His inspiration. His torment. And his temptation…
Jasmine Taveras is the reason Sarge Purcell grabbed his six-string and bailed the hell out of New Jersey four years ago. She’s the fuel for every song he’s ever written—each one laced with bitter, hard-edged, hungry lust. Now, with his hugely successful band on temporary hiatus, Sarge is determined to prove to Jasmine that this “kid” turned into every inch the man she’s always needed…
Men are slim pickings for a single factory girl in Hook, New Jersey…until tall, broad-shouldered hotness walks—or rather storms—into Jasmine’s life. Sarge’s return shouldn’t affect her this way. He’s her best friend’s much younger kid brother, and the kind of rough, gritty, sexiness Jasmine has no right to taste for herself. Even if he lets her.
But lust is a blinding, insatiable force. And when it crashes, it will take both Sarge and Jasmine down with it…
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tessa Bailey
Protecting What’s His
Protecting What’s Theirs
His Risk to Take
Officer Off Limits
Asking for Trouble
Staking His Claim
Unfixable
Baiting the Maid of Honor
Riskier Business
Risking it All
Up in Smoke
Owned by Fate
Exposed by Fate
Driven by Fate
If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy Brazen releases…
Crash Into Me
Played
Say You’re Mine
One Night of Scandal
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Tessa Bailey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit www.brazenbooks.com.
Edited by Heather Howland
Cover design by Heather Howland
Cover photo by Sara Eirew
ISBN 978-1-63375-446-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition December 2015
For Margarita
Chapter One
A series of knots tangled in Sarge Purcell’s stomach as his best friend and band manager, James, slowed his sixty-nine Mustang to a stop outside the familiar redbrick house. Damn, it looked smaller than the childhood home in his memory. Had his family really managed to fit inside those walls comfortably? Still, it was bigger than the impersonal motel and hotel rooms he’d been crashing in for the better part of four years. There might even be a home-cooked meal with his name on it, if he played his cards right.
Sarge put a hand out for James to shake. “I guess this is the end of the road, pal of mine. Try not to get emotional.”
The always-stoic James didn’t even glance in his direction. “I’m crying on the inside.”
“Right.” Sarge shook his head, well used to James’s dry sense of humor after touring twenty-nine countries with their band Old News. Neither he nor James had anticipated staying together quite so long, both of them the epitome of a loner, but they’d ridden the wave created by Sarge’s first single when he’d been fresh out of high school. James had discovered Sarge at an open-mic night, put him together with a drummer and bass player, then prayed for magic.
Crazy enough, it had worked.
An independent record label contract and five studio albums later, however, Old News was ready for a break. Not a breakup, just a much-needed breather. With an important upcoming decision to make concerning the band’s future, they were each taking some time to think. No better time than Christmas.
Which is what landed him on his sister’s doorstep unannounced with a patched-up duffel bag, his guitar, an amp, and four years’ worth of blown-off holidays, rushed phone calls, and all-out shitty brothering to explain.
James hit him with a long-suffering sigh from the driver’s seat. “You didn’t tell her you were coming, did you?”
“No, but it was strategic.” Sarge adjusted the rearview mirror to point in his direction. “She’s less likely to tell me to fuck off when she can see this face.”
“Your face has been on the cover of a hundred magazines. Everyone is sick of it, including me.”
“Yeah.” A weight pressed down on Sarge’s chest. “I’m kind of sick of it, too.”
The two men exchanged a rare, serious glance, but looked away just as fast.
“Get out of my car.” James revved the car’s engine. “I’m staying in Manhattan at the Standard hotel if you need anything. Try not to, please.”
Although Sarge was grateful to his manager for not pushing him to elaborate on his cryptic statement, he couldn’t resist giving him a hard time. “Funny, I don’t remember you saying the same thing to Lita,” Sarge said, referring to Old News’s female drummer and renowned troublemaker. “In fact, isn’t she staying at the Standard, too? What an odd coincidence.”
“Out.”
Laughing to himself, Sarge pushed open the door and climbed out before removing his gear from the trunk. When it was lined up on the curb, he leaned down into the passenger-side window and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Maybe if you stopped bailing Lita out, she’d stop wreaking havoc wherever she goes.”
A muscle ticked in James’s jaw. “If you make a decision about the contract over the holiday, you know where to reach me. Don’t wait too long. Record labels aren’t known for their patience.”
“Yeah. Neither are you,” Sarge said, straightening. “Believe me, the contract…and everything that comes with it will be on my mind, all right? In the meantime, don’t miss me too much, J.”
As soon as the Mustang turned the block’s corner, Sarge faced the house and let his grinning smoke screen drop. One good thing about being back in Hook, New Jersey? No one found it unusual if you looked miserable. Hell, the town’s unofficial motto was, “No one escapes the Hook…might as well give up now.” That sentiment had never felt truer than it did as he stared at the two-story colonial. At eighteen, he’d blown out of the godforsaken factory town not caring if he ever returned.