Funny enough, among the three band members that made up Old News, Sarge was considered the levelheaded decision-maker. The planner. The one who reminded everyone to get at least an hour of sleep the night before a show. That wasn’t to say he didn’t occasionally drink his body weight and tell his deepest secrets to a convenient ficus, but considering the spoils at his disposal, he was almost embarrassingly well behaved for someone NME Magazine had deemed “Rock’s Naughty Prince.”
That title, however, hadn’t come courtesy of his behavior. Oh no. It was the song lyrics he wrote. He’d dug himself a deep hole on the first album, nearly every song about wanting to—well…have sex. Have sex with Jasmine to be specific. Since he’d never been the type to discuss his feelings out loud—potted plants notwithstanding—he’d written them down. He’d written everything down. Needs, fantasies, observations about how Jasmine filled out a bathing suit that he’d had no right to make.
Four years had given him a little clarity on what his mind-set had been at eighteen, the year he’d grown sick of watching her date men who didn’t deserve her. Thinking she’d finally acknowledge him as a man, but realizing that eventuality was nothing more than a pipe dream. God, he’d hoped like hell never to go back there. To that deeply fucked-up, needy place where his dick filled the leg of his boxers just from looking at her. To the place where his heart rammed itself against his tonsils? mind racing, trying to figure out what she’d say next. How he could respond to make her smile.
In town less than a goddamn hour and he was already there. The difference being, now he knew how to satisfy a woman, knew how to make her achieve pleasure with the use of his body. And having that knowledge somehow made it worse to look, but not touch.
Sitting beside him in the cab was the woman he’d been in cataclysmic lust with since middle school. She was bright-eyed from too much wine, her tight red dress was snug around her crossed thighs…and she was giving him a patient babysitter smile from across the cracked leather seat.
Being the calm, objective individual his bandmates knew him to be, he shouldn’t be perceiving Jasmine’s amused expression as a dare. A goad. Ah, but he did. Four years hadn’t changed a single thing—but maybe it didn’t have to stay that way. Maybe he could fight his way free of this permanent straitjacket she’d laced him into eons ago by accepting that dare in her eyes. Throwing down his own gauntlet. Finally indulging his fantasy and then kissing it good-bye, once and for all.
Bad idea. Such a bad fucking idea. She’d flung a spear straight through his chest once, and four years hadn’t made her any less capable of doing it again. Two new songs had already written themselves since they’d met eyes at the Third Shift, another one halfway composed in his head. Could he remain mentally detached enough to work his way free of her spell if things were to get physical? Wasn’t living free of Jasmine haunting him worth the risk?
There was only one way to know for sure.
“That bloody lip looks pretty ugly,” Jasmine said. “Does it hurt much?”
Sarge ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, encountering the metallic tang of blood. He hadn’t even been aware of the injury, probably too distracted by a certain someone in sky-high heels. God, he was a mess. “I would say, ‘You should see the other guy,’ but I don’t think you should. See him again, that is.”
On the other side of the plastic partition, the cab driver whistled low under his breath and received an arched eyebrow from Jasmine. “I’d already decided that before you cleaned his clock, but your concern is duly noted.”
“Good.”
She breathed into her hands, rubbing them together for warmth. “You’ve changed a lot. I remember when I couldn’t drag a single word out of you.”
Remembering the way he used to clam up, losing all ability to speak at the sight of her in his living room, he wished he could go back in time and tell that kid to grow some courage. He had it now. In spades. It was time she knew about it. “Maybe I was just saving the words up.”
“For your songs.” A gorgeous smile lit up her face, one that was unique to Jasmine. She never showed her teeth, just pursed her lips in a way that plumped them, her eyes tilting at the ends. It made you her instant coconspirator. Or if you were Sarge, it sent a giant moose stampeding through your stomach. “When they come over the loudspeaker on the factory floor, everyone sings. Before you, they only ever did that for Bruce. And pre-country Bon Jovi.”
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.