Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

“No. When I said she’s gone, I meant gone.”

“And you don’t have a clue where she went? I find that hard to believe.”

Brandy’s lips press into a thin, flat line, and I know she’s not going to help me. Unless . . .

I pull out my wallet and peel off a hundred, even though the last thing I want to do is give her a dime. I hold it up in the air, and she crosses her arms over her scrawny chest.

Looking down the bar at the regulars I remember from the other night, I decide to try them instead.

After I reintroduce myself to them, I ask, “Do you have any idea where Ripley might have gone?”

The older woman—Pearl, I think her name is—shakes her head. “Nope. First time in years I haven’t seen her behind the bar. There were a couple times when she had strep throat or a cold and didn’t want us to catch it, but other than that, she was always here.”

While interesting, her information isn’t helpful.

My gaze shifts to her husband, Earl. “Any idea?”

He sips his beer. “No, sir.”

From the corner of the bar, the bird says, “You’re fired.”

Brandy giggles from behind the bar. “He’s been saying that all day. Just like Uncle Frank.”

A sick, sinking feeling takes up residence in my gut.

This is my fault.

I’ve done nothing but bring shit into Ripley’s life that she didn’t ask for.

After backing up a few steps, I peel off another hundred and slap both bills on the bar.

“Where the hell is she?”

Brandy reaches out to snatch the cash from beneath my hand, but I keep it pressed tight against the wood.

Her expression twists into something ugly. “I don’t care where she is, as long as she’s gone. But for two hundred, I’ll tell ya that she probably ran to her friend Hope for help. She manages the White Horse.”

Brandy yanks at the money again, and I wait a beat before I let it go.

“Good luck keeping this place open without her.”

She sneers at me as I turn to head for the door. “I don’t need her. I just needed her out of the way.”

I spin on my heel, staring her down as I stalk back to the bar and lean over it, getting in her space. “What the f*ck did you do?”

Brandy shrugs. “Nothing you can prove.”

I haul in a breath and force myself to walk away without saying another word. I want to rip that girl a new one, but it’s not gonna help me any.

I shove open the door so hard, it slams against the brick outside before swinging closed behind me.

At least I know where I’m going next.





36





Ripley





My ankle burns enough to keep tears stinging behind my eyes with every step, but I keep moving anyway, because that’s what you do when you have no other option.

As I serve drinks, the only thing keeping my fake smile in place is the amount of tips I’m pulling in. Even though we split them, I’m going to make more tonight off tips alone than I’ve ever paid myself in a week at the Fishbowl.

Maybe I should have done this a long time ago.

Thankfully, I don’t have time to question my misplaced loyalty because a flurry of drink orders is hurled across the bar by customers.

When I slide two plastic cups under the taps, a guy leans forward and yells, “Are you the chick who f*cked Boone Thrasher? Because you look just like the picture I saw online. You’re hot. I can totally see why he’d nail you.”

I’d been getting some intense looks for the last couple of hours, but I assumed they were in appreciation of my decent rack in this tight tank top.

Please tell me I wasn’t wrong.

“Sorry. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He holds out his phone, and on the front page of a massive gossip blog is the picture that little punk-ass Vandy kid snapped last night.

The one that Boone was supposed to take care of.

I can only guess that my expression is one of shock and horror, which the guy takes for an affirmative reply.

“Totally thought so. When you get sick of him, there are plenty of us who’ll get in line for a shot at you next. He has killer taste.”

“Hey, ass*ole, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking to!” Law shouts, slurring his words.

I squeeze my eyes shut with an are you kidding me sigh, and flip the taps before removing the full plastic cups from beneath. As much as I want to toss them in his face, I go with my canned reply because I need this job.

“Here are your beers, sir. Enjoy your night at the White Horse.”

I step away from the bar as Law talks shit to the guy, which has to be an alcohol-fueled development, because whenever some guy would make a comment to me before, he never got upset.

Finally, I lose my grip on my temper and smack a palm on the bar, getting the attention of both men. “Listen up.” I point at Law. “Ex-girlfriend, and you don’t need to defend my honor. I’m all set.” I swing my finger to point at the other guy. “I’ll serve you drinks until you run out of money or the laws of the state of Tennessee tell me to stop, but other than that, you aren’t getting shit from me. Both of you, step out of the way so I can serve more customers.”

The slow clap coming from just behind Law catches my attention, right before the source starts speaking.

“Good to know I’m not the only one who gets the sharp side of your tongue, sugar.”

The deep voice, rough and husky, has both men I just bitched out spinning around.

“Whoa. Holy shit. You’re Boone Thrasher.”

Boone’s blue eyes pierce the punk. “And you’re a piece of shit. Don’t talk to my girl again if you want to walk out of here.”

His girl? Uh, say what now?

Boone’s gaze swings to Law, dealing with them one at a time like I just did. “Don’t know who you think you are, but it doesn’t matter to me.”

Finally, Boone meets my eyes. Lowering his voice, he says, “What are you doing here?”

“Working! Can we please talk about whatever’s on your mind later, superstar, because I’m a little busy.”

I snag two more plastic cups and shove them under the taps. For a minute, I think Boone is going to tell me no, we’re going to talk right now, but he doesn’t.

“Fine. I know how I can pass a few hours.”

He glances toward the stage where the house band is taking a break after their first set.

Hope comes toward me, taking in Boone and Law. “Oh hell, isn’t this a fun little reunion?”

“You Hope?” Boone asks, and she nods. “Mind if I borrow your stage for a while?”

I glance at her as her face lights up.

“Hell no, I don’t mind. We broke our record the night you and Frisco crashed last week. Bring it on, man.”

Boone nods. “Thanks. I gotta wait until Rip here finishes her shift, so I might as well make it fun.”

Hope steals one of the beers I’m pouring and hands it across the bar to Boone. “On the house. Go tear it up. I’ll get security for you and have them call in a bigger crew.”

Boone’s gaze shifts back to me. “I like your friend.”