Текст книги "Crashed Out "

Автор книги: Tessa Bailey

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Jasmine respected him all the more for making the point, but his astuteness did nothing to aid her cause. She couldn’t allow his convenient logic to penetrate. There would be other logic later. Different points. But one truth wouldn’t change—she didn’t belong with him. “You should have told me from the beginning how you felt. This isn’t fair.” Sarge held fast when she tried to slide off the buffet. “You let me think this was casual, but it wasn’t. Not for you.”

“You’re right.” His thumb brushed over her knee. “You’re right about that. I should have been honest. I can’t find it in me to be sorry, though, Jasmine. Not when I know you feel something. Not when I know staying is the right thing.”

Staying. The right thing. That’s what it all came down to. Sarge’s heart had always been on display, so apparent in everything he did. She would be no different. A responsibility he smiled through. People would laugh at their age difference, call him a fool for giving up the musician lifestyle to be with a woman seven years his senior. Eventually he would listen to the naysayers. No matter how well he hid his resentment, it would be there. Over turning down the contract, tossing away his chance at even greater success. God, it would kill her knowing she’d held him back. Forced him to squander his potential. The way she’d done.

“I’m sorry, I…” The words got lodged in her throat. He wouldn’t listen to reason, so she had to be firm. Harsh. Already what came next haunted her, even with their bodies still joined. Swallowing the broken sound shivering up her throat, Jasmine wrestled with his grip until she could bypass Sarge, stooping down to pick up her jeans. “I’m sorry, I’m bowing out. I never would have let this happen if I thought you would want a relationship out of it.”

When Jasmine straightened, Sarge was right behind her. “You don’t think I see what you’re doing?” He dragged her back against his chest, mouth pressed to her ear. “The man who loves you isn’t afraid of a fight. Just tell me what I’m up against so I can knock it the fuck down.”

It took a strength of will she’d never experienced to remain upright. To resist turning in Sarge’s arms and confessing her doubts. Laying them on his doorstep and seeing what he could do with them. As if she didn’t know. He would obliterate them somehow. For the moment. But they would grow back stronger and more insistent once time had a chance to pass. Once the outside world began to intrude. “Let me go.”

“Never.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, then pulled away with one remaining ounce of resolve. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this. I would never intentionally hurt you…or River.”

He stabbed the air with a finger. “We’re the only two people involved here.”

“That’s not always how things work.” When Jasmine finished pulling on her jeans and boots, it took her a minute to face Sarge. His face was grim, hands pushed into his pants pockets. Still as stone. Maybe she’d finally gotten through? Why did that possibility make her want to die? “I’ll go out through the bar…there are probably a couple of cabs waiting by now. Do you mind going out the back?”

His laughter was sharp. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

Jasmine’s face grew hot. “People shouldn’t see us walking out of this room together. People’s opinion of me is all I have. I have to live here, Sarge.”

Two booted strides and Sarge was pushing into her personal space. “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. I want to face them with you. I want to live here with you.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me.” She was fading, fading. It hurt to stand and talk and think. “That’s n-not what I signed up for.”

“Right.” But she must have shown a dent in her armor, because a spark appeared in his eyes. A glimmer of the man she’d spent the day with, laughing and ignoring anything resembling the future. Sarge reached out and cupped her cheek and everything inside her went still. “I know it’s a lot. I just told you I love you. That it’s always been this way. Maybe you’re even right to be scared, Jas, because this love is rough. It’s sharp and sweet and dirty and jealous. It wakes me up in the middle of the night thinking I’m in the wrong place because you’re not there. It believed you were mine before you saw me as a man, and the waiting…the waiting made this love bigger. It’s so big and I understand why that’s scary. I’ve had time to stop being scared of it, and you haven’t.” His hand slipped into Jasmine’s hair, drawing her close so he could brush their mouths together. “I’ll keep waiting. I’ll wait out the fear.”

She couldn’t speak around the crushing sensation behind her ribs, so she simply shook her head, loosening tears that tracked down her cheeks.

The pull between them stole her breath, so intense there didn’t seem any choice but to meet each other halfway. But Sarge tightened his grip on her hair and stepped back, pain evident in his handsome features. “Christmas Eve at the church. Will you be there?”

Two nights away. “Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” Attention locked on her, Sarge headed for the party room’s back exit, pulling it open and pausing in the doorway. “At the very least, Jasmine, I just need to see you.”

When the door clicked shut, Jasmine fell into the closest folding chair. With the failure of her musical aspirations, getting stuck in a town she’d always imagined in her rear view, Jasmine had always thought of her life as a tragic series of disappointments. But as she sat in the still room listening to the rasp of her own breath, it became obvious she’d never understood tragedy until now. To have a man like Sarge and feel him waiting, feel him wanting, but not answer that call? It might very well stop her heart from beating.

At once, her bones ached. A tapping pain had started behind both eyes, forcing them shut. Home. If she didn’t get home soon, she’d never find the willpower to move again. With a fortifying breath, Jasmine pushed to her feet, leaning down to fix her mussed hair in the reflective metal buffet. Wondering how in God’s name she would talk to anyone and form complete sentences on the other side of the door, Jasmine nonetheless removed the metal chair poised beneath the knob and stepped out into the dim hallway.

Carmine leaned against the wall, tapping an empty beer bottle against his leg. It only took Jasmine half a second to deduce Carmine had been standing there a while. His lecherous grin said it all. Jasmine’s stomach pitched, sending her stumbling forward a step. A yearning for Sarge hit her so fast and hard, a sob bubbled up from her throat. One wish. If she had one wish, Sarge would come thundering down the hallway to fold her up in his arms. But he wouldn’t do that. He’d left. She’d sent him out through the back door like a dirty little secret.

“Saw you head in there with Purcell…he still in there?”

She didn’t bother denying what Carmine had seen. “No.”

His laugh was vulgar, making her feel even more exposed. “Seriously, Jasmine? I had no idea you liked your men so young. Guess my chances would have been shitty even if you didn’t keep yourself locked up like a nun.” He rubbed his whiskered chin. “Well. From me, anyway.”

A burn started in her belly, spearing up to her throat. “Is that all you were waiting out here to tell me? Do you feel better now?”

“God.” He kicked off the wall to face her. “Since day one, you’ve always thought you were so much better than us.” When he gestured to the back room, the remains of his beer sloshed onto the floor. “Look what happens when you aim too high. The guy couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

Even though it wasn’t the truth, Jasmine’s skin pulled tight. Just at the very idea of Sarge wanting to get away from her. Wasn’t that her greatest fear when it came to being with him? “Are you finished?”

“How long do you think it would take before he found someone…younger?” Having reached his apparent point, Carmine’s mouth tilted up on one end. “Probably won’t even take him the walk home.”

Jasmine waited for doubt to kick in. Waited for visions of Sarge touching someone else to play out like a grainy homemade movie in her head. But they didn’t. Instead, she felt his mouth moving as it whispered promises against her ear. She saw him smiling at her across the car, both of them huffing into their hands to beat the chill. And underneath it all, there was bone-deep security. In them. Even if there couldn’t be a them—a them would be selfish on her end—a them would be a united front against assholes like this. Carmine didn’t know Sarge. He didn’t know her, either. Not the Jasmine who straightened her spine and laughed.

Oh God, the laugh felt phenomenal. It twirled and waved pom-poms as she tried to move past Carmine in the hallway. When he stepped right to block her path, it reversed directions and cemented her hands into fists. “Back off.”

“Last chance, Jasmine.” He pinched a strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “You had your fun, now stop being unrealistic.”

Carmine took one step closer, knocking her heels into the wall. In the space of a split second, a rebellion took place in her breast. Denial, anger, frustration welled and she embraced it. Embraced this part of her that had gone missing somewhere over the years. A gust of breath whooshed from her mouth, her closed fist lifting to sock Carmine in the jaw. She watched with openmouthed shock as he stumbled back with a wounded sound, hitting the opposite wall. But the shock turned to relief in a giant rush. There. There she was.

Jasmine heard a collective silence from the bar and turned, noticing the sea of attention they’d attracted. A week ago, she might have ducked and hightailed it out of the bar. Not tonight, though. Tonight, she calmly zipped her coat, smoothed back her hair and marched through the onlookers without so much as a blink. Just before the exit, a group of young women—the same ones who’d been taking pictures with Sarge—presented their palms for high fives, which she completed with a satisfying slap.

When the door closed behind her, she smiled. She smiled so wide it broke apart into a belly laugh as she climbed into the driver’s seat of her car.

In that sweet, sparkling pocket of time, she wasn’t a woman who could hold anyone back. Wasn’t a woman who could cause anyone regret.

And she had some serious thinking to do.

Chapter Fourteen

Sarge pulled open the double doors of his rented van, surveying the hundreds of packages that required unloading. To anyone else, carrying Christmas presents into the church event hall without help might resemble work. To him, it was pure saving grace. Distraction. One that would simultaneously prevent him from going to Jasmine’s apartment and camping outside until she spoke to him, while doubling as a happy surprise for the kids of Hook. Hopefully. Buying a vanload of musical instruments had seemed like a great idea at the time, but now he kind of wondered if he should have gone with a sports theme.

Distracting thoughts were good.

They were also running short. Okay, they’d been running short for almost two days, since he’d left Jasmine at the Third Shift. He’d watched from across the street until she pulled away in her car, before taking a cab to Manhattan. An expensive drive, but a necessary one. Jasmine needed time to process the love-bomb he’d detonated. If he waited around in Hook, nothing short of imprisonment would have kept him from trying to dig out the shrapnel he’d sent flying. So he’d spent two days on the phone with a Realtor, looking for a place to buy in Hook. Then he’d gone shopping for child-friendly instruments. And drinking. He’d done some drinking. The way a man did when his happiness hung in the balance.

Already his back muscles were tense, his palms damp, just knowing he would see Jasmine soon. Not kissing the crap out of her on sight was going to be some serious bullshit. It might actually kill him resisting that mouth now. Now was not like before. Before, he’d had fantasies. Now he had truth. And the truth was, her mouth spoke words he needed to hear. Gave pleasure he needed to receive. Could deny or approve the future he craved with his goddamn soul.

“So let’s unload some fucking ukuleles, huh?” Sarge muttered, planting a fist against the van’s metal door with a loud whap.

“Sounds like a party,” came a familiar female voice behind him.

Sarge turned to find Lita perched on the hood of James’s Mustang, threading neon-green shoelaces through the holes of a boot, leaving one of her feet bare. Already knowing he’d find his manager in the driver’s seat—where Lita went, so followed James—Sarge sent him a wave without looking. “What are you doing here?”

“Heard you lined up a gig tonight.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“TMZ.”

“Jesus.” Sarge dragged a hand down his face. “I’m just playing a couple Christmas songs. Doesn’t really qualify as a gig.”

Lita shoved her foot into the freshly laced boot. “We’re a band, Sergeant. It’s kind of a package deal.”

Too exhausted to give the drummer a hard time about the nickname, Sarge unloaded a crate of maracas. “If we’re a package deal, where’s our bass player?”

“Asleep in the backseat.”

“Right.” He stacked two more crates of jingling instruments on top of the maracas and strode toward the church hall, where a group of administrators waited to direct him. Halfway there, Sarge stopped and turned with a curse. Being a prick to his band wasn’t going to solve his immediate problem. Convenient or not, they’d come to support him. They weren’t responsible for the heartbeat pumping out of tune inside his chest. Sarge caught Lita’s eye, tipping his head toward the administrators. “Just tell them you’re with the band.”

Lita’s expression went from wary to relieved. “I bet they weren’t expecting a Spice Girls reunion.” She rapped on the windshield. “Look alive, James. We’ve got a gig in a motherfucking church.”

Sarge carried the crates into the hall, shaking his head as he went. When Lita, James, and their groggy bass player helped with the unloading, he was surprised at first, until he noticed the concerned glances in his direction. On a trip to the van, Sarge caught up with James. “You told them I was staying with Jasmine, didn’t you?”

James adjusted his sunglasses. “I don’t participate in gossip.”

Okay. That was accurate. None of them did. Still… “Lita just gave me the awkward shoulder pat of the century. Something’s up.”

As if the sky would fall down if he were forced to converse, James dropped his head forward on a sigh. “There’s a video of you and Jasmine in a toy store…it’s circulating.”

A throb pushed at his jugular. “When you say circulating…”

“A few million hits.”

“Oh. Great.” He ripped a hand through his hair. “That might account for why I haven’t heard from her.”

“I sent you the video days ago. You should check your email.”

“Email,” Sarge repeated for no reason, his voice dull.

Lita pushed between the two men on her way to the van. “Hey, what if I played an entire set on one of these mini drum sets? We could all pretend like it was completely normal and everyone would trip balls.”

James’s lips twitched.

Sarge started to question them both about their motives for coming to New Jersey, when Lita slammed the van door and crossed her arms, staring at something past Sarge’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but Yoko just showed up.”

“Yoko?” Sarge turned—and almost staggered back with the impact of seeing Jasmine when he hadn’t been expecting it. Or had time to brace himself. She was dressed up for Christmas Eve, dark hair piled on top of her head, lips painted the color of cranberries. Her legs looked an extra mile long, thanks to a pair of black high heels that Sarge instantly wanted to hear hit the floor. She stopped short upon seeing them, pulling her winter coat tighter around her body.

Dammit, I should be the one warming her up.

The fact that she remained between the rows of cars, as if someone had hit a pause button, made him want to rage at the darkening sky. She should have walked faster or beckoned him closer. Not stopped. Never stopped. Did that mean she was sticking to her decision? Fuck. That.

“Can you two head inside?”

James indicated the church in a “ladies first” gesture for Lita, but the drummer took her time sauntering past, giving Jasmine a lazy once-over. “I saw the video. You’ve got pipes, I’ll give you that.”

“Lita…” Sarge warned.

“I’m just saying.” The drummer held up both hands. “If she wants to sing with the band, she should come around for a legit tryout. This is a democracy.”

Gratefulness flooded Sarge, so much that he was actually able to nod at Lita in the face of Jasmine rejecting him. Not an easy feat. A minute later, James had shuffled Sarge’s bandmate off to the church, leaving him standing alone with Jasmine. Not really alone, though, since the parking lot was filling around them. Parents wrapped scarves around their children and guided them inside; Hook residents called “merry Christmas” to one another over the hum of car engines; the cold wind picked up around all of it, making the church parking lot feel like the inside of a snow globe. One that needed to be shaken until it put Jasmine in his arms.

“Merry Christmas, Jas.”

She adjusted the pink bakery box on her hip, making him notice it for the first time. “Merry Christmas, Sarge.”

He’d been right. This was indeed some serious bullshit. Conscious of the multitude of people with them in the parking lot, Sarge closed the distance between him and Jasmine, angling his body so no one would see his face. “What’s in the box?”

“Um.” She looked down, obviously thrown by the question. “Cheesecake.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head. “Fruit topping?”

She shifted in her heels. “Strawberries. Why are you asking me this?”

“Not sure. I think I’m kind of enjoying how impossible small talk is between us.” He took one more step closer, bringing them less than a foot apart. God, what he wouldn’t have given to knock the box out of her hand and shove her up against a parked car. It wouldn’t take much to get that dress up around her waist, would it? Somehow, though, he maintained the scant distance separating them. “Nice weather we’re having, right?”

“Stop it.”

Sarge leaned back, allowing his gaze to travel up her stocking-clad legs, over the curve of her hip. “I think we’ll have snow for Christmas.”

A white cloud of air puffed from her cranberry lips. “I’m going inside.”

Jasmine took one step to bypass him, and just a simple brush of their shoulders seemed to break them both. She made a small sound, heels scuffing on the concrete. Sarge snagged an arm around her waist and dragged her back around, into the warmth of his body. Right where they fit. Right where she belonged. The pastry box plonked onto the ground, but neither one of them moved to pick it up as Sarge walked them back, using a van to hide them from view.

“You’re so angry.”

Hardball pitches, one by one, landed in his midsection, hearing those whispered words. But denying the accusation in them would be a lie. “Of course I’m angry. You looked nervous to see me. You know how much I hate that?”

“Not nervous.” She wet her lips. “Okay, maybe a little nervous.”

His forehead dropped to rest on hers. “Baby, you want my mouth.”

It hadn’t been posed as a question, but it was still for her to answer. “I don’t…know if that’s wise. I haven’t—”

“Changed your mind. I know.” Or he did now, anyway. Sarge ignored the drilling pain and focused on her eyes. She shook her head and started to speak again, but he pressed a thumb to her lips. “We can go back to bullshit and small talk afterward. I’ll just need your taste on my tongue to get through it.”

Her eyelids fell. “We can’t keep doing this.” She struggled a little in his grip. “After what you told me, I have no excuse. I would be leading you on.”

“Lead me on, then.” He lifted her off the ground, planting her backside against the nearest car trunk and fusing their bodies together. “I’m asking you to lead me on. There’s your permission. Make me believe this is real.”

“You can’t ask me to do that—”

Sarge kissed the words off her mouth. He could almost feel them crumbling under the impact of his lips and tongue. The occasional raking of his teeth over her full lower lip. Wind whistled past, but couldn’t drown out their mutual heartbeats. His galloped like a runaway horse in his ears…and Jasmine’s. He could hear it, would hear it a country away, wouldn’t he? It sounded like he’d heard it eight thousand times, when logic told him that was impossible. Her body shifted between him and the car trunk, her hands tugging him closer…then pushing him away. Away. Away?

“Sarge.”

He’d been expecting Jasmine’s voice, but it was Adeline, calling him from the church entrance. He and Jasmine traded breaths for a heavy moment before he turned his head and called, “Yeah?”

A low chuckle. “Your band is ready, but they have no lead singer. Know anyone who could help them out?”

“Be there in a minute.” He returned his attention to Jasmine.

“Go,” she whispered.

He hated that word coming from the swollen mouth he’d just kissed. “I smeared your lipstick.”

“I know.” Her tits were lifting and falling so fast. Up and down. Dragging over his chest. “It’s all over your mouth.”

Sarge couldn’t resist. “Wipe it off.”

She looked to be considering it, but shook her head. “No.”

“Wipe it off or I’ll be wearing it on stage.”

“Jesus.” Jasmine actually laughed, and it calmed some of the thunderheads clashing in his brain. Using her thumb, she wiped away the cranberry coloring, pulling away quickly when his tongue licked out to taste her. “You’re good to go.”

Cursing church people for being so damn punctual, Sarge backed away. “I’ll find you afterward.”

She didn’t say anything for a long beat. “I don’t doubt it.”

There was something unusual in the way she said it, but Adeline shouted his name again, giving Sarge no choice but to solve the puzzle of Jasmine later.

If Sarge would’ve given Jasmine a minute to speak, she would have told him.

She wouldn’t be letting him go.

Since that night in the Third Shift when she’d stood up to Carmine and felt the transformation in herself, Jasmine had given herself one long, continuous wake-up slap in the face. Sarge was a man with the ability to decide his own life path. He’d determined that path would be walked with her. It meant staying in Hook. It meant she had to trust him to know what he needed.

It also meant she needed to trust her own gut. Needed to listen to her mind and heart when they sang in perfect harmony for one man. There would be people, like Carmine, who took bets on how long their relationship would last. There would be laughing behind their backs—probably even a lot of uttering of a certain word that started with c and ended with ougar. But none of it would register when she and Sarge were together. Alone or in public, the outside world only ever seemed like a minor detail. What mattered was them. How they made each other feel.

And God, he made her feel so much.

It hadn’t felt right kissing him in the parking lot. Not when he thought she’d let him go without a fight. God, he’d already looked haunted, his kisses feeling so final. Tonight. She would tell him tonight. When they weren’t in a freezing parking lot, being peeped on by passersby in the parking lot.

Jasmine eased out of her coat and took a spot at the rear of the hall, just in time for Old News to walk on stage. A low thrumming started in her belly at seeing Sarge in his official front man capacity. Already he was a sexy, charismatic package, but it was amplified when he picked up his guitar. He played a few strings, winking at the crowd when they howled in response. Then he found her through the crowd and made a growling sound into the microphone.

Dios. As soon as this party ended, she was taking him home and rocking his ever-loving world. The neighbors might even call the police.

Let them.

“Okay, this first song is for my niece, Marcy, the coolest kid in Hook.” He smiled down at the front row, where all the children, including Marcy, were lined up. “Did you guys know she taught me how to play the guitar?”

A chorus of laughter went up, from the children and parents alike. Several mothers relaxed a little when it became obvious Sarge and Old News would be making the show kid-friendly. Jasmine’s smile widened when he launched into an acoustic version of “Frosty the Snowman,” signaling to his bandmates to come in on the second verse, since clearly the band hadn’t rehearsed. Somehow that made it even more special. When a man leaned against the wall beside Jasmine, she recognized him from being in the parking lot with Sarge. He was tall, with a slight dusting of salt and pepper at his temples and stress lines around his eyes, but he couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. Handsome in a hard, distinguished way. Against a backdrop of ill-fitting Christmas sweaters, his polished appearance stood out, making him look more suitable for a polo match than a casual church function.

“Merry Christmas,” Jasmine murmured, unable to stop herself from facing the stage, where Sarge was now using his fingers to mimic antlers. “How do you know Sarge?”

The man followed her line of vision and dipped his chin. “I manage Old News. Although I’m not sure who’s managing who anymore.” He extended a hand. “I’m James Brandon. Nice to meet you.”

Jasmine shook James’s hand, seeing him in a new light. This man had spent years on the road with Sarge, probably making a boatload of cash in the process. How would he feel when Sarge decided to stay in Hook? “Nice to meet you, too.”

They were quiet for a time, but there was an air of discomfort between them. She could feel James building up to something and started to excuse herself, somehow knowing she wouldn’t want to know, but he beat her to the punch. “Look. Jasmine.” He straightened his collar. “I’m going to be blunt with you. If tonight turned out to be the final time Old News played together, I wouldn’t try to talk them out of it. I could walk away.” A glance toward the stage, specifically the drummer. “From most of it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

James appeared to be choosing his words. “It was impossible to live with Sarge and not be aware of his feelings for you. He wears them like clothes. They’re in every song, in the background noise of every interview.” The manager nodded toward the stage. “He’d give it all up in a heartbeat for you. And if it were me…before I let him do that, I would want to know exactly what giving it up means.”

Her lips felt numb, but she forced the words out, already knowing nothing would be the same when James finished speaking. “Tell me.”

“The new contract would mean another full album by summer. A world tour to promote it.” The manager looked like he’d swallowed something made of spikes. “We’ve been traveling on a bus until now, but the new contract would mean private jets. No more questionable motels or small venues. It’s the next level. And since we’re free agents at the moment, so to speak, they’ve quadrupled their offer to make us sign.”

If the ground cracked in half and sucked her in just then, Jasmine would have gone happily. A host of emotions fought for precedence inside her. Disgust at herself for considering asking Sarge to remain in Hook, thus relinquishing the multitude of opportunities yet to come. Gratefulness to James for being honest with her, because Jasmine knew—without a doubt—Sarge never would have told her the facts. Lastly, she felt a freezing shower of sorrow and loss, soaking her down to the skin. “I can’t let him pass that up,” she managed. “The whole band would lose out, too.”

“If I may make a suggestion?” When she nodded, James swiped a hand down his jaw. “Just make him a part of the decision. Don’t cut him out.”

Jasmine watched the manager stride away with a mixture of dread and shock. Don’t cut him out. But what choice did she have? She’d let her newfound confidence make her selfish, let it blind her to what would matter to Sarge. Oh God, it would kill her to let him leave, especially after deciding to give their relationship a chance, but it was the right thing. She’d gotten stuck in Hook, but no way in hell would she be the reason for Sarge doing the same. It had to end. It had to be tonight, before she gave him any false hope.

Sarge had brought some children up on stage to dance, but his gaze cut to hers swiftly, making Jasmine wonder if she’d called his name out loud. Her sinking heart must have been obvious, because his indulgent smile slipped in response. Unable to stand being this close to him and knowing what was to come, Jasmine wove through the crowd and beelined for the ladies’ room.

After seeing—feeling—the light go out of Jasmine’s eyes from across the room, their set could not have ended fast enough for Sarge. Something was wrong. He needed to find her. Now. Needed to figure out how to fix it. In the parking lot before the show, there hadn’t been a sense of loss jackhammering him in the neck. There hadn’t been a driving urgency to get Jasmine in a corner and demand to know every thought in her head. Right now, it was all he could think about.

Unfortunately, about forty people were lined up to take photos with him and shake his hand. Lita and James were speaking in hushed tones behind the makeshift stage, leaving him to work the crowd alone. Any attempts to escape were thwarted, though, as he received unnecessary gratitude for putting on the show, for bringing presents for the children. He mumbled his way through it, scribbling his signature on everything from baseball caps to church programs. When he finally managed to break free, he strode for the back hallway where he’d seen Jasmine disappear during their third song, but his progress ground to a halt when his sister, River, snagged his attention.

River looked…distressed. In a way he’d never seen her. And when she directed it straight at him, Sarge knew exactly what it was about. It only took a few seconds for them to meet halfway in a quiet corner of the hall, but it took her twice as long to start speaking. It alarmed him, the way she couldn’t seem to draw a decent breath. “Riv—”