Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

As soon as I slide onto the yellow bench seat across from him, Lisa, our regular waitress, stops by our table.

“What can I get you, hon?”

“Water, please.”

“I’ll have the tuna melt on rye,” he says to her before he even greets me.

Lisa looks to me. “Regular for you too?”

I glance up at the board where the specials are written. Chicken pot pie. “I’ll have the special instead.”

With a nod, she swirls away, calling out the order to the kitchen.

“Hey, Pop. How’s it goin’?”

His big hands, the ones that never held the seat of my bike as I learned to ride without training wheels, but did teach me how to properly build a pint of Guinness, wrap around the mug.

“It’s goin’. My next-door-neighbor’s dog won’t quit its yapping, so I ain’t been sleepin’ real well lately.”

“Did you talk to the manager about it?”

He gives me a short nod. “Yeah, she says she’ll take care of it, but I don’t know when that’ll be.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s changed his mind about AA, but when he coughs, I catch a whiff of cigarettes and malty beer.

It’s always five o’clock somewhere.

“Anything else new?”

He lifts his coffee to his lips and takes a sip before setting it down, and his bloodshot gray eyes meet mine.

“Yeah, Brandy came to see me yesterday. Said you’re running the bar into the ground and don’t want me to know about it.”

That tattletale bitch.

I keep my tone even. “Is that right?”

He nods, his eyebrows drawing together. “You hiding shit from me, Rip?”

I have to tell him something . . .

I knit my fingers together in my lap and squeeze. “Sales have been slow. We haven’t had a lot of customers. But I’ve got some ideas on how to get more people through the door. I’ve been thinking that if I start an open-mic night, maybe get a few big names in to kick it off, I can really draw a crowd. Maybe even charge a cover.”

My dad’s expression goes dark and his hand clenches the mug. “Big names? You gonna offer to f*ck ’em too?”

The swipe is quick and sharp. I should have expected it, but I wasn’t prepared. Especially since it sounded for a half second like he gave a shit about how the bar was doing.

He stares at me as Lisa returns with my water, setting it down on the table with a quick mention that our food will be right up.

I wait until she’s gone to bite out a reply. “No.”

“Oh yeah? So you mean female big names? You know a lot of those these days? Because Brandy said that the only ones who come sniffing around are looking to get you on your back.”

Is there a special word for killing a cousin? Because Brandy is dead.

“Brandy talks a lot of shit, Pop. I wouldn’t give a whole lot of weight to her words. She barely shows up for work even when she’s scheduled, so it’s not like she knows what’s happening. I’m the one spending damn near twenty-four hours a day in that building, making sure the take can cover all the bills, including your apartment and your twelve-pack-a-day habit.”

“And when it can’t? Huh? Where is that money coming from, Rip? Your pocket?”

“Yeah. My savings account. Which is almost drained.”

“So, what’re you gonna do next? Find some rich guy to start picking up the slack? Because we both know that’s what your ma—”

“Stop. Right there. Don’t you dare say another word because I will walk out right now and you won’t see me again.”

I start to slide out of the booth, but my dad calls my bluff.

“Oh yeah? You gonna leave the bar behind too? Because you walk out of here right now, you’re gonna kiss that place good-bye. You’d be just like your ma, abandoning the family.”

His statement is a slap to the face, momentarily stealing my breath.

I’m the one shedding blood, sweat, and tears to try to keep the bar going. Pop doesn’t lift a damned finger. All the things I want to say scramble up my throat until I nearly choke on them.

Pop knows I won’t walk away. Knows that every memory I have of Mama is tied up in that place—whether good, horrible, or otherwise—and I don’t know how to let go of the only pieces of her I have left.

I drop back into my seat just in time for Lisa to bring our lunches to the table.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

The first thought that comes into my brain is a new life, but that’s not what she means.

“I’m all set, thanks.” My polite tone sounds forced, even to me.

“I’ll take a Bud. In a can.”

And that’s a great indicator for how the rest of our lunch is going to go.

Downhill.





13





Ripley





When I leave the diner, I’m praying that my next stop isn’t going to be nearly as unpleasant, but part of me already knows that’s a naive hope.

Stanley Mullins was the accountant for the bar back when my parents were first able to hire one. Now it’s his son, Stan Mullins Jr., who handles the books, but he does it out of the same office his dad did for years. When I pull into the parking lot, I’m already drained from lunch with Pop.

I know that a smart woman would walk away from the bar and start over somewhere else, but I can’t. Not just because I don’t know how to let go, but because everything I have is tied up in that place.

Nearly every dollar in my savings account has been loaned to cover expenses, I live rent-free upstairs, and I haven’t taken a paycheck in long enough to make me question my own sanity.

The bottom line? If I walk away from the Fishbowl, I’ve got about three hundred dollars to my name and a stack of promissory notes that will never get paid unless I’m there to see it happen.

Stan’s receptionist takes me back to his office, rather than a conference room, and my brain is going in too many different directions to realize this may not be a good sign.

Stan rises from behind the desk and holds out a hand. “Hey, Ripley, you look as beautiful as ever.”

Being called beautiful always mystifies me because it’s such a pointless trait. I didn’t do anything to earn my thick brown hair, distinctive gray eyes, or symmetrical features, and they sure haven’t done me any good, so I always shrug it off when someone mentions my looks.

I slide my hand into Stan’s, and his grip lasts a few seconds longer than normal. That’s when anxiety sets in.

“How bad is it, Stan?”

He had a call with a few bankers this morning, one that he asked me to sit out so they could talk numbers plainly.

“You might want to have a seat.”

I plop down into a plush leather chair, trying to read the expression on his face. Nothing I see is promising.

“How bad?” I ask again.

“Bad.”

“It’s just a tiny line of credit. You can’t tell me that the building and the business aren’t enough collateral for fifty grand.”

My accountant clears his throat. “Your dad took out another mortgage on the building earlier this year.”

I blink twice as if that’s going to help me comprehend what Stan just said. “What? What mortgage? We own that building free and clear.”