Crashed Out Page 11

  There was a battle ahead, and not just to keep Jasmine in his life. Something had turned down the volume on the music inside her. She still painted the air with life everywhere she went, but it was subdued, and it shouldn’t be. Not from someone so amazing. But Sarge understood the feeling all too well. After the lights went off and the screaming crowd went home, he’d just been left with himself and his choices. That wasn’t an easy thing when somehow your choices had made you instead.

  One such regret was his stupid belief that a monthly check was all his sister needed from him the last four years. Which is what brought him to Holy Cross Church’s doorstep, blowing warm breath into his cupped palms while waiting for Adeline, the choir director, to arrive. Anyone in Hook knew, if you wanted gossip without asking for it, you paid a visit to Adeline. She had a habit of talking to herself within earshot of anyone who would listen in—although Sarge always suspected she stirred the pot on purpose. Knowing River, though, she wouldn’t tell him without a fight how the last four years had been. And he needed to know so he could help.

  “Never say that’s Sarge Purcell waiting on me.” He turned just in time to see Adeline slap her knee, lipstick-smeared teeth spreading into a genuine smile he couldn’t help but return. “I heard you were back in town and I said, send that boy to see me. Who was it that sent you? Was it Gerald at the tobacco shop?” Adeline trudged past him, fumbling with her keys. “Nasty gambling habit, that one,” she muttered on the way.

  Same old Adeline. Funny how when he’d left Hook, he’d been disgusted by its inability to change. Now, though, he was glad as hell it remained the place stored in his memory. “How’s the choir shaping up for next year?” Sarge asked, following Adeline into the church office.

  “Oh, fair enough, I suppose. A few squeaky wheels, a blown tire or two.” She said something under her breath that sounded like goddamn Debbie. “What do they want from us, though?” Her eyebrows bobbed underneath her eyeglass frames. “We’re not big fancy professionals like you.”

  “We’re not fancy, but we get by,” Sarge murmured, dropping into the chair she indicated. “River asked me to play a song or two on Christmas Eve.”

  That was the only prompt the choir director needed. “That sister of yours, Sarge. I tell you, there isn’t a single bad word a body could say against her. And after everything she’s been through.”

  “Right.” A lump formed in Sarge’s throat. When River and her high school sweetheart broke up, Sarge had just left Hook, caught up in the whirlwind that came with earning a contract and being thrown into a recording studio with three seemingly incompatible strangers. “All she’s been through.”

  “I thought that man would come to his senses when she got pregnant with Marcy, but I was wrong. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since he rolled back into Hook after being discharged. Only stayed in town long enough to break your sister’s heart, then off he went, the bastard.”

  Ah, Jesus. River had led him to believe the breakup with Vaughn had been a mutual decision. But it hadn’t. She’d been pregnant and abandoned. Had she even been truthful with their parents about the situation? Strange enough, he remembered Vaughn as a stand-up guy, if clearly troubled. One who’d been crazy about River since Sarge could remember. Obviously he’d been way off about the man who’d dated his sister through high school. “Vaughn’s uncle still in town, or…?” Sarge managed around the razor blades he’d swallowed.

  “No, he made for Florida when Vaughn enlisted. Do you know he never once set foot into the Sunday church service? Not when he was raising Vaughn and not after,” Adeline said, lowering her glasses as if she’d just imparted the worst transgression known to man. “I think his apartment above the stationery store is still empty, which should tell you something about the real estate market in Hook. Dead as a doornail.”

  “Sign’s still broken over the stationery shop?”

  “That’s the way things stay when you’re cheap as dirt.” Adeline patted her hair. “Ask your sister about cheap. That man she’s working for would risk his life to save a penny from being run over.”

  Sarge couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “The factory owner?”

  “Nope!” Adeline slapped both hands onto the desk. “That run-down house of sin she’s working in three nights a week. Cocktail waitressing, if that’s what you call donning a skirt and parading around with a tray.” For some reason she put the word “tray” in quotation marks, but Sarge was too stunned to explore why.

  He leaned forward slowly in his chair. “We’re still talking about River?”

  “Yes, sir.” The old woman huffed. “You can’t blame me for passing on news. I just assumed you knew.”

  With a jolt, Sarge realized he’d come to his feet. “No…of course. I don’t blame you. I’m glad I know.” He remembered the shock of seeing his notoriously peppy sister looking so exhausted, framed by the doorway of their childhood house. Hadn’t he decided then and there to help River? To make up for his four-year absence by doing a hell of a lot more than sending checks? Better get started. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone number for Vaughn, would you, Adeline?”

  “No, I do not.” Adeline lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “But I have an address for him.”

  “How?”

  Adeline took another long drag of nicotine, watching him over her fingers. “When Vaughn’s uncle left town, he left behind some furniture and the landlord said the church could have a look, see what was worth keeping. I found a few envelopes from Vaughn among his things. Nothing inside, but there was a return address.” Cigarette in her mouth, Adeline rooted through the top drawer of her desk before pulling out a sealed envelope and handing it to Sarge. “Don’t make me regret I gave that to you.”

  “I won’t.” Sarge turned from the desk, dropping a heavy hand on the doorknob. “I’m going to take care of it.”

  She clicked her desk drawer shut and inclined her head. “See that you do.”

  Chapter Ten

  They never broke routine at the factory. If the cogs didn’t turn, the product didn’t ship on time. If the products didn’t ship on time, money didn’t exchange hands. Which meant the floor workers didn’t get paid. Like Jasmine, most of her coworkers lived paycheck to paycheck, and having their salary docked spelled disaster. So when the bell rang for quitting time at three o’clock, instead of five, everyone on the floor kept working, assuming it had been in error.

  Until it rang again.

  Beside Jasmine, River tossed down her clipboard and pushed the goggles up onto her head. “Maybe it’s a fire drill?”

  Jasmine hummed in her throat. “I’m not stopping until I smell smoke.”

  The bell rang a third time, making both women frown. Jasmine stopped in the process of applying her machine to the waiting metal plate when the head boss’s droning voice thrummed over the loudspeaker. “Factory is closing early today. Clear your station and head out.” A loud sigh was accompanied by static. “There’s pizza and beer in the parking lot. This is a one-shot deal, so don’t get used to it.”

  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 fr
om 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 pussy 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?

  With a muttered curse, Jasmine swiped the screen of her phone and pulled up the video application, hitting play on the last recorded option before her nerve deserted her.

  Jasmine almost dropped the device as a loud moan emerged from the speaker, but she quickly lowered the volume, relieved when no one seemed to notice. And then there was only Sarge, tongue flicking against her most private flesh, his big hands holding her thighs open as he watched her. His blue eyes were glazed as if he’d just smoked opium, mouth working, working. From the angle she’d held the phone, the erection hanging between his legs was visible…and that was what drew her attention, even more than his masterful mouth. She wasn’t in the mood for foreplay. No. Being filled was all that mattered.

  It was only when Sarge’s name appeared on her vibrating phone and she answered that Jasmine realized her whole body was shaking. “Where?” she breathed.

  Sarge sounded like a dying man when he responded. “Side entrance, baby. Hurry.”

  Jasmine took a moment to make sure no one was watching before speed-walking along the factory’s perimeter and slipping around the corner. Sarge paced in the alleyway, his hair a total mess. When he saw her, the growl that emerged from his mouth made her loins tighten like belt. They met in a tangle of limbs, mouths devouring in wet slides of tongue and bumping teeth, Sarge’s hands unzipping her jacket to get their bodies flush. Reason deserted Jasmine. She didn’t care how Sarge got their lower bodies locked together, so long as it was now. Now. As their mouths mated in a frantic dance, she could see the video from her phone. His worshipping mouth, his forceful hands, the way he’d reached down to wrap a fist around his arousal every time she moaned his name.

  Sarge broke the kiss. “Inside. Have to get inside.” He cupped her breasts, lifted and kneaded. “Much as I’d like everyone to know I’m the one making you this goddamn hot, I’d have to beat them off you with a stick afterward.” Dipping his head, he nipped at the tips of her breasts in turn. “And I want this all to myself. I want to guard you and feed you and fuck you.”

  Did that send another shot of liquid slicking down to her core? God, yes. She was dying a slow death, the longer it took to get Sarge inside her. But nothing could stop those insecurities from rearing their ugly heads. They were always present, just waiting for an opening to sing their solo. “You want this so bad?” Her laughter was half breathless, half skeptical, maybe a little sad. “You can still see the outline of my goggles.”

  His disbelief was capped with annoyance when he pulled away, wedging her face between his hands. “You listen to me, I’ve been to twenty-nine countries and stared out at millions of faces, and…” He ran frustrated blue eyes over her face. “No one’s lip turns up the way yours does. No one’s chin is as stubborn as yours while still being so stupid cute. No one looks like they can keep all my secrets. Or be the reason for all my secrets. They only built one of you. So no more. I’m shutting that shit down right now.”

  Sarge gripped her shoulders and backed her toward the side entrance, reaching around her hip to pry the door open. They were ensconced in darkness, his intensity boring down on her, shredding her up inside as the door slammed. An overhead grate allowed thin slits of sunlight into the silent machine room, giving her shifting views of harsh planes of his face, the heat in his eyes, as her back met a concrete wall. “Sarge
—”

  He cut her off with his seeking mouth, kissing her until air became necessary to staying conscious, determined hands working the fly of her jeans. “You.” His forehead bumped into hers. “You don’t make jokes about how bad I need you. Feeling like I might die without you wrapped around me isn’t funny.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jasmine breathed, meaning it. How could she not mean it when his voice shook, when his words were slamming into her chest like unruly bumper cars? The situation was getting away from her, the morning’s resolve nothing but a distant echo. There wasn’t a precipice in sight she could hold on to to pull her out of the quicksand. “I didn’t mean to make fun. It’s just…the way you’re making me behave.” Something about the near-darkness sent honesty tumbling out. “I’ve never had trouble putting the brakes on before. The first time shouldn’t happen when I’m thirty, right? I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t…”

  “What?” The word emerged like an expletive against her ear. “You shouldn’t want a man who walked around all morning feeling sick? For passing up a chance to bang your sweetness up against the kitchen counter?” He dragged the jacket off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a whoosh, before planting his hands over her head. “I’m sick as fuck, Jasmine. Cure me.”

  This is what it feels like to be craved. Beyond reason. Beyond anything in her experience. His pain called to an untapped facet of her womanhood and dug in, knitting loose ends together. There was a thrill that came with knowing you’d caused a man’s desperation and you were the only one who could fix it. The only one capable of negating his aches by driving them higher, higher, before letting him down. Sarge had started a boil this morning by denying her the chance to reciprocate the pleasure he’d given. Now the boil rollicked and bubbled over her edges, sizzling down her sides, rousing the dormant seductress housed inside her.