Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rage vibrates through my every syllable. If she were smart, she’d back away.

The bartender must realize I’m a grenade with no pin, because she comes out from behind her station and grabs the skinny bitch’s arm to drag her two steps away from me.

The bitch cackles. “This is priceless. Oh my God, I wish I’d gotten it on camera. I could’ve made millions.”

“Brandy, shut your mouth. Go upstairs and sleep it off in the spare room.”

“Dirty whore.”

“Shut up, you stupid bird!” The bitch yanks her arm out of Ripley’s grip. “Don’t tell me what to do. I just came here for money ’cause I’m not done partying tonight. But if he’d just give me back my phone, I’ll have every paparazzi in this town here and get my payday that way.”

Desperate, money-hungry women are all the same in my book—parasites. I open my hand and her phone drops to the concrete floor.

“The hell is your problem!” she yells.

When I lift one boot and bring the heel down hard on it, her screech morphs into a banshee wail.

“You ass*ole!” She raises an arm to take a swing at me, but I catch her wrist in midair.

“How much?” I bark the words at her, my jaw clenched.

“What?”

“How much to keep your f*cking mouth shut about seeing me here? Otherwise, I’ll call my security team, and they’ll make sure you don’t say a damn word.”

The color drains from beneath her overly-bronzed skin before her eyes narrow and turn calculating.

“A thousand.”

I release her hand like she’s covered in open sores and reach around to pull my wallet from my pocket. Her outstretched hand is already waiting before I’ve got it open.

Counting off the bills, I drop them into her palm and give her a hard look. “You renege on this deal, I promise I will find you and you’ll regret it.”

Her bony fingers crumple the bills into her fist. “Nice doing business with you, Boone.”

“Get the hell out of my sight.”

Without a look or a word to Ripley, Brandy stomps out of the bar, slamming the door behind her.

“Dirty whore,” the bird calls after her, but even that can’t pierce through the fury and disbelief gripping me. I stalk back to the bar and pull my own phone from my pocket.

The screen of my phone is packed with notifications. Texts. Missed calls. Messages. I bypass them for the gossip site. One search is all it takes to see that Brandy was telling the truth.



Amber Fleet Marries Hollywood Producer in Surprise Vegas Ceremony

I hurl my phone at the wall with the strength I used to reserve for pitching a strike, and it shatters against Hank Williams’s face with a roar that drowns out Kenny Chesney’s lies about no shirt, no shoes, and no problems.

For f*ck’s sake, why would you do this, Amber?





7





Ripley





The bottle of Jack is empty, and Frisco pushes himself to a standing position. He spent an hour on the phone talking to people about the situation while Boone Thrasher sat at the bar in silence, pouring liquor down his throat.

The man is going to be hurting tomorrow, and not just his pride. I’ve spent enough years behind the bar to recognize a wicked hangover in the making.

“You done, man?”

It’s my job to assess how hammered someone is before they leave my bar, and Frisco’s slurred words and sloppy movements tell me that he’s blasted too.

“You want me to call you both a cab?”

Boone finally speaks. “I got a car.” He wrenches the keys from his pocket, and something goes flying before pinging against the concrete floor when it lands.

My eyesight is far from perfect, but the meteorite-sized stone on that silver circle means it’s obviously a ring.

Oh my God, was he going to propose to his girlfriend?

The question slams into me harder than Boone hit the whiskey.

That would make sense why he got so pissed and then went quiet. I let the possibility turn over in my head a few times.

Wow. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the balls? You’re planning to propose, carrying around a rock big enough to anchor a boat, and your girlfriend gets married to someone else.

And this, my friends, is why I avoid celebrities at all cost. Their lives aren’t normal, and I want nothing to do with the craziness that clings to them like ticks on a hound.

Boone stumbles across the floor to retrieve the ring, but instead of shoving it back in his pocket, he crosses back to the bar and slams it down on the wood.

I wince, hoping it didn’t scratch. Then again, what does it matter to me?

“Here. I think this’ll more than cover the tab for tonight.” He waves toward the stools where Earl and Pearl sat earlier. “And theirs.”

Jingling the keys in his hand, he says to Frisco, “Let’s get out of here before the circus shows up.”

While his attention is momentarily distracted, I snatch the keys from between his fingers, and he whips his head around to look at me.

“What the hell? Give ’em back.”

I shake my head. “No can do. Dram shop law. If you drive away from here and kill someone, I’m gonna get sued because I overserved you. So you’re just gonna have to take a cab or call for a ride.”

Boone lunges across the bar toward me, but I’m sober, which means I’m faster and in better control of my body.

“I’ll lock them up and make sure you can get them tomorrow if you’re sober.”

“Come on, Rip. We’ll be fine.”

I shoot Frisco a dirty look. “No way. Call a cab or get a ride. There’s no way I’m letting either of you act like a dumbass when it’s gonna blow back on me. Should’ve picked a different bar, boys.”

Boone whispers something under his breath, but I don’t catch it.

“Crackerhead,” is Esteban’s less-than-helpful contribution to the conversation.

Frisco laughs at the bird’s outburst, and Boone aims a killing glare in his direction. Frisco tries to shut down the laughter but barely contains it.

The country superstar finally looks at me, really looks at me. His blue eyes blaze with rage and pain, cutting into me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to speak.

The question he asks takes me by surprise.

“Would you ever marry a guy while you were dating another? Because she ain’t the first one I’ve known to do it.”

My answer, as stupid as it may sound, is honest. “I’d have to date one first.”

Boone huffs out a sound that’s supposed to be a laugh, but comes out more like a grunt.

“Too smart for all of us.” He turns to Frisco. “Get us a damned ride. I’m done. f*cking done with all of it.”

“On it, man,” Frisco says, finally containing his mirth and lifting his phone.

Boone meets my gaze for another beat. “Anything happens to my car overnight, I’ll own this bar. Get me?”

I slide my fingers into the brass knuckles on the keychain and make a fist before reaching under the bar and pulling out a baseball bat. “Threaten me again and I’ll break your face.”

“Told you she was a feisty one,” Frisco says to Boone, and I roll my eyes.