Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

I don’t hesitate to lift her into my arms. Call it primal, but I like carrying her around.

When the orderly protests, Dr. Marks gives him a silencing look before turning back to me. “If you’d like, we can have someone bring your car around and you can go out the back entrance.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary. We’re all set.”

Just when I think that there’s no chance the media could have gotten wind of us being here already, I’m proven wrong. As soon as we step out of the glass doors, a camera flashes.

Ripley stiffens in my arms, burying her face against my chest.

“It’s okay. It’s just one guy. He’ll get a few photos and probably try to tail us.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I’m not usually such a big draw. I swear it’s not always like this.”

I glance down at her, and I think Ripley gets what I’m saying. The mess with Amber and then the press latching onto Ripley and me has made me way more entertaining copy that I’ve been in the last year. The happy-couple stories get old. What the media wants is drama.

He follows us at a distance all the way to the car, watching as I get Ripley inside.

After I close the door, I walk over to him. The guy looks a little scared, like I might decide to kick his ass. Valid concern.

“You get everything you need, man?”

His eyes bug out, probably with shock because I’m not yelling. “Uh, yeah. I think so.”

I nod. “Good deal. Since you’re the only guy I see here, you got your exclusive for the night. We’re going home, and I guarantee there won’t be shit for you to see because we’ll be behind gates and trees. Save yourself some time and don’t bother following us. There’s no point.”

“You’re going back to your place. With the girl? You together? What’s the deal with that?” He launches into a bunch of questions that I have no intention of answering.

“I told you all I’m gonna tell you, so I’d really appreciate it if you’d move on, man.”

He yanks a card from his pocket and holds it out. “If you ever want to—”

I look down at it, and part of me wants to rip him a new one for overstepping, but I’m too tired tonight. I take it from him and shove it in my pocket.

“Have a good one.”

“You too, Mr. Thrasher. I hope Ms. Fischer is okay.”

“She’ll be fine.”





38





Ripley





I’ve spent the last decade as a night owl, so being awake at three thirty in the morning isn’t unusual. But now I’m exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

When Boone heads away from town, I don’t have the fortitude to argue with him about where I’m sleeping, because I have a feeling I would probably lose.

Even with the outcome a foregone conclusion, any other night I would put up a fight. Tonight, I’m done.

“If they never find my body, you know they’ll come after you,” I tell him as he merges onto the highway. “That paparazzi guy will make sure of it.”

Boone’s eyes shift away from the road to me, shafts of light sliding across his face as the 442 accelerates. “You trying to say you think I’m a serial killer?”

I shake my head before dropping it back against the seat. “No. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“You wanna tell me what went down with your dad?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to replay that memory anytime soon. “Nope.”

“You wanna tell me about the douchebag in the bar?”

I open my eyes a tad and check out Boone’s expression. “Law? Not really.”

“Law?”

I snort-chuckle at the way Boone says his name. “Yeah, short for Lawrence. He’s wanted to be a lawyer since he was a kid, so instead of going by his full name, he shortened it.”

“I was right. Total douchebag. And you dated him?”

Apparently, Boone didn’t catch my not really. I could choose not to answer, but he would badger me anyway.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“A little over a year.”

“And?” Boone changes lanes before taking the next exit.

“And what? We dated. Then we were done.”

His pointed look tells me that there’s no way in hell he believes it was that simple. “There’s more to the story than that.”

Wanting to move on to a new subject, I give him the quick-and-dirty rundown. “He was in law school and I worked at the Fishbowl. Not only did our schedules not mesh, he wanted me to choose between him and the bar. So I did.”

Boone slows at a stoplight ahead. “Why didn’t you choose the bar this time?”

I look up at the red headliner because his question is a valid one. Every time I’ve been forced to choose between anything or anyone and the bar, I’ve chosen the Fishbowl. “I don’t know.” My tone is quiet and thoughtful.

We don’t speak for the rest of the drive. When we pull up in front of an eight-foot-tall black metal gate, Boone slows and it swings open.

“Sensor in the car,” he explains.

I nod like that makes perfect sense, but automatic gates have never been part of my life. I can see why he’d need one given what he puts up with, though. The house doesn’t come into view for a good two minutes as we cruise up the long driveway through a field and then woods. Tucked away in the middle of what must be a massive piece of property is a sprawling rock-and-wood structure that looks like it would merit an episode of CMT’s Cribs.

“Damn. You couldn’t build something a little bigger?”

Boone laughs. “You sound like my brother. He gives me shit every time he’s here. Like why didn’t I build an indoor pool? Or a tennis court? It’s not like a bowling lane is enough entertainment.”

“You have a bowling lane?”

I blink as a massive garage door opens and he drives the 442 inside to park next to a huge black truck that looks like it cost more than the building the Fishbowl is located in.

“I’ll show you tomorrow. Sit tight; I’m coming around to get you.”

But I don’t. I open the car door and climb out, hopping on one foot and using the truck for balance. I’d feel bad about leaving fingerprints on it, but the mud on the tires tells me Boone’s not going to care.

At least, not about the truck.

“I told you to wait, dammit.” Before I protest, I’m cradled in Boone’s arms again and he carries me into the house.

It’s dark, but when he flips on the lights, my mouth slackens. It’s gorgeous.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, I know. If someone had left all the designing up to me, I probably would’ve had antlers everywhere, but my decorator put the smackdown on that.”

He brings me through a huge mud room, an insanely gorgeous kitchen that I barely have time to appreciate, and down a long hallway with a high ceiling. At the end of the hall, he walks into a massive bedroom with what has to be a California king in the center with a frame made of logs and leather.

It’s so completely Boone.

“Wow. This is . . . nice.” Inwardly I’m cringing, thinking about the fact that he was in my shitty little apartment.