Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

Without another word, Boone turns and makes his way through the crowd until he hits the stage. He jumps up on it, beer in one hand as he grabs the microphone with the other. He takes a swig and waits for the house music to stop before he speaks into it.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?”

The crowd on the floor turns in unison to stare at Boone before erupting into screams and cheers.

“I had so much fun here the other night, I thought I’d come back and do it again.”

Someone starts the chant, and suddenly the bar is filled with people yelling, “Boone! Boone! Boone!”

Hope turns to me, and over the din, she says, “He is hot for you. Ride that train for all it’s worth, baby girl.”



An hour later, my ankle is swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt like hell. I’m limping toward my next customer when Brian drops a hand on my shoulder.

“What the f*ck happened to you?”

“Rolled my ankle on the stairs.”

His eyes widen. “When you got the keg? And you’ve been walking on it this whole time without saying a damn thing?”

“It’s my first night. I wasn’t about to complain when I need this job.”

Brian shakes his head like I just told him I slammed my hand in a door on purpose. “You’re an idiot. What good will you be tomorrow if you don’t take care of it?”

“I don’t have a shift until Wednesday. Hope is working me into the schedule, so I need the money from tonight to . . . well, I need it.”

“I get it. But you need to get off that ankle. I’ll get Hope.”

He strides away, says something to Hope, and my friend hustles toward me.

“You little ass*ole, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Really? You know why.”

“Fine, but you’re done. I’ll grab my keys and you can take my truck home. I’ll get a ride with someone else. I’ll be back in two minutes.” She rushes away toward the employee break room and her locker, and I keep serving drinks.

When Hope returns, she hands me her keys. “Are you gonna be okay driving and walking on that?”

It’s my left ankle, so as long as I don’t have to drive a manual transmission like my own freaking car, I’ll be fine.

“I’m good.”

“We’ll split all of tonight’s tips at close, and I’ll bring yours home.”

“Give me a smaller share. I’m leaving early.”

“Shut up.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more. Go get your shit and get out of here.”

I duck into the break room and when I come out, I notice one major difference—Boone’s voice is no longer carrying through the bar. Instead, another top country hit is coming through the speakers.

Hope is already hard at work, so I limp toward the back door.

More accurately, I start to limp toward the back door.

“What the f*ck?” Boone’s voice booms from behind me. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Glancing back toward the bar, I see him with a bottle of water in one hand, and security on either side of him.

The last thing I need is another public scene at my brand-new job.

“Nothing. I’m heading out.” I take another step, attempting not to limp, but a hiss of pain escapes my lips.

Boone is on me faster than I can silence it.

“What happened, sugar? And don’t lie to me.”

I bite my lip, debating for a hot second whether to tell him the truth.

“Ripley . . .”

When he says my name with an edge to it, I decide I’ll get out of here quicker if I just tell him.

“I fell down the stairs and rolled my ankle right before you got here. It’s swelling up, so I’m going back to Hope’s to put some ice on it.”

Boone’s expression morphs from one of concern to anger in the flash of a second. “You fell down the f*cking stairs and you’ve been working for over a goddamned hour on a sprained ankle? Behind a bar?”

My jaw clenched, I reply. “I’m trying to leave now, so if you’ll—”

“You need to go to a hospital and make sure it ain’t broken. Fell down the stairs. Jesus Christ, woman.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him not freaking happening, because I don’t have health insurance, but instead I wave him off.

“I’ll be fine at Hope’s. I just need to put some ice on it.”

Boone’s eyes meet mine, his expression somber yet frustrated. “Let me help you.”

If there’s one trait I got from Pop, it’s my stubbornness. “I’m fine. I’m going now.” I step around Boone but he spins, bends down, and drops his shoulder to my stomach and lifts me up.

“What—”

“The only place you’re going is with me.”

One of the security guys chuckles as Boone strides out of the bar with me over his shoulder, ignoring my protests to put me down.

“Hey, ass*ole. She said put her down.”

I recognize Law’s voice, but Boone doesn’t slow.

Security keeps everyone back, and we clear the door. From my position over his shoulder, I can’t see a thing, but once we’re outside, I can hear yelling.

My name. His name. Questions.

Shit. It’s the press. They found him, and now pictures of me dangling over his shoulder like some barbarian conqueror’s prize will be all over the internet. Freaking fabulous.

I renew my struggles. “Put me down! They’re going to get pic—”

Boone lowers me to the ground, cutting off my demand as he wraps an arm around me. “Hold on to me for balance. Try not to put any weight on that ankle.”

How can he sound so normal?

Trying not to look toward the flashing cameras, I finally realize we’re standing next to Boone’s car, which is parked in a prime location behind the bar. Someone set up portable barricades like you would see outside a concert venue for crowd control, and three uniformed security guards stand with their arms crossed. The flashing cameras and shouting voices are beyond the wall of metal and muscle.

“They’re getting pictures of us together. Of you carrying me. Don’t you care? And did they really put a fence around your car? This is all crazy.” My hair, which was in a messy bun on top of my head, is now tangled around my shoulders.

Boone unlocks the car before shifting his attention back to me. He searches my face, but I don’t have a clue what he’s looking for. Finally, he speaks.

“You’re in my life, Ripley. It doesn’t matter how it happened, but it happened. Do I wish the press didn’t come with me? Sure, but it’s something I deal with. Am I going to let them stop me from doing what I want? Not a chance. It might be a little crazy, but maybe I am too—about you.”

Boone spears his fingers through my hair and cups the back of my head. His blue eyes flash before he lowers his mouth to mine.

My brain is telling my body to pull away. To stop him before the reporters get more ammunition to use against me. But my body flips my brain the bird and curls into Boone and his kiss.

When he finally pulls back, he studies my face again. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night. Let’s get you in the car so we can get out of here.”