Jasmine Taveras. His lifelong obsession and curse.

Did he want her to be inside? Hell yeah. Because four years away should have gotten Jasmine out of his system. That’s what he’d intended when he’d bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles after graduating from Hook High. Forgetting her. Now, however, when faced with the prospect of meeting her face-to-face, the traitorous organ within his rib cage had already found a rapid baseline, which increased in pace the more he allowed her image to surface. Jesus H. Christ. As a teenager, whenever she was breathing in his vicinity, every fiber of his biology would stretch, begging to wrap around her and harden into cement so she could never escape. He’d been too young to cope with those rushes of hormones then, but that damn sure shouldn’t be the case now.

But it was. She was the reason he’d picked up a guitar freshman year of high school, wanting to be the background to that voice. Wanting to support it, enhance it, be a part of it any way he could.

Not that he’d ever told anyone. When asked by journalists, talk show hosts, or online music blogs, his answer was always the same patented mistruth. It seemed like an easy way to get girls. If he closed his eyes, he could see the way her lips had curled on each end the first time he’d played a string of notes on his busted Gibson. He’d played every day since, never failing to see her mouth during that first strum.

Enough. With a curse, Sarge snatched up his guitar case in one hand, the amp in the other, and climbed the creaking wooden stairs leading to his childhood home. His parents had transferred the deed to his sister, before retiring and moving to Florida, knowing she could use the space for raising her now-three-year-old daughter. The niece Sarge had never met in person, thanks to a demanding tour schedule.

Damn. Starting now, he had a shit-ton of making up to do, didn’t he? With a bracing breath, Sarge lifted his fist to knock on the door, but it swung open before he got the chance. The guitar case slipped from Sarge’s fingers, landing with a thud on the hollow porch. “River?”

Across the threshold, someone who resembled his sister gazed back at him, looking baffled. Baffled and exhausted, to be more accurate. And no—it was his sister. But she’d stopped dyeing her hair blond, bringing it back to woodsy brown, along with lopping off the long, bouncy ponytail that had always been her trademark. He could count on one hand the times he’d seen River without makeup since she’d hit middle school, but she didn’t have an ounce of it on now. Even worse, her eyes were puffy, as if she’d been crying.

Guilt smacked Sarge in the face like a metal mallet. This wasn’t a bad day she was dealing with. This was more. And he’d been completely absent. Four years’ worth of absent. “Riv,” he prompted. “Hey. You all right?”

A sharp, pained laugh stumbled past her lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—you’ve changed so much. I’ve seen you in magazines and on talk shows, but I thought it was just the cameras making you seem larger than life. I-I didn’t realize you could grow so much after eighteen—” When she noticed the luggage at his feet, she cut herself off. “Wait. What are you doing here?”

Pretty much feeling like a tool. Showing up without any forewarning had felt fine ten minutes ago. It was a house with five bedrooms; surely there was a spare corner to crash. Family is family and all that. Now? His unexpected arrival on his obviously harried sister’s doorstep seemed on par with puppy trafficking. “I…huh.” He scratched his stubbled chin. “The band is taking some time off. I wanted to see you and meet my niece. A plan that sounded way better in my head. Are you okay? You don’t seem okay.”

River’s eyes widened a little…and filled with tears. Without warning, she launched herself at Sarge, throwing her arms around his neck. He barely had a chance to fold her too-skinny form in a hug before she pushed away and stepped backward into the house. “Um.” She turned in a circle, as if looking for a tissue, before giving up and falling sideways against the doorjamb. “It’s good to see you. The band…I still have the SNL performance saved in my recordings. You were amazing…I knew you would be.”

The fact that she hadn’t answered his question of are you okay? alarmed him even more. “Yeah. Thanks—”

“And I know, I know you’ve been sending the money every month and I’m so grateful. You have no idea—”

“Come on, Riv. Don’t even mention it—”

“—but Marcy has been asking about her father.” She lifted stiff fingers to her temple and rubbed with a jerky motion. “She’s been asking why all the kids at school have a man at their house and she doesn’t. And I can’t let you stay. I can’t confuse her or see her feelings get hurt when you leave, okay? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

A sharp object wedged just beneath his Adam’s apple, then dug in a little further. What the hell had happened while he was on the road? Why hadn’t his parents told him River needed more than the monthly check he’d been sending? “Of course. No…I’m an asshole for not thinking about how Marcy would react.” Sarge picked up his guitar case, but made no move to leave. In a flash, it became obvious that he wouldn’t be leaving Hook for a while. Not until whatever was broken with his sister was fixed. “Just tell me what you need. I’ll make sure you get it.”

River opened her mouth and closed it again before taking a long breath. “Look. I’m going to call Jasmine. She’s got an empty room at her place and I know she wouldn’t mind you using it.”

There were only so many shocks to the system a man could take—and that one nearly knocked him out of commission. Staying in the same house as Jasmine. Seeing her, smelling her, hearing her? Everything he’d shoved down into a duct-taped box in his gut would fight its way free. He’d never be able to wrestle it back in. “No. No, don’t bother. I’ll find the closest motel.”

River scoffed. “Yeah, I’m so not letting that happen. You think I’d let you stay in a motel this close to friends and family? No way.”

“Listen. I’ll figure something out,” Sarge said with finality, glimpsing a pair of tiny neon-pink tennis shoes behind his sister, where they’d been tossed haphazardly on the stairs. “Can I…meet Marcy, at least?”

“Yes. Of course.” Misery lurking in her expression, River reached out and squeezed his arm. “Come back Thursday night? Around dinnertime?”

“You know it.”

Sensing River wouldn’t like shutting the door in his face, Sarge threw her a reassuring wink and turned to head down the stairs. Laid out in front of him, the residential block where he’d spent his youth seemed unfamiliar—like a crude depiction of hazy memories penciled out by a sketch artist. The sidewalks were broken up by tree roots, the telephone lines sagging under the weight of tied-together sneakers. There was a basketball hoop in every driveway, but no kids made use of them. It was quiet, except for traffic passing on the avenue, the occasional honk or greeting being yelled through a car window.

It wasn’t the first time in his life he didn’t know where he was headed. But it was the first time he knew he couldn’t go back. To anything. To anywhere.

“What’s your next move, Purcell?” he muttered under his breath.

Two blocks down, he could just make out the neon beer sign in the window of Hook’s local dive bar, the Third Shift.

His feet were moving before a conscious decision had been made.

Yep. Times like these, a man went out and got shit-faced.

Chapter Two

When it came to men, it was slim-ass pickings in Hook, New Jersey.

Lack of selection had to be responsible for Jasmine wearing her best dress within the Third Shift’s decaying, smoke-stained walls. Seriously. The ramshackle joint was seconds from falling down around their ears—why didn’t anyone looked concerned? Probably because each and every patron was half past wasted, shouting to be heard over a played-out Bruce Springsteen CD that always skipped on “Born to Run.” Her date—if one could give him such a legitimate title—was the loudest of the local dimwits, sloshing beer over his meaty paw as he expounded on his theories concerning factory politics. She’d heard it all before. Many times. God knew she loved a working-class hero. After all, she happened to be one herself.