Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

I don’t know what I’m doing with Ripley, but I want to do more of it. Not a relationship, though, given her answer of a solid hell no with a side of no f*cking way.

I’m fresh out of a two-year commitment, and getting into something new is the last thing I should even be thinking about. Doesn’t matter. Not happening.

I could have debated with Ripley all night. But with that stubborn expression, there was no way I could persuade her that the sky is blue and the grass is green at this point, let alone convince her that my cock needs to find its way into her p*ssy on a regular basis, regardless of the label we slap on it.

There’s the upside of the fact that I like being around her too, at least when she’s not bitching me out for something. Shit, even when she’s bitching me out, I still like being around her more than most anyone I know. That’s the part I should probably be worrying about, but I’m not tonight.

No, I’ve got bigger things on my plate. Like the heap of guilt over how our impromptu show ended.

How was I supposed to know that someone would report the bar to the fire marshal and shit would rain down? Venue capacity limits aren’t exactly something I have to think about beyond knowing that sold out means more money in the bank for me.

But getting the Fishbowl shut down and Ripley saddled with all those fines? Shit. I’m getting Nick on it. He’s already texted me four times and left me three voice mails tonight that I’ve ignored, and after what Ripley said about the press, it doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out why. Charity hasn’t called, which could go either way. Hopefully, it means she’s working her PR magic.

With the phone on speaker, I call Nick as I turn in the direction of the Vanderbilt campus. According to the ID in the wallet and Google, that kid lives close to it.

Nick answers on the first ring, but not with a greeting. “What the f*ck did you do?”

“You tell me what they’re saying I did, and we’ll go from there.”

“What part of lay low do you not understand? This is a disaster.”

“I did a show at a bar. Big deal.”

“I don’t give a shit about the show. I give a shit about the fact that the media is jumping on the Boone Thrasher is a manwhore wagon and accusing you of cheating on Amber. Why would you give her people an opportunity to spin that? All you had to do was be discreet if you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”

I make a left onto the correct street and slow down to check out the house numbers.

“Listen up, Nick. You want to talk to me like I’m a kid you’re taking to task, you’re gonna lose your biggest client. So, watch yourself. Your job is to handle shit, so handle it.”

“Could you at least have picked someone who wasn’t the daughter of Nashville’s most notorious home-wrecker?”

The comment about Ripley’s mom pisses me off.

“Don’t f*cking talk about her like that.”

Nick’s groan fills the car. “You actually like the girl? Jesus Christ, Boone. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Stop whining like a little bitch and do your job. Whatever they’re saying about me cheating on Amber is bullshit. I didn’t even meet Ripley until after Amber’s impromptu wedding, so you can shove the truth down their throats.”

The other end of the line is silent for a long moment.

“What do you want me to do, Boone? Have Charity spin this as some sort of love-at-first-sight shit?”

I choke on the suggestion. “How about spinning it as two consenting adults doing something that’s no one’s goddamned business?”

Nick laughs, but there’s no trace of humor in it. “We both know that won’t work. If we want to get the press to drop this, we have to give them something bigger.”

“Like what?”

I spot the house number on the license and pull off to park on the side of the street behind a new Camaro. Shit. It’s a frigging frat house.

“I don’t know. I’m working on it,” Nick says, and I can hear him clicking on his computer keys.

“You do your shit. I’m off to go kick some college kid’s ass if he’s already sold a picture of me and Ripley to the tabloids.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” Nick’s voice turns into a yell.

“Sorry, man. Promised the lady I’d defend her honor.”

“Boone—”

I hang up on him and silence my phone as he calls back. I shove open the car door and climb out, jamming my phone into my pocket.

Why does it have to be a damned frat house?

Screw it. I stalk through the front yard and up to the porch.

College wasn’t something I did. Couldn’t have afforded it, even if I’d wanted to. My folks didn’t have the money, and I wasn’t about to drown myself in debt when all I ever wanted to do was write songs and perform them. These kids would probably shit themselves if they had to sleep in their cars or hustle tips to eat.

Which is why they’ll never understand that hard work pays off in a big way.

When I make it to the door, I raise my hand to knock, but it swings open before I make contact and a guy steps out.

“Whoa, dude. You here for the party?”

Now that the door is open, I can hear music pulsing from the house, but it sounds like it’s coming from the basement.

“What the f*ck kind of party is this?”

He points to his white shirt covered with what looks like highlighter. “Glow party. Basement.”

Great. So now I’m supposed to find that kid in the middle of some black-light rave.

The guy who opened the door turns to leave, but I grab him by the arm and pull the ID out of my pocket. Holding it up, I ask, “You know this kid? He down there?”

He squints, looking closer before shaking his head. “I don’t think he’s in there. He showed up late and left with a bunch of girls from Chi Omega. He’s banging one of their pledges.”

“Where did they go?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Maybe back to their house.” He tilts his head. “You know, you look like that Boone Thrasher guy.”

“I get that a lot. Where’s the sorority house?”

He gives me directions that I hope, considering his f*cked-up state, are remotely helpful.

When I stalk down the sidewalk to my car, he calls out and I pause.

“You are that Boone Thrasher guy! I saw the car online. Holy shit, man.”

I just shake my head. There’s not shit I can do about it now, and with any luck at all, he won’t remember me in the morning.

I climb in my car and head for the sorority house.





32





Ripley





“What is this shit?”

My dad’s voice jolts me out of sleep as my door bangs open the next morning. I bolt up in bed, clutching the sheet to my pounding heart.

“What?”