Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

“My dad used to take me fishing when I was a kid, and sometimes, if I was lucky, my granddad would come too. Always at the crack of dawn. I never wanted to get up that early, but I also wasn’t gonna miss a chance to hang out with them.”

He keeps talking as he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the blanket.

“Granddad had a pond double this size on his property, and we’d all sit on the end of the dock, or sometimes pile into an old rowboat and head out to the middle. Dad would critique my casting, showing me how to do it better, and then Granddad would critique his teaching method and show us both how to perfect it.”

I can picture a little boy with Boone’s dark hair and blue eyes watching raptly as the two most important men in his life passed down their knowledge.

“That sounds like an amazing way to grow up.”

Boone lowers me to the blanket at the end of the dock where my feet dangle over the edge, and joins me. The water is low enough that I can’t touch it, but not so low that I can’t see the little disturbances in the surface where bugs land and fish come up to the surface to try to grab them.

“It was. We’d haul in as many fish as we could, keeping count of who had the most. Granddad always won, for the record. Then we’d take ’em back to the house and my mom would be there with Granny T, and they’d wait for us to filet ’em all and then fry up a whole mess of them. We’d eat outside on the picnic table, drinking sweet tea and eating whatever vegetables had come from the garden that day.”

The picture Boone paints of his childhood is . . . perfect.

“That sounds incredible. Like something straight out of a movie.”

Boone chuckles as he hands me a container of wings. “I wouldn’t say that. There was plenty of stuff that wasn’t perfect. Trying to pull together the money to buy new shingles to fix the roof one summer because Ma didn’t have any more pots and pans to catch the drips. I tried to quit guitar lessons so they could put the money toward the roof, but Ma wouldn’t let me. Instead, she traded out preserves for Mrs. Winston, the high school music teacher, to start me on the piano too. I thought Dad was gonna be pissed, but he wasn’t. He just told me that learning every skill that came my way was the smartest thing I could do to make a better future for myself.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. What I remember most is Mama and me trying to dodge Pop’s slaps for things we didn’t do well enough, and Pop putting me to work as soon as I was big enough to haul a case of beer. She’d argued with him about that, but it ended with her having a split lip and me working.

Other than going to school, I barely set foot outside the Fishbowl and our apartment while growing up. Maybe it was better that way. Less chance for people to ask about the bruises.

A wave of sadness threatens to overwhelm me, so I turn the conversation back to Boone.

“You still close with your folks?”

Boone, in the middle of chewing, nods and finishes before he answers. “Definitely. I see them as often as I can. They’re the most real people in my life.”

“What do you mean?” I ask before diving into my own wings.

“You can tell I didn’t grow up with money. We had a whole lot of love, but not a lot of extras. I didn’t want for anything, though. They found a way to make sure I had what I needed, and I didn’t ask for more than that. They’re the same way now. They wouldn’t dream of asking me for something. No one in my family expects handouts. Shit, I had to pay off my parents’ mortgage in secret because they wouldn’t take the check I wrote from my first record deal. I tried to buy my dad a new truck but he told me no, his old one was still running fine.” Boone pauses and laughs. “He’ll be surprised when one shows up for his birthday this year, though, whether he wants it or not.”

Along with the warmth that accompanies the vision of Boone’s dad getting a new truck comes a wave of despair. Will the last words Pop ever speaks to me be the ones in anger? Then again, when was the last time he actually said something kind?

I search my memory, and all I can find is criticism about how I ran the bar and didn’t make enough money, or some other negative thing he found to complain about.

The shaft of pain that stabs me through the heart is regret for the relationship I’ll never have with either of my parents.

“And Ma,” Boone continues. “She’s always wanted a convertible. She’d deny it as being too impractical, but I’ve seen the way she looks at them, especially in those old movies she loves where the women wrap their hair in a scarf so the wind doesn’t mess it up. I should wait until Christmas, but then the roads might not cooperate, so she’s getting her convertible when Dad gets his truck. And a whole box of scarves wrapped up in the front seat.”

He’s buying his mother scarves for her hair for her convertible. I squeeze my eyes shut at the sting of tears springing forth at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Boone Thrasher is a good man. And yet, I feel like not many people really know the truth about him.

“How did anyone ever paint you as the bad boy of country music?” I ask.

He leans back on the dock and glances at me before staring off into the sunset.

“Don’t get the idea that I’m some sort of saint, sugar. I’ve done plenty of shit I shouldn’t have. Especially when I first started riding that wave of fame. It’s a crazy world out there. Not only does everyone want something from you, but all of a sudden, the barriers start coming down.”

“Barriers?”

“The roadblocks to all the things you wanted that you couldn’t have before. The money, the cars, the houses, the women, the fans, the venues, the interviews. It’s all there, just waiting for you to take what you want from it. And then there’s the booze and the drugs, and God knows none of that shit mixes well together.”

“I can’t even imagine what that would be like.”

Boone turns back to me. “It’s a blessing and a curse. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything, except for maybe to have my privacy and anonymity back. You’ve already seen it. It’s hard to make a move without someone saying something about it, or the press getting wind of it and twisting it into something it isn’t. Then you’ve got the pressure to put out another number-one hit, a platinum album, a sold-out show . . .”

These are all things I never would have really considered, but he’s right. When you think about how famous musicians live, it’s easy to only think about the good parts, and not the crushing responsibilities and expectations that go along with it.

“How do you handle it?”

Boone smiles but it’s a little lopsided, and something about it makes me want to kiss it off his face.

“At first, I loved every second, but when it started to get old, there was a lot of booze, women, and drugs. And there were some fights . . . My brother kicked my ass when he showed up at a show, and I was high as a kite and barely recognized him. He reminded me that what I have is a privilege and I needed to be smart about it. I’m not saying I don’t still get high on occasion, but it’s nothing like the road I was on for a bit.”