Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(35)

A cheer went up at the same moment the machines ceased their clanging, making the elated laughs and whistles extra loud. Seeing River light up with a smile of disbelief told Jasmine to stow her skepticism. There had to be a catch. She’d been working in the factory long enough to know their boss wasn’t a generous man. But she wasn’t going to ruin her best friend’s—or anyone else’s—fun.

Around them, factory employees cleaned up their stations in a hurry, dashing toward the locker rooms to change back into street clothes and warm coats. Jasmine and River were caught up in the flow of chaos, losing track of each other until twenty minutes later when they filed down the hallway into the back parking lot. When the double doors swung open, Jasmine’s mouth fell open. Coolers of beer sat in the backs of pickup trucks, pizza boxes being passed among the crowd of bewildered factory workers. It took her a few seconds to decipher the source of her sudden suspicion, but the music pumping from one of the trucks’ speakers finally penetrated her shock.

Old News played, but it wasn’t just any song. “Girl in Blue,” in its dirty, bass-heavy glory, filled the parking lot. Just like that, she knew Sarge was behind their early dismissal. The realization spread a foreign sensation through her body, kind of like that weird stage after you’d been hit in the funny bone. When you can’t decide if the feeling is pain or pleasure.

River distracted Jasmine by grabbing her arm. “I’m going to grab some pizza. You coming?”

Jasmine tried not to be obvious about scanning the crowded parking lot for Sarge. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“’Kay,” River trilled, bouncing off toward the circle of trucks.

One of her coworkers pressed a cold Bud Light into Jasmine’s hand. She took it and leaned against the factory wall, an amused smile playing around her lips to see her coworkers so animated. Someone had already produced a football, which was being tossed dangerously close to the crowd, but no one seemed to care. Warm breath puffed into the December air, reddening faces and forcing people to huddle together. It wasn’t perfect by most definitions, but to them, it was paradise.

A dense gray cloud passed over the winter sun, casting a shadow over the parking lot. Almost on cue, the song restarted, seemingly louder, stopping Jasmine’s breath from leaving her throat. “Girl in Blue” was like being trapped inside a human chest. The thick, sexy drumbeat that couldn’t find an exact rhythm, picking up and dropping out without warning. Boom. Boomboomboom. Boom. Like an erratic heartbeat. The bass line was low and heavy, transmitting the sense of an impending storm. A warning. Vibrating guitar chords joined the fray off and on, unable to make up their mind. And all that happened before Sarge’s voice sneaked up and pounced.

I need tending. Never ending.

Want that, need that, girl in blue.

No panty lines, no ties, no binds.

Got me hard up over you.

As the song played, Jasmine could hear her own breath scraping up her chest, drifting out over her lips in a white puff. Could feel her toes curling in her shoes. Was everyone looking at her? No. No, they weren’t. She was the only one who knew Sarge had written the song about her. Jasmine took a long pull of beer, but the alcohol only turned up the heat inside her, the slow slide of it down her middle feeling like a caress. She closed her eyes, images flickering against the backdrop of her eyelids like an X-rated movie. Sarge releasing his length from his pants, the way it dropped and bobbed in the space between her legs.

Grip those hips,

Up into you

Raging, pushing, letting go

Biting mouths, suck those roses

Once not enough

Flipped over. Round two.

Wetness rushed to the spot that had been so well loved by Sarge’s mouth that morning. Just that morning. How could she be this needy? It took a concerted effort to keep her breath from rasping like she’d run a marathon. Her palms were slicking up and down her squeezing thighs, creating friction through her leggings. Hot. So hot. So hot.

When the cell phone buzzed in her front right pocket, a gasp tripped over her lips, the vibration almost enough to send her flying. She knew who called before even answering. “Hello?”

“Jasmine.” Sarge’s gruff voice transported her back to the darkness of her bedroom, taking her miles away from the bustling parking lot.

“Where are you?” she whispered, even though she could hear “Girl in Blue” playing down the line, meaning he was close to the parking lot. Watching her?

“I’m close.” How did he make those two words sound so filthy? “Pull up the video on your phone. The one we made last night. I want to see you watch it.”

Excitement almost buckled Jasmine’s knees, even as she spoke her denial. “I’m not watching that here. I can’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was deep, abrasive. “Your * can’t get any wetter than it already is, Jasmine. I see you.”

Jasmine sucked in a breath, pressing end on the call in an attempt to rein in the compulsion to follow Sarge’s orders. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—do something so inappropriate with her coworkers and best friend surrounding her. But she wanted to. The damn song must have been on repeat, because the intro started again, calling to the pit of her belly, twisting it in a knot. All day, she’d resisted watching the video, but right now…right now, it felt impossible. Beneath her winter coat, her nipples strained, the damp seam of her leggings rubbed against the ache. Watching the video wouldn’t help her situation, but Sarge would. Had it gone unsaid that he would come to her once she followed his directions? Or was that wishful thinking?