carmine, had driven them in his pickup to an Italian restaurant in Montclair—white tablecloths, the whole nine yards. And okay, fine, he’d yapped for forty-five minutes about his idea for novelty bumper stickers that say Mechanics Have Big Tools, but she’d entertained herself with three glasses of red wine. This was her second date with Carmine, although the first had been months ago after which she’d told him, do better next time. It seemed as if he’d taken her directive to heart. She’d even considered kissing his sorry ass good-night. Then he’d gone and done it. He’d pulled up outside the Third Shift, “just for a nightcap.”

What was it about the men in this town and the Third Shift? They didn’t consider their day complete until they’d added their unique man scent to the mélange of questionable odors. Now he was doing this thing. This “reach over and massage her neck while yukking it up with his boys” thing. The kind of move you pull on a long-suffering girlfriend, and she was far from that to Carmine.

When Jasmine’s cell phone buzzed inside her clutch purse and she saw River’s name come up, concern replaced her irritation. It was just past bedtime for Marcy. If River was calling her, something was up.

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.