Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

The alcohol hits me harder with the double shot, and a plan starts taking shape in my buzzed brain. There’s this woman who contacts all the bars and clubs in town and gives them a number to text when there’s a celebrity or professional athlete sighting. Then she sends out an alert to thousands of people who subscribe to her service, and the place is mobbed. The tipster gets a hefty fee for it if the sighting turns out to be real, or so I’ve been told.

I’ve got her number, but I’ve never used it. It’s not like the Fishbowl is a hotbed of celebrity sightings, but even the handful of times Zane Frisco came to the bar, I never considered it, although I could definitely use the money. Even broke, it seems I’ve got standards, or maybe because that’s just not the kind of person I am. I have to wonder if Brandy knows about it, because she probably would have been the first to call something like that in. Anything for a dollar. Maybe it’s fate that she’s never shown up for work on a day that Frisco has been in.

Even if some other big shot came into the Fishbowl, I don’t think I could do it. Scratch that, I know I couldn’t. It gives me an icky feeling just thinking about it. Besides, the Fishbowl is a black mark on tourist maps.



Murder scene of country music legend Gil Green and his mistress, Rhonda Fischer. Cold case still unsolved.



My life would have been totally different if Gil Green had never set foot in our bar. Sadness for what might have been is drowned out by irrational anger directed at stars who wear entitlement like a second skin and take whatever they want, not caring about the broken families they leave in their wake.

I reach for my drink and tip it back. I’m getting shit-faced tonight.





17





Boone





With every song the crowd sings along with me, I shed another layer of my memories of Amber and any plans I might have had for our future. I throw myself into the music, and by the time I’m almost finished with the set, I feel like the man I was before I met her. Before I let myself get sucked into her lies and bullshit.

Frisco was right. This is exactly what I needed tonight. Not just for the gossip rags to pick up and circulate, but for me.

“How about one more song?”

Everyone in the bar hollers, and I nod at Frisco and Quarter. They both know what I’m thinking.

“When I wrote this song, I thought I was writing it about a woman I’d already met, but we all know how that turned out. Now I realize I wrote this song about the woman I’ll eventually find who’ll ride shotgun with me for life.”

The chorus of Me! and I want to ride with you! grows louder and louder until I strum my guitar and we blow the roof off the bar with my latest single.



When Frisco, Quarter, and I step off the stage, security crowds around us and leads us toward the back door.

“Easier to get you out this way, Mr. Thrasher. The crowd’s a little wild tonight.”

“Fine with me.”

“Hold up!” Frisco yells.

“What?”

“I ain’t done with tonight. I’m ready to do some real drinking and partying now.”

Quarter nods, and the head security guy looks back at me.

“Up to you, man.”

These guys have created a wall, but I can still see the hands of fans trying to touch me. I’ve accomplished what I came here to do, and there’s no reason for me to stay.

“I’m straight. You guys can hang around as long as you want.” They both reach out and we swap handshakes.

“Catch you later, brother. You slayed it tonight. This is going to be on every gossip site within hours. Boone Thrasher is back.”

I open my mouth to say that I never left, but Frisco and Quarter are already sliding out from between the security crew and disappearing into the raucous crowd.

“You ready?” one of the guys asks me.

“Yeah, let’s move.”

We start walking again, this time slower as they cut through the mass of people. We’re about ten feet from the end of the bar when I see her again.

Ripley.

Except she’s not alone. She’s pinned against the wood by two men, and has a panicked look in her eyes as she struggles to get out from between them.

I grab the shoulder of the guy in front of me. “Hold up! You got a bigger security problem than me, man.” He stops as I point at Ripley where she’s yelling to a bartender. The woman flipping bottles doesn’t catch her distress signal.

“We’ll get you out of here first, and then we’ll come back to take care of her. She’ll be fine for a few minutes.”

Ripley flings out both hands and shoves one man a foot back, but he’s on her again in less than a second.

“You got your priorities screwed up, man. Women first, every f*cking time.” I duck between the two men and head for Ripley.

There’s nothing that pisses me off more than a man putting his hands on a woman who doesn’t want it, and when it comes to this woman, I’m seeing red.

“Hey! ass*oles! What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?” I dodge the grasping fingers of women trying to get to me and lose my hat in the process, but I finally get the attention of the guys trapping Ripley.

“None of your business,” the guy in a cowboy hat that looks like he bought it today slurs as Ripley’s wild gray eyes meet mine. “Move along.”

“You made it my business when she shoved you back and you couldn’t take a hint.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Without my hat on, I suppose I don’t look the same as I did onstage, but before I can tell him exactly who I am, Ripley knees him in the balls.

Triumph fills her face as he goes down, but his hand lashes out and snags her shirt, yanking it down so her tits, spilling over her bra cups, are bared.

I rear back to deliver a blow but security beats me to it, yanking the douchebag away . . . but Ripley’s shirt goes with him as his grip tears it down the center.

Her hands go to her chest, trying to cover herself, and I’m more worried about her than dumbass number two.

Mistake.

A fist comes flying out of my peripheral vision and glances off my chin. Another of the security guys dives at the man, taking him down.

“Get her! We’re leaving!”

The man who had initially said they’d handle Ripley after they had me clear takes her by the arm and pulls her along.

Something about seeing another man’s hands on her after she fended off two dicks who couldn’t take no for an answer rubs me the wrong f*cking way.

“Let go of her.”

His gaze cuts to mine as I reach out and wrap an arm around her shoulders, blocking anyone’s view of her bare skin with my body.

We barrel through the crowd to the back door. When they push it open, I’m half expecting the flashing cameras and shouted questions of the paps, but instead it’s quiet.

“You got a car around here?” security asks.

I nod, but that’s not my main concern. I grab the back of my T-shirt and strip it off over my head. I hold it out to Ripley, but she stands frozen.

“Take it. Put it on.”

Her eyes are fixed on me, but she still doesn’t move.





18





Ripley





My ears ring from the noise level of the bar, but Boone Thrasher’s words cut through loud and clear.

“Take it. Put it on.”

I can’t move. I’m stunned and speechless.

Sweet baby Jesus, why is his shirt off?

He shoves the T-shirt at me again, but when I still don’t move, Boone Thrasher, country music’s bad boy, proceeds to put it on me.