Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

Ten minutes later, the back door of the bar closes behind Zane Frisco and Boone Thrasher as they go outside to meet their ride, leaving the ring on the bar.

Just one more reminder why avoiding celebrities is the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Now, where do I put this freaking ring so Brandy doesn’t find it and sell it?





8





Boone





I roll over with a sledgehammer crashing into my skull, my stomach rolling, and my mouth drier than the Afghani desert we landed in for my last USO tour.

What the f*ck happened last night?

Last time I woke up in a bed I didn’t recognize, I swore it would be the last time. I jerk my head from side to side, hoping I’m not going to find a head of hair on the pillow next to me that doesn’t belong to Amber.

I did my manwhore stint just like every guy does when he hits it big and all the women come crawling out of the woodwork, wanting to jump on your dick just because you stand onstage and sing. But no more. I’ve got a woman, and I’m faithful. No loopholes, no if she doesn’t know, it didn’t happen. I don’t cheat because I’m a better man than that.

Bits and pieces of last night filter into my brain, and I work on fitting them together.

A parrot.

A gorgeous brunette.

Amber getting married in Vegas.

I bolt up to a sitting position, my head throbbing like it’s being crushed in a vise and my stomach liable to revolt at any moment.

Amber got married in Vegas.

No. That didn’t really happen. I drank too much and my mind is screwing with me.

I search the nightstand, but my phone is MIA. I shove my hands into the pockets of the jeans I’m still wearing and come up empty.

Hank Williams’s face flashes through my mind, and the vision of my phone shattering against it.

f*ck, that means it really happened.

Amber Fleet, my girlfriend, is now another man’s wife.

It’s not a bad dream or some kind of sick joke. It’s my screwed-up reality.

I roll to the side, my feet finding the floor, and steady myself before standing. Doesn’t matter how many hangovers you’ve had, they all suck.

From outside the door, which I now remember is in Zane Frisco’s loft, I hear a low, angry voice. I push it open and glance out into a large brick-walled room. Frisco is on his phone arguing with someone.

“No way. No one knows he’s here. You send them, the press will be on their ass and he’ll be hounded.”

When I step out, the hinges creak behind me and Frisco looks up.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“He’s up, Nick, you want to talk to him? Because I’m not playing telephone with you two.”

Nick Gaines, my agent. Someone must have told him that I left the venue with Frisco last night.

I hold out my hand for the phone, and Frisco tosses it to me with an apologetic look.

“Sorry, man. Press is having a field day with this shit.”

“About what I expected. Not your fault.”

It’s Amber’s. Even though neither of us voice the words, I’m pretty damn sure we’re both thinking them.

I lift the phone to my ear. “You got Thrasher.”

“Couldn’t you have picked a starlet with bigger tits than ambition?”

“Watch your mouth, Nick. I don’t care what she did, but you don’t get to talk about Amber like that.”

He sounds shocked when he speaks again. “You’re defending what that bitch did?”

“No. But I’m still not letting you talk shit about her. You wanna be pissed about it? Get in line. I’m the one whose girlfriend didn’t bother to tell him that she was gonna elope on the night he planned to propose.”

Nick releases a long sigh. “The press is losing their shit with this. They’re making it sound like you’re the jilted groom and she’s the skank-ass ho who couldn’t keep her legs closed—their words, not mine. At least you’ve got sympathy on your side. She just kissed her career in country music good-bye. No one will touch her after this. Word is that her label is already looking at the contract to decide if they can drop her today.”

Sympathy? I don’t want anyone’s f*cking sympathy. All I wanted was a damned woman of my own who could hack living this life with me, and the hope of having a family. Just a fragment of something normal. Like my folks have. Like my brother has.

Instead, I get this.

If I had taken that community-college scholarship to play baseball, I bet I’d already have a wife and three kids by now. Instead, I chased my dream, and now I’m the dumbass Amber Fleet jilted.

Who uses the word jilted anyway?

“What’s the plan, Nick? I know you’ve already got one.”

My agent huffs out a laugh. “That’s what you pay me for. You’re gonna ride this wave for all it’s worth.”

I open my mouth to object with a no way in hell, but he keeps going.

“I know you don’t want anyone feeling sorry for you, and you’d rather crack some skulls, but here’s the thing—you’re going to make one statement. A classy, sincere statement wishing Amber well in her new relationship, and then you’re going to step away and go back to doing what you do—pour it all into the music. The press will keep going with the story, and I’m sure Amber won’t be smart enough to shut her mouth, but by the time you finish this next album, people are going to eat it up. They’ll want to see this side of your music, and you’ll have another platinum on your hands.”

I let his words and predictions wash over me and say nothing.

Of course, for Nick, this is all about the money. The fact that my pride is taking a beating doesn’t compute.

Wait, why didn’t I say my heart is taking a beating? That’s a hell of a good question, and one I don’t have the time to answer right this moment.

“What do you say, Boone? We got a plan? I put together a statement, we release it to the press, and then you can stay out of sight behind the gates of your house, shoot some shit, race some dirt bikes, and write the album that’s going to have you set for the rest of your life.”

I turn his suggestion over in my head. Release a statement to the press. That’s not me.

“I want a press conference. I’m gonna have my say.”

“Boone, that’s a bad idea. If you let your temper—”

“Set it up, Nick. You work for me. So set the f*cking press conference up.”

With a long sigh, he goes silent for a few moments. “This could backfire and screw up all the plans I worked out.”

“And if you think I’m the kind of guy who’s going to go hide behind a gate and just release a goddamned statement, you still don’t know me.”

“Fine. When?”

“Today. This afternoon. Four o’clock.”

“Where?”

“That’s your job.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll get it done. According to the press, Amber’s MIA right now, which actually works out in our favor, I think.”

My only response is to hang up the phone.

I don’t want to hear her name.

I don’t want to say her name.

How the hell did this happen? I was supposed to wake up this morning in bed with the woman who would be my wife and have my kids, but she’s doing that with another man.

I can’t even begin to articulate all the ways that’s straight f*cked up. For the first time in a long time, my fingers aren’t itching for a pen to write down lyrics to get this out onto paper.

Instead, there’s nothing.