“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?”