Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(4)

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 f*ck, 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?”