It was a familiar position for them.
Sarge reached over and picked up the nearest magazine from a stack on the wobbly side table, but closed the rag immediately when his face popped up on the fourth page under speculation that the band was breaking up, piggybacked by an article about his recent hookup with a reality show star he’d never met in his life.
Neat.
Sarge realized James had stopped his nervous laps around the room, and was now standing with his buffed loafers pointing in his direction. “What?”
“I’m waiting to hear what happened with your sister.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re in a waiting room.”
A muscle ticked in the band manager’s cheek. “You’re not acting like your usual self. Something must have happened, and I’m your manager. So.”
Sarge lifted his hands and let them drop to his bent knees. “You just want me to distract you until they release Lita.”
“Partly.”
Sarge had no choice but to laugh, but it faded fast. He and James got along fine in their silent agreement not to discuss feelings, but in an artistic profession, shit tended to come out in the wash, whether in song lyrics or after a particularly sloppy night out on the road. It didn’t matter how succinct he made his explanation, James would see everything. Same way Sarge saw what was taking place between James and Lita. But hell, Sarge needed a distraction from thinking about Jasmine—about everything—so he’d talk. Anything to get him through another ten minutes without wondering what the night would bring.
“My sister didn’t want me to stay,” Sarge began. “She had a rough breakup with the father of my niece. Doesn’t want her daughter to get attached to me since I’ll only leave again.”
“Right.” James sat back in his chair, thumb tapping on his thigh. “Where are you staying?”
Sarge stared hard at the cinder-block wall when he answered. “With Jasmine.”
His manager was silent for a tick. “The Jasmine? Jasmine Taveras?”
Hearing her name felt like rolling around in burning cinders. “I liked you better as guy who doesn’t give a shit.”
James started to say something else, but the metal door on the opposite side of the room swung open to reveal Lita. Barely reaching the escorting officer’s shoulder, she had both hands shoved into her ripped jeans, a red-and-black-checkered beanie pulled just above huge, apprehensive green eyes, which were firmly trained on James. “Um.” She shifted in her boots. “I’m with the band?”
In an effort to keep from pissing off James, since the poor fucker had stopped breathing beside him, Sarge didn’t voice the other half of the band’s inside joke. Lita’s innocent, kid-sister appearance had gotten her stopped at security more than once at Old News shows. She looked incapable of lifting a pair of drumsticks, let alone whaling on a kit like a legend. Once, before a show in Amsterdam, she’d told the venue’s head of security she was “with the band,” to which he’d replied in a deadpan tone, “The Spice Girls broke up fifteen years ago.”
Now, even though Lita wasn’t looking at Sarge, he knew she expected the rejoinder, but how the situation was handled needed to be James’s call this time. Too often, Sarge had played good cop, and clearly, it hadn’t done a damn thing to keep Lita from diving back into self-destructive waters.
Thinking of his fingers thrusting into Jasmine’s addictive heat that morning, Sarge wondered if he’d jumped headfirst into self-destruction himself.
Finally, Lita turned her attention to him, arms crossing over her middle. “You were supposed to come alone, Sergeant.”
Sarge shrugged, but sighed when he couldn’t pull off being callous when it came to Lita, even though she’d used the nickname she knew he couldn’t stand. “You were supposed to stay out of trouble.”
“Maybe this is just a surprise band reunion and you’re both on hidden camera.” She elbowed the stone-faced guard to her right. “Smile.”
“Lita,” James started in a warning tone, but when the drummer’s gaze turned hopeful, Sarge could all but feel the shift in his manager’s demeanor. “I…uh. Brought you some aspirin.”
Lita’s expression turned dumbfounded as James approached, producing a bottle of water and aspirin out of his deep coat pockets. When Lita only watched him with suspicion, he lifted her hand, placed the tiny white pills inside, and closed her fist around the medicine. “What are you doing?”
The sound of James clearing his throat bounced off the walls, making it sound louder. “I assume since you drank your weight in whiskey and attempted to scale the Chrysler Building last night, you likely have a headache.”