Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

I wave to both of them, and the sick feeling that’s been churning in my stomach intensifies as the question hangs over my head.

It’s the weekend, so it’s not like I can pay the fines or call the city and ask questions. The only thing I can do is get this place back into shape, and hope that some kind of solution occurs to me tomorrow before we’re due to open.

I dunk the mop back in the bucket and squeeze it dry as my brain turns to worst-case-scenario solutions. If the fines take all the money we made tonight, maybe I can close another night a week and work somewhere else to help make ends meet for a while. I bet Hope would give me shifts Tuesday and Wednesday nights at the White Horse . . .

Someone pounds on the locked back door, but I have absolutely no intention of opening it. I’m done with human interaction today. Done.

“Ripley, it’s me. Open up, sugar.”

The deep voice is distinctive enough that there’s no question who it is.

Call it irrational if you want, but hearing Boone Thrasher’s voice after I’ve spent the last couple of hours dealing with the mess he walked out on pisses me off enough to stomp to the door and yank it open.

“What are you doing here?”

He leans back on the heels of his trademark biker boots with his hands jammed in his pockets, his eyes searching my face.

“Can I come in?” He looks around like he’s expecting paparazzi to jump out of the bushes and surprise him.

Given what happened earlier, I step aside and let him in before shutting and locking the door again. When I turn around, I catch him scanning the bar before he turns back to me.

“Everyone gone?”

I nod, my anger and frustration threatening to boil over as his posture relaxes.

“I didn’t want—”

I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I can’t hold it in any longer.

“What the hell happened tonight? You and Frisco decided you’d put on an impromptu concert and didn’t bother to tell me first? I’m assuming you were trying to help, but we weren’t prepared. I didn’t have servers, enough people to help cover the bar, someone to work both doors so I could, I don’t know, prevent the fire marshal from shutting me down!” I’m yelling by the time I get to the end of my tirade, and Boone’s expression tightens and his shoulders stiffen.

“You’re really giving me shit for trying to do something nice? Any bar owner in this town would drop to their knees and beg us to come play. And, yeah, we were here to help. You made a shitload of money tonight, which was the whole point. This place has one foot in the grave, and we thought if you could get some more traffic, maybe you’d have a shot at saving it.” By the time he’s done, he looks just as pissed off as I probably do.

“Yeah, well, you trying to help me save this place might have killed it even faster. Shit blew up in my face and you just disappeared.” I pause to deliver the worst part. “Not to mention now everyone thinks I’m your whore!”

Boone takes a step back, his face morphing into a harsh scowl. “What the f*ck are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see the reporters out front before you bolted? Couldn’t you hear them yelling at me?”

His brows draw together in confusion. “No. We grabbed the equipment and went out the back.”

I rub a hand over my face and tell him most of what they said. I leave out the part about my mom because I can’t bring myself to repeat the words.

“What in the ever-loving f*ck?” Boone explodes, pacing across the freshly mopped section of the floor. He turns and pins his gaze on me. “Someone you know had to have tipped them off. This shit doesn’t happen by accident. Who would’ve seen us here?”

The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been sucker punched.

“You’re blaming this on me?” My voice echoes off the high ceilings, and my temper snaps. “Get out of my bar.”

Boone stalks toward me instead of heading for the door. His black T-shirt stretches over his broad chest and thick arms, and the heat of anger in his gaze has me backing up until my ass bumps the brick wall. Boone keeps coming.

“Get out? Not a f*cking chance. I went out of my way to do something nice—twice—for you, not letting you get assaulted in a bar and then coming here tonight, and you’re trying to throw me out on my ass? Not happening.”

His arrogance tips my temper from pissed off to enraged.

“What? You want some kind of thank-you?”

“It would be nice.” His words come out a low growl.

I clench my jaw. “Thank you, oh-so-wonderful Boone Thrasher, for lowering yourself to try to help me. Please, spare me from any more of your favors, because now the media thinks I’m some kind of home-wrecker, and this bar is dying quicker than before!”

Boone presses a hand to the wall beside my face. “Shut up.”

My mouth drops open. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said shut up.”

“How dare you—”

Before I can rip him a new one, Boone’s lips crash down on mine.





29





Boone





She’s f*cking gorgeous when she’s pissed. The cliché, and song lyrics to accompany it, flash through my brain before being taken over by everything Ripley.

I want her.

I want all that rage burning through her underneath me. On top of me. Wherever the hell I can get her.

Instead of shoving me back like I expect, Ripley curls her fingers into my shirt, digging into my shoulders as her body molds to mine.

With a groan, I reach down and grab a handful of her curvy ass before pulling her leg up to wrap around my waist. I grind into her, my cock straining against my jeans, and the friction kicks up the need for her another notch.

What is it about this woman? Right now, her brain might hate me, but her body sure doesn’t.

Ripley releases her grip on my shoulder with one hand to bury her fingers in my hair and tug my head to the other side so she can readjust, taking what she wants from the kiss.

I let her take the lead for a few moments before I pull back and meet her hazy gray gaze.

“You’re gonna strip those boots and jeans off, and I’m gonna f*ck you on this bar. After I’ve got you in a better mood, we’re gonna figure out how to handle this.”

The haze burns off her eyes to be replaced by heat. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Shut up.”

Normally, I wouldn’t talk to a woman like that, but Ripley pushes all my buttons. What’s more, she gives as good as she gets. I wrap my hands around her waist, pick her up, and carry her to the bar. Her fingers clutch my biceps, holding tight when I sit her where I want her.

With a look at her obstinate expression, I have a feeling she’s not going to follow my directions too well.

“You don’t want to strip? Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

“Who says I even want you? Maybe once was enough.”

“You’re full of shit, sugar.” With a swift move, I cup her center, feeling the heat even through the denim. “I’d bet my favorite bike on the fact that your tight little p*ssy is wet.”

She lifts off the scarred wood, pressing into my touch, and her gaze narrows on me. “Maybe it’s because of someone else.”

Oh, f*ck no.

“Who? That bartender of yours? Not a chance.”