Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(7)

Sarge felt his lips tug at the image. “What about you? Do you sing when they come on?”

Her smile wavered. “No. But not because I don’t like your songs,” she rushed to add, mischief lurking in her eyes. “I just don’t want to show anyone up.”

Something about the way she said it made Sarge question her truthfulness. Which made no damn sense, since he knew Jasmine’s voice was incredible. If he closed his eyes and thought back to hazy Hook summers spent at the community pool or drinking Coke in his backyard, he could hear her voice, husky and confident, floating in a jumble with the humidity.

They pulled up in front of Jasmine’s building, the cab’s brakes protesting as it slowed to a stop along the curb. Sarge paid with a twenty before Jasmine could extricate her purse, earning him a narrow-eyed frown. “Sarge—”

“What?” His tone was teasing. “How else am I going to repay you for this forced hospitality?”

Jasmine didn’t answer as they climbed out of opposite ends of the cab, meeting at the glass-door entrance of her apartment building after Sarge retrieved his gear from the trunk. “I did you a favor. The closest motel rents by the hour.”

“I’ve been in worse,” he murmured, following her into the building. “How long have you been living here?”

She went to punch the elevator call button, but slumped when she saw the out of service sign taped over the sliding metal doors. Indicating the stairwell with a nod, she headed in that direction and Sarge followed, not managing to keep his gaze from gliding up her calves, the backs of her smooth thighs. “My second year at the factory…when it became obvious I would be here for a while.”

Sarge allowed her to ascend a few stairs before climbing after her. “You don’t like the factory?”

Her laugh punctuated the air. “No one likes the factory except the suited boys upstairs. If you’d left poor Carmine alone a few minutes longer, you would have heard all about it.”

“I’m good with my decision,” he responded too quickly. Just hearing her say the *’s name made him grind his teeth. He still couldn’t believe she’d been struggling in a bar full of men and no one had come to her aid. To be fair, each and every patron had been intoxicated, and Jasmine had been in an alcove where he might have missed her, had the voice from his dreams not reached out and slugged him the second he walked into the Third Shift.

Sarge wasn’t sure his reaction would have differed if Jasmine had been into the kiss with Carmine. He’d just wanted the guy off her. Period.

Sarge glanced up in time to see Jasmine watching him over her shoulder, tugging down her skirt as she bypassed the second-floor entrance and headed for the third. Did she sense his inability to avert his gaze when her hips were swaying like a checkered flag at the beginning of a race? That red hem couldn’t be deterred on its mission to slip higher and higher, where it teased the underside of her ass. The fog of jealousy that had descended at the mention of her date’s name was being burned away by an increasing weight between his legs. So much sharper than usual because the source of his hottest fantasies was leading him to her apartment. The place she slept, showered, touched herself.

Ah, Jesus. Don’t think about that.

“So…” Jasmine slipped her fingers beneath the dress’s hem once again, holding it in place at a modest level. “How long are you in town?”

Sarge followed her through the beige metal door onto the building’s third level, watching as she searched for her keys in the clutch purse. “Long enough to forget why we were starting to annoy each other, I’m guessing.” When she laughed over her shoulder, eyes sparkling, he had to take a second to regroup. “Our drummer, Lita, was getting into too much trouble on the road, so our manager put her in a time-out. And I’ve waited long enough to meet Marcy. Christmas seemed like the best time.”

A weight pressed down on his shoulders. “We’re also on the fence about signing with a new label. It would mean more studio time, a quick turnaround on another tour…”

“That’s incredible,” Jasmine breathed, pausing midstep. “Why would you ever turn something like that down?”

It doesn’t matter how far I travel, my head is always here. “No reason. We’ll probably sign.” Sarge threaded his fingers through his hair. “So what’s my niece like?”

“Ohh. You’re going to love her. She’s a miniature River.” Jasmine pushed into the apartment and flipped on a lamp with a pink shade, casting the living room in a rosy glow. “So. Lita, huh?” She turned with crossed arms, waggling her eyebrows at him. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Sarge tried to contain his horror and couldn’t. “She’s like my kid sister.” He set his bag down and circled the apartment, trying not to be obvious about inhaling the sight of everything she touched on a daily basis. “A kid sister who can drink me under the table. And then bury me under her rap sheet.”

He couldn’t see Jasmine’s reaction because she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. For a full ten count, Sarge could only watch the doorway, his old self warning him that being in tight spaces with Jasmine was a bad idea. But he wasn’t the old Sarge anymore. This trip could be his only opportunity to kick this infatuation. Don’t waste it.

Sarge followed Jasmine, coming to an abrupt stop on the threshold when he saw Jasmine heating up a pan. And removing the fixings to make a grilled cheese.