Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

“Arm. Other arm.”

My body follows his commands, but I’m dumbstruck. His body is a work of art. All hard muscles set off by intricate tattoos.

“Where’s your car, Mr. Thrasher?”

“I’m a block over.”

“You want us to escort you?”

I think Boone shakes his head, but I’m too busy staring at his pecs and abs. Good God. Those can’t be real.

“No. We’ll attract less attention without you.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Boone wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I’m so drunk and stunned by his physical perfection that I stumble along beside him. His T-shirt hangs like a dress on me, but it doesn’t stop me from climbing into his beautiful car when we reach it.

“Where are we going?” I ask, but he shuts the passenger door without replying. When he slides into the driver’s seat, I stare at him with only the glow of the street light illuminating the interior.

“I’m taking you home before you end up raped and God knows what else.”

The harsh tone of his voice straightens my spine. “I was fine. I would’ve handled it.”

He reaches over me, his arm brushing my chest as he snags the seat belt and buckles it into place before taking care of his own.

“Sure you were. You were handling yourself right into being the meat in a tourist sandwich whether you wanted it or not.”

“You don’t know that—”

“You’re drunk and you’re female. That puts you at a disadvantage. You work in a bar. You should know firsthand what can happen when girls like you go out drinking by themselves. Why would you set yourself up to be a target for ass*oles like that?”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m sorry, but most of us don’t have an entourage to follow us everywhere we go, no matter the time of day. And I wasn’t alone. My best friend is the head bartender.”

He shakes his head and mumbles something I can’t make out.

“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch what you said, Mr. Country Superstar, who can walk into any bar and take the stage and have an entire Victoria’s Secret worth of panties get thrown at him.”

I know I’m babbling, but I’m too drunk to care. In my head, Boone Thrasher is tied up with everything I hate, and hauling me out of a bar and lecturing me just pisses me off even more, regardless of how amazing he looks shirtless.

Quit thinking about that, Ripley.

“I said you’re drunk, and you’re lucky I was there.” Boone’s tone comes out gruff and too much like a reprimand for my taste.

I hold up both hands. “Oh, I’m lucky, am I? You don’t know shit, jackass.”

“I know you’re drunk.”

“Yeah, well . . . you’re the one with no shirt on.”

He turns the key and the engine roars to life as he shoots me a look that I don’t currently have the vocabulary to describe. “You’re really gonna bust my balls for giving you my shirt so you’re not walking around topless?”

Memories of the oh shit moment when my shirt ripped down the center and plenty of people in the bar got a view of my sheer bra enter my foggy brain. If not for the wall of security around Boone coming to the rescue, my humiliation would burn a whole lot hotter.

“You didn’t have to give me your shirt,” I say, not coming up with any other kind of argument. “I would’ve been fine.” I glance down as he shakes his head.

Holy crap. I’m wearing Boone Thrasher’s shirt. I don’t know why it’s just occurring to me, but I lift the hem to my nose and sniff.

The scent of clean, woodsy man fills my nose. It smells too good for my peace of mind. But still, I take another deep breath. Yum.

“What the hell are you doing?”

My head jerks left and I find Boone staring at me. Oh my God, he just busted me sniffing his shirt. Jesus H. Christ. I’m such a creeper.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The words all come out in a single rush of breath. Desperate to change the subject, I watch as he puts the car in gear. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home, where you should’ve stayed if you were planning to get hammered. Now I just need you to tell me where that is.”

His tone, a mix of scolding and condescension, pushes me over the edge, and I decide that I’ve had enough. I can get myself home. I go for the door handle, yank it open, and try to climb out, but the seat belt snaps me back in place.

“What are you doing? Close the damned door.”

I fumble to release the buckle but Boone is quicker, reaching across me and wrenching the door shut, then slamming his hand down on the lock.

“I was getting out.”

Boone shakes his head. “You’re nuts, you know that? You think I’m letting you out here when I wouldn’t leave you alone in a bar? Not a chance. If you gotta hurl, let me know. Because if you puke in this car, I’ll send you the bill for the cleanup.”

I’m gearing up to rip him a new one until he adds the last part about the bill. That threat steals my thunder and instead produces a cackle the likes of which has never left my lips before.

“You think that’s funny?” Boone demands, probably thinking I’m batshit crazy, and rightly so.

“What’s funny is you think I could pay it. Maybe if I’d sold you out the other night. Maybe then I’d have an extra ten bucks to do a damn thing, but I don’t. I respected your privacy. I didn’t even hit you up for cash to keep quiet like my cousin did.”

The past and the present collide in my head as I continue my rant. “You want to know why I didn’t? Because I don’t need the Fishbowl famous for another country music legend dying there. Guess you’re lucky you made it out alive.”





19





Boone





Ripley’s drunk.

Not even drunk. She’s blitzed. Hammered. Shit-faced. And she’s the cutest frigging drunk I’ve ever seen, even if she’s a little on the crazy side.

Her words about dying stop my thoughts cold.

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“You. Good thing you didn’t go to the bathroom or you could be another dot on the tourist map showing where you died.”

That’s when it hits me.

I have heard of the Fishbowl before. Everyone has. How did I not remember?

Rumor has it that the owner’s wife was Gil Green’s mistress, and they were screwing in the bathroom when they were both murdered while there was a bar full of people just outside the door. No one heard their cries for help, but the gossips couldn’t decide if it was because of the performance going on right then or if they didn’t have a chance to scream.

The owner was cleared because he was serving drinks during the murder, and there was no evidence he hired a hit man to kill his cheating wife and her lover. No other suspects were ever seriously questioned because no alternative motive could be identified.

According to gossip, business tanked practically overnight, except for the gawkers. All the little things that Ripley had said the first night I met her, and the next morning when I picked up my car, finally come together to complete the puzzle.