Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

A tourist in one of those straw cowboy hats hollers from down the bar, while Hope’s three other bartenders are hustling drinks and putting on a show tossing bottles here and there. Just the thought of taking a chance of breaking one is enough to make me cringe.

“I gotta sling some more drinks. I’ll be back when I can.”

Wednesday night is the slowest night of the week for the Fishbowl, which makes it perfect for my one day off. Before my last boyfriend and I broke up, I’d usually stay at his place on Wednesdays, but that ended months ago. He was pissed I couldn’t make more time for him, and I thought he was playing a double standard since he was gone every weekend playing drums with different bands, trying to make it big.

Hope used to give me shit about Joey, saying I was bending my anti-celebrity rule, but I disagreed wholeheartedly. Sure, he’d get women hitting on him just like any band member did, but it wasn’t because of who he was. It was only because they saw him onstage. It’s not like anyone actually knew his name when they saw him play, and certainly no one would ever remember him five minutes after he stepped away from his drum kit.

I’ve never quite understood the allure of banging a guy in a band. So what if he’s in the spotlight for a few sets? Why does that make him any more attractive than a guy in the crowd buying you drinks and having a good time?

“Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. What with you being the anti-fun.”

Brandy’s smoke-roughened voice cuts into my semi-intoxicated contemplation.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Her cackle sets me on edge. I swear, my aunt must have done drugs or drank while she was pregnant with Brandy, because the girl just isn’t right. I want to say it’s not her fault, but the nastiness she displays isn’t an accident.

“Why do you think?”

She shoots me a look, and it doesn’t take a genius to fill in the blanks. I’m sure there are plenty of clueless tourists here to buy her drinks while she feeds them some bullshit story about trying to make it in Nashville. Cue eye roll. Then I remember I’m pissed at her for a specific reason instead of my normal general annoyance.

“Well, Pop’s not here to narc to, so clearly that’s not it.” I reach for my drink and tip the rest of it back.

Brandy glares at me. “He should know what’s happening. It isn’t my fault his daughter is a complete screwup, running the Fishbowl into the ground.”

Her insult stings when it lands, and I desperately want another drink. Thankfully, Hope spots my anxious look and comes down the bar toward us.

“Is there something I can get you, Brandy? Or are you just here to take up space while you wait for some poor bastard to buy you a drink like you do every other time you show up?”

Brandy rolls her eyes. “Give me a shot of 151.”

Hope’s nose wrinkles, and I have to believe mine does the same.

Brandy scoffs at both of us. “What? If I’m buying, I gotta make it count. It’s not like Ripley pays enough for me to buy the good stuff. Guess I should’ve gotten more money out of—”

My arm swings out and I knock my glass over with enough force that a remaining ice cube flies straight into her cleavage.

“What the hell!” Brandy screeches, attracting an audience to watch her fish the melting ice from between her mostly exposed boobs.

Hope shoots me a questioning look and raises her brows.

“I’ll tell you later.”

She nods. “Another?”

“Make it a double. And maybe a shot.”

An apologetic look settles over her features. Hope knows how much putting up with Brandy stretches my patience. Before she turns to make my drink, she ducks her head close to mine.

“Babe, you know that anytime you want to jump ship and let your pop figure out his own mess, I’ve got you covered. You could make more in one shift here than you pull down in a week.”

“And be homeless?” I don’t mention the part about losing my remaining connection to Ma, because in my current mood, I’ll end up being the sad sap at the bar with tears falling into my drink.

Hope’s answer comes quick, like it’s one she thought out in advance. “I’ve got a futon with your name on it.”

Before I can reply, she slides away and down the bar, grabbing bottles and making drinks. It gives me a minute to realize that I have no idea what I did to deserve such a good friend. Apparently, for once in my life, I got lucky. Hope is good people.

“Oh my God, is that really him?” a woman one stool down from me shouts over the music as she climbs onto the cushion, balancing on her knees.

While I’m busy worrying about whether she’s going to face-plant on the floor, the atmosphere in the bar changes in an instant. There’s only one reason for it—celebrity sighting.

The artist onstage pauses mid-song and yells into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen of the White Horse Saloon, please welcome Boone Thrasher to the stage!”





15





Boone





One hour earlier

“That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I tell Frisco as I lean back into one of the chairs on my porch, my shotgun resting beside me with an empty shell box on the table. Now that the sun has dropped below the horizon, we’re done shooting skeet, and Frisco is talking out of his ass.

“I’m pretty sure that time he wanted to streak through the parking lot in Denver in January was a worse idea,” Quarter, my bass guitarist, offers. “He’ll never live down those pics of his dick.”

“It was cold! Shrinkage, dude. Not fair.”

“That’s what George said on Seinfeld too . . .”

“Shut up, you ass*oles.” Frisco tucks his shotgun back into its case and cracks a beer. “Just hear me out. Nick and Charity told you to lay low, but this whole thing is going to play out on the stage of public opinion. Your fans love you because you don’t take shit from anyone. Remember when you called that guy out for shoving that chick in the crowd, and had security yank him? You aren’t the kind of guy who goes to ground when shit hits the fan. You come out swinging, showing the world what you’re made of, and they worship you for it.”

“As much as I want to say he’s an idiot, Frisco actually has a point there,” Quarter says, popping the top off his beer.

“So you think showing up on Broadway, walking into a bar, and playing a set like I used to is somehow going to make a difference?”

“Not just any bar on Broadway—the White Horse. It’s always packed with all those tourists dying to see someone famous. You step onto that stage and mention you’ve been having a rough week, and then you play your new single and talk about how the girl you thought would be riding in that 442 with you turned out to have different plans, so you’re rolling with the curveball life threw you.” Frisco’s beer sloshes over the lip as he gestures with his hands.

Quarter chuckles low. “Oh man, they’ll eat that shit up. You’ll have so many pairs of panties on that stage by the time you’re done . . . You gotta do it.”