Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

“Hey, Fishbowl! We’ll get set up and be ready to rock your world in a few!” Frisco yells as I take three more drink orders and nearly run into Carter.

He lays a hand on my arm and takes in my shocked expression.

“You didn’t know?”

“Do I look like I knew?”

“But how?”

I shake my head. I don’t have time to talk to him right now. I’ve got drinks to make, and then Zane Frisco has a hell of a lot of questions to answer.





26





Boone





Frisco should be close to finishing his first set when I push open the back door of the Fishbowl.

The place is jammed with screaming girls, and plenty of guys too. Just like I hoped it would be. When I drove around back, one of the guys we sent was working the door, so it appears everything is going according to plan.

Ripley’s thick hair is up in a knot on her head, and she’s making drinks like a boss. Another bartender is working with her, and I spot a waitress with a tray of cocktails, working the crowd, but it’s not the one from the other night.

Frisco’s got the whole bar on its feet, and no one notices as I slip inside. Pulling my hat lower, I move toward the stage, keeping my head down. One of the security guys gives me a nod and holds up a hand to get Frisco’s attention.

He finishes the song, and as soon as the bar quiets for a moment, he speaks into the microphone.

“Y’all ready to make some real noise? Because I’ve got a hell of a surprise for you tonight! My good friend Boone Thrasher decided to join us to play a few. Make the man feel welcome, Fishbowl!”

The stage damn near collapses from the way the crowd is screaming. I pull a set of earplugs out of my pocket and stuff them in my ears before climbing onstage and accepting my guitar from one of the guys.

Frisco steps back from the mic, and I speak into it.

“Y’all having fun tonight?”

The response is even louder than before and unintelligible, but I get the picture. They’re having fun.

“Before I get started, I want to thank Miss Ripley Fischer for letting us come take over her bar tonight to show you a good time. Ripley, this one’s for you.”

I launch into one of my first big hits, “Sexiest Girl I Know,” and the crowd goes nuts.

She’s gonna kick my ass for this, and damned if I ain’t looking forward to it.





27





Ripley





I freeze as a song I’ve heard on the radio at least a hundred times is dedicated to me and played live in my bar.

Pop is gonna be so pissed. His logic is so twisted and bitter that I’m not sure he’ll even be happy about the extra money coming in, given that it’s because of two country stars taking the stage he forbade me to use.

But maybe if he doesn’t find out . . .

A customer throws another twenty on the bar, and I decide that I don’t give the first shit where the money is coming from. I have bills to pay, and cash coming in the door is the only way I’ll be able to keep this place from going under. Not to mention, I want to pay back that thousand dollars smug Stan laid out for the mortgage so I can tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine.

So, I’m focusing on the fact that the Fishbowl is making a killing, and not on the ass chewing I’m going to get when Pop finds out I didn’t stop Zane Frisco and Boone Thrasher from taking the stage. My stubborn old man would shut the doors right now if he were here. Well, that’s not happening tonight. I push the thought out of my mind and send up a quick prayer that we don’t run out of liquor. Then I get back to making drinks and taking money.

In only a few hours, we’ve made more than the Fishbowl would usually pull in during a whole month. Maybe two. Even Earl and Pearl are finally smiling because I told them their drinks were on the house all night. Jim bolted when the crowd got thick, and his stool is now occupied by a redhead with a blonde sitting on her lap.

One less cranky man to worry about, and more room for paying customers.

“This is awesome! Did you see they’re charging a cover at the door too?” Carter yells over the music as he grabs four beers and pops the tops. “The Fishbowl is back, baby!” He sets the bottles on the counter and grabs me around the waist to pick me up and twirl me in a circle.

The song ends as I slide down Carter’s body. Boone’s gaze locks on mine as soon as my feet hit the floor.

“How about we light this place up? I got another song you might’ve heard a time or two. It’s called ‘I’ll Fight for Her.’”

“Ooh, I think someone’s jealous,” Carter says as Boone launches into a loud and raucous song about not being afraid to beat some guy’s ass for touching his woman in a bar.

I shake my head. “No. Not a chance.” I hip check him. “Get back to work and sling those drinks!”

He grabs both sides of my face and plants a kiss on me in true flamboyant Carter style. The people at the bar scream and cheer, and Boone’s voice deepens another notch to a growl that vibrates through my whole body.

I push away and get back to the customers lined up three deep. Paying customers. I do a little dance inside.

There’s no way Boone is jealous.

Impossible.



Boone has kept the place rocking for over an hour when Carter signals from the end of the bar.

“What do you need?”

“We got a problem, Rip.” He jerks a shoulder toward the front door and a pissed-off-looking man in a rumpled dress shirt standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Who—”

“Fire marshal. Says someone called in a complaint that we’re over our capacity.”

“Shit. I’ll go talk to him. Don’t worry about it.”

After I wipe my hands on a towel, I slide out from behind the bar. I have to yell over the music to be heard once I reach him.

“What’s the problem, sir?”

“I received a complaint that this business was a fire hazard due to overcapacity tonight, and just by looking, I’d say they’re right. But I’m going to let you tell me how many people you’ve got in here so we can sort this out.”

I can barely hear him, and I’m hoping the words I think are coming out of his mouth aren’t the ones he’s really saying.

A complaint? From who? This neighborhood isn’t exactly hopping, with only a few other bars and a tattoo shop on our lower-rent street.

I lead him toward the guy working the door, one of the people who came with Frisco when he first got here.

“We can’t be over capacity. Someone’s working the door. We’ve been watching the numbers.” Mentally I add, at least I hope someone has.

The fire marshal points over the crowd to the back door of the bar as it opens and more people pour inside.

“And what about that door?”

Oh hell.

“Umm, we’ll escort some people out. It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it personally. We’ve never had this problem before, and I promise I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

Two hammered girls stumble toward the front door and their drinks go flying, splattering fruity red liquid all over the fire marshal’s white shirt. Previously white, I should say.

“You need to get at least a third of these people out. Right now, or I’m shutting this place down.”