Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

Empty.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and Frisco takes the phone from my hand.

“You really think a press conference is a good idea?”

“What choice do I have? I gotta put it out there, and I’m not doing it through some pansy-ass statement my people release.”

“You gonna be able to handle the questions?”

I lower my hand and meet his gaze. “I didn’t say shit about answering questions. I’ll say my piece and walk.”

Frisco’s face says what his mouth doesn’t. God help you, I hope you’re right.

I pat the pockets of my jeans and come up empty in the search for my keys.

“Please tell me my 442 is somewhere safe.”

As soon as the demand is out, I remember a bright neon sign and that damned parrot.

Where was that? I try to picture the sign in my head.

The Fishbowl.

Zane moves toward the kitchen space in his loft. “Let’s eat some greasy bacon and eggs, and then we’ll go get your car from Ripley.”

My stomach twists at the suggestion, but I know it’s the right one. I need to kick this hangover now so I can kick some ass later.

Ripley.

The gorgeous brunette.

Who threatened to bash my head in with a baseball bat.

Great. This is going to be just f*cking great.





9





Boone





Frisco pulls up between the Javelin and my 442 behind a run-down brick building. In the daylight, this place looks like it’s only a few years from being condemned, but all I care about right now is the fact that my car looks like it’s perfectly untouched.

If I hadn’t been so wasted and pissed last night, there’s no way in hell I would have left her in this neighborhood. Not a frigging chance.

I don’t care that she’s insured, because this isn’t the kind of car you can replace. She’s been specially restored by Logan Brantley of Gold Haven, Kentucky, to fit my vision of what badass American muscle looks like.

The peeling paint of the Javelin beside us reminds me of how the Olds looked when I dropped her off myself at his shop.

Before we climb out, Frisco’s phone starts ringing for the sixth time since we left his loft.

“I swear, if it’s another call for you, I’m going to break this thing like you did yours.”

“I’ll get a new phone this afternoon, and you can kick them all to me if they keep bothering you. Sorry about that, man. And thanks for everything this morning. I’ve toured with some ass*oles who wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire, so it’s a nice change.”

Frisco gives me a chin lift. “You changed my life when you asked me to be on that tour, but that’s not all. You didn’t treat me like shit. You treated me like a friend. So that’s what I’m giving back to you, brother.”

I extend a hand. “Much appreciated. It won’t be our last tour either. Stop out at my place anytime. Tonight you’ll find me burning one by the fire, wondering how all this shit happened.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I reach for the handle and pause, my mind on the woman I’m hoping is inside with my keys. “What’s the deal with this chick? She gonna be a problem?”

Frisco looks toward the weathered building ahead of us. “Ripley?”

“Yeah. The dark-haired one from last night.”

“She’s good people. Won’t let me take her out on a date to save my life, all because of her rule.”

He throws up air quotes around the word rule, and I vaguely recall a mention of something like that from last night.

“What kind of rule is that? Most groupies can’t wait to jump on a famous dick.”

Frisco chokes out a laugh. “Rip is about as far from a groupie as I can imagine. I’ve been trying for a few months and gettin’ nowhere. Maybe if I’d met her before the label signed me, I would’ve had a chance. I don’t know. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’ve been friend-zoned.”

“Ouch.” I give him a mock wince.

“You win some, you lose some.”

“Or your girl marries some stranger in Vegas, and you find out from a skank in a bar.” Even though I’m trying to make a joke, it comes out harsher than I intended.

Frisco gives me a rueful look. “You win on that one.”

“For all the good it does me.”

Frisco waits for me to make my way to the door and pull it open before throwing the Jeep in reverse and gunning the engine to pull out like an ass*ole. The sound carries inside, and a dark head pops up from behind the bar.

“We’re closed,” the husky-but-feminine voice calls before she turns to face me with a box clutched to her chest.

In the dim light, she’s just as built as I remember from last night—not that it makes a damn bit of difference to me right now.

“Not here to drink. I’ll take my keys and be on my way.”

When she frowns, I step into the light. Recognition flashes over her face as I leave the shadowed entry.

She cocks a hip. “Too bad. I was hoping you’d forget and leave that gorgeous piece of muscle here long enough for me to consider it abandoned.”

“Not a chance.”

She sits the box on the bar before coming toward me. “Pity.”

“You got those keys?”

“I put ’em in the safe just in case Brandy got any ideas about coming back and trying to take it. Let me go grab them.”

Brandy . . . the skank who shook me down for a grand.

Ripley turns toward a door behind the bar as I ask, “She gonna cause problems?”

She pauses, cutting her gaze to me with a thoughtful expression on her face. “Brandy doesn’t know how to do anything but cause problems. I don’t know what she’ll do, if you want the truth. I can’t control her any more than I can control the weather.”

My mood darkens like a thunderstorm rolling in, which is the visual I get from her answer.

“You better hope she doesn’t, because I promise you won’t like the consequences.”

Her posture stiffens, her fingers flexing on the door handle to what I assume is the office with the safe she mentioned.

“Are you threatening me?” Her question comes out more as a challenge.

“I’m telling you the truth. She needs to forget last night ever happened, and we’ll be all set.”

Ripley’s gray eyes match the thunderstorm I pictured as they narrow on me. “If you want to make sure Brandy forgets, you’re gonna have to take that up with her. I don’t have a damn thing to do with it. And what’s more, you don’t get to walk into my bar and start throwing down threats like you own the place.” She releases her grip and crosses her arms over her chest. “If that was your plan from the beginning, you should’ve waited until you had your keys first, because I think I’ve just gone and forgotten the combination to the safe all of a sudden.”

Oh no, she f*cking wouldn’t.

I open my mouth to deliver another warning, but she talks faster.

“Guess you’re gonna have to call a locksmith or a wrecker to help you out. And God forbid if they realize who you are and call the press. You’ll be up to your ass in cameras and reporters before you can say, ‘I’m sorry for being a dick, Ripley.’”