Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

No. No. No. Not on the only busy night we’ve had in years.

“Got it! Give me five minutes, sir. I’ll be right back.” I give the fire marshal a tight smile.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I make my way to the security guy and yell to him in order to be heard. “We have to get some people out. Can you help?”

“I can try.” Together, we usher people out the door as the fire marshal stands with his arms stiffly crossed over the stained shirt. That’s when the fight starts.

I don’t know who threw the first punch, but a scuffle breaks out in front of the stage. The music stops, and Boone points to someone in the crowd.

“Hey, ass*ole, what the f*ck? You’re out of here.”

The security guard charges into the crowd, which surges in my direction as people try to get out of the range of the dozen or so people throwing punches. Two girls crash into my back, and my face smashes into the fire marshal’s shoulder.

“This is another reason why we have capacity limits,” he yells. “These people are going to get trampled. You’re done. I’m shutting you down. Get them all out.”

“Please, don’t do that. Let’s go outside and talk about it.”

He glares at me with a dark scowl but follows me as I push through the crowd to get out the front door. Instead of the quiet street with scattered bar patrons I expect, it’s packed with cars and people.

“I’ll get them out. There won’t be any issues.”

“No, I’ve made my decision. It’s a matter of public safety now.” He pulls out his phone as people fight to get out the front door.

“Who are you calling?”

Before the fire marshal can respond, a crowd surrounds us from outside, cameras flashing and microphones waving.

“Are you Ripley Fischer? What do you say to the accusations that you were the real reason for Boone Thrasher and Amber Fleet’s breakup?”

“Ripley! Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps by becoming the mistress of a country star?”

“How long have you been sleeping with Boone Thrasher?”

Oh my God.

The questions jab into me like blades, each striking all the way to the bone. My stomach twists into knots as it hits my feet.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. My breathing picks up. I’m going to hyperventilate. Maybe I’ll pass out. Then I won’t have to face them—

“Ripley! Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“How big is Boone Thrasher’s dick? My readers want to know! Spill, girl!”

The voices are overwhelming, the questions coming from all directions as I stand there, frozen like an idiot deer about to be creamed by a Mack truck.

How is this happening?

“Ma’am, you need to get these people out of here.”

I twist around to stare at the fire marshal again, but my ears are ringing from the questions being shouted.

“Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps?”

I keep my back turned, my shoulders hunched, needing to protect myself from the cameras any way I can.

The fire marshal apparently doesn’t care that this evening is tipping into nightmare territory. He has some sort of notebook out and is scribbling on the open page.

“I’m citing you for overcapacity, and as soon as I can get back in the building, I’m going through your fire-safety measures. If I find you’re missing a single fire extinguisher, you’re going to have serious problems.”

Reporters continue yelling at me, tossing out more demands to know about Boone and me and my mom, and I reach down and pinch my thigh to wake myself up.

This can’t be real. This is just a bad dream.

The sting from my fingernails tells me it’s not. My reality is actually this big of a disaster.

The security guys from inside herd dozens of people out the front door, and the reporters pounce on the fresh meat.

“Does anyone have pictures of Boone and Ripley Fischer together? We’ll pay!”

A guy wearing a Vandy shirt stumbles to a drunken halt in front of one reporter. “The bartender chick with the nice rack? I got a video of him dedicating a song to her. I’ll sell it to you.”

Oh my God.

I have to get out of here.

I shove my way through the people streaming out the door, my gaze drawn to the stage where I last saw Boone.

But it’s empty.

He’s gone.

And I’m left to clean up the mess.

I’m always left to clean up the mess.





28





Ripley





The last hour passed in a fog.

When the fire marshal leaves, I shut the front door behind him with a decisive click and throw the lock. Leaning against the nearest table, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes.

More than anything, I want to sink to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees, and give in to the tears that have been threatening since the first awful question was thrown at me like a Molotov cocktail by those reporters.

How could anyone think I had something to do with Boone and Amber breaking up? I didn’t even know him then.

Who would give them that kind of tip? It doesn’t make any sense.

I swallow back the lump in my throat and straighten.

The stack of citations the fire marshal left sits on the bar like the pile of crap it is. In addition to overcapacity, he wrote up the Fishbowl for outdated fire extinguishers, failure to test the sprinkler system regularly, and three other violations that sounded made-up to me.

“What a crazy night.” Carter picks up a toppled stool before reaching for another.

The bar is a wreck. Two tables, three stools, and six chairs—all broken. There’s shattered glass on the floor, along with puddles of spilled drinks, vomit, and what looks like blood from the fight. Cups cover the tables, some tipped over and leaking onto the floor.

Dory, Carter, and I survey the mess with the same daunted look on our faces.

“You guys can go. I’ll deal with this.”

They both look at me like I’m nuts. And maybe I am, but right now I don’t think I can handle making small talk while we clean up this disaster.

“Not a chance. I’ll clear those tables and wipe them down. Carter will get the broken furniture out of here, and you can handle the mopping. Let’s do this.” Dory sounds like a drill sergeant, and they both spring into action.

I stare at the citations for another long moment, flipping through them and tallying the numbers in my head. I don’t know how much we made tonight, but these fines are going to eat up most, if not all, of the cash. But first, I need to make sure Carter and Dory get paid. They rallied tonight with the kind of loyalty that’s worth more than money.

Another hour passes and Dory and Carter have finished their tasks, leaving me with a hug from each and half the floor to mop.

“Call me if you need me tomorrow. My daughter picks up the kids at five, so I’m around after that,” Dory says.

Carter offers his help if it’s needed again too, but I can’t imagine it will be.

Can I even open tomorrow with these citations?