Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

“Sure. Fine.” I’m lying, but he could never read me well enough to know that.

Hoping this conversation is well and truly over, I turn toward the door marked Private: Employees Only, but Law lays a hand on my shoulder and spins me back around before his lips slam down on mine. Completely stunned by the fact that he’s pulling some kind of alpha move, it takes me a few seconds before I push him away.

“Whoa. Hey. What the hell?”

I can taste the alcohol he’s been drinking, which explains his sudden display of masculinity.

“Needed to give you something to think about.”

“Got it. Thinking. Go back to your friends, Law.”

With a self-satisfied smile, he gives me a jerk of his chin before he trudges up the stairs. I wait until he’s halfway up and shoots me a backward glance before I unlock the storage room and slip inside.

I slump against the door and stare up at the ceiling.

Seriously? Tonight, of all nights.

Law’s words echo in my head like a slap. “You wouldn’t even have to work in a bar; you could go to school if you want.” Me working as a bartender is still not up to his standards, obviously. And if I were considering going back to him for even a second, that would ensure a big fat nope of a response from me.

This is who I am. If that’s not good enough for anyone, they can go f*ck themselves.

With a grunt of frustration, I lift the keg Hope asked for off the floor and maneuver the door open with my elbow, then hip check it shut before setting the keg on the floor and making sure the door locks behind me.

The stairs look even steeper now that I have a keg to lug up them, but tonight, I’m all about proving I can do whatever I put my mind to, even if it’s as simple as moving something from point A to point B.

I have worth. I have something to offer, I remind myself, even though I feel like a bottom-feeder right now.

As I get to the top of the stairs, Law is waiting near the end of the bar with his friends. When he sees me, he charges toward me.

“Hey, let me help with that, babe.” He reaches out to snatch the keg from my arms.

The sudden loss of the weight throws me off-balance and I stumble backward . . . right down the stairs.

I’m too stunned to tuck and roll. No, I just flop and tumble, my arms and legs flailing until I crash to a stop at the bottom, jamming my legs against the floor.

Oh. My. God.

I just fell down a flight of stairs. I could have died.

But I didn’t.

I’m okay.

Maybe I don’t have the world’s worst luck.

“Oh God. Ripley! Are you okay?”

It’s Law, already on his way down the stairs as I stumble to my feet, my head swimming.

“I’m fine. It’s okay.”

I take one dizzy step forward, but when my ankle rolls and pain shoots up my leg, my stomach drops. I instantly take the weight off my leg as tears spring to my eyes.

No. No. No. This can’t happen.

Law rushes toward me, skidding to a stop. “Shit. Are you okay?” He pats me down for injuries, not noticing that I’m holding the railing to avoid putting my weight on both feet.

I grit my teeth. “Fine. Totally fine.”

“Are you sure? That was a hell of a fall.”

I look up the stairs to see if anyone else noticed, but no one else is rushing to the rescue.

“I’m fine. I gotta get that keg to Brian and get back to work.”

He reaches out a hand. “Let me help you up the stairs. Seriously, that looked really bad. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself.”

I bite down on my lip to stop myself from groaning as I take the first step up the stairs. Law is too busy talking about how bad my fall looked to realize that I’m seconds from crying.

Breathing through the pain, I hobble my way up and stop next to the keg at the top, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort.

“You sure you don’t need help?”

“Positive. I gotta get back to work.”

Without waiting for him to respond, I heft the keg into my arms again, screaming inwardly as a shaft of pain stabs at my ankle.

I thought I was lucky? Not a chance.

I manage to get the keg behind the bar and swap it out. Brian gives me a nod of approval, which helps restore a bit of my pride but doesn’t do a thing to help my ankle. Hope returns and tosses another tank to me, and I catch it in midair.

“Go change. I’ll cover you for a few. Rudy is coming in too. It’s almost ten, so this place is gonna be hoppin’ in a bit.”

The bar is already packed, so I can only imagine how crazy it’s going to get.

I take the new uniform shirt and slowly make my way to the break room and employee bathrooms, hoping no one notices that I’m hobbling like an old lady.

If it’s broken, I’m screwed. To work behind a bar like this one, you have to be on your toes, bouncing from end to end, making sure the customers keep drinking and handing over tips.

Stop it, Ripley. No more looking at the negative. It’s not broken. Everything will be fine after you put some ice on it tonight.

As soon as I reach the break room, I drop onto the couch and survey my already bruising skin. I poke gingerly at it and wince at the sharp pain.

It probably isn’t broken, but damn, does it hurt. It’s swelling, and an entire night working on it is the worst thing I can possibly do. But what choice do I have?

None.

This is when I suck it up and do my job because I’m not about to let Hope down on my first night.

I dig four ibuprofen out of the first aid kit and dry swallow them before changing into my new shirt.

Let’s hope they kick in quick.

Then I get my ass back to work.





35





Boone





The first place I go to look for Ripley is the Fishbowl, and I’m praying it isn’t closed. The flickering neon sign is lit up, which gives me hope.

Pulling my ball cap lower on my head, I duck inside and find it’s a little busier than the first time Frisco and I came in, but definitely nothing like last night when we packed the place.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess that some of these people are here hoping Frisco and I will come in again and put on another show. Sorry, guys. Not happening tonight.

I stride toward the bar but almost miss a step when I see Ripley’s cousin behind it instead of Ripley. Brandy’s pouring drinks with an annoyed expression on her face.

Maybe pissed off she finally has to work?

I stop at the end of the bar, and she comes toward me.

“What do you want?”

“Need to talk to Ripley.”

The edges of Brandy’s mouth curl up smugly. “Well, you came to the wrong place for that.”

Her scathing tone triggers alarm bells in my head.

“What do you mean?”

“Ripley don’t work here no more. Uncle Frank fired her. He put me in charge, which means I can tell you to get the hell out.”

Ripley’s dad fired her? Shit.

“Where is she?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. It ain’t fair that I got stuck with the mess she left, but that’s what I got. So unless you’re here to apologize for breaking my phone or to give me another grand to make up for it, you can march your ass right out.”

“Is she still living upstairs?”