Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

by Meghan March

  My survey drops lower to take in his worn jeans and black shit-kickers before dragging back up to his face just as he lifts his head to meet my eyes.

  No way.

  Zane Frisco did not bring Boone Thrasher, country music’s reigning bad-boy superstar, to my bar.

  I’ve gone too many days without sleep. I’m seeing things.

  But when those black motorcycle boots step closer, I know it’s not the lack of REM cycles screwing with me.

  Boone Thrasher is in the Fishbowl.

  “Jack and Coke. Heavy on the Jack.”

  His deep voice is just as raspy as it sounds on the radio, and my nipples peak.

  Nope. Not happening. Danger. Abort mission.

  Frozen like a deer in the headlights under his intense blue gaze, I force myself to spin around and face the mirrored wall with glass shelves holding bottles of liquor.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath. Celebrities are only good for one thing, and that’s trouble. Except . . . with one phone call, I could fill this place with enough women to put the Fishbowl back in the black for the month.

  I let the vision play out in my brain.

  Instead of gawkers coming to see the bathroom where former country legend Gil Green was murdered, people would be packing the bar, buying drinks, and trying to get close to the country music entertainer of the year.

  The skin on the back of my neck prickles and my lids flutter open.

  In the reflection, Boone Thrasher’s gaze slams into mine. My hand freezes in midair as I reach for the half-full bottle of Jack.

  “You trust her?” His words come out as gruff as when he growls into the microphone at his concerts. Not that I’ve ever had extra cash to splurge on a ticket to one of the big stadium shows.

  To the right in the mirror, my peripheral vision catches the blur of Frisco nodding his shaggy blond head, but my attention stays focused on the face beneath the shredded brim of the black hat.

  “Ripley’s good people. She ain’t gonna say shit to anyone about us being here. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

  Those blue eyes bore holes in me as my tongue darts out to swipe over my lips while I gather my wits to respond.

  I start to speak, but no sound comes out. Clearing my throat, I shake my head first instead. “No one is gonna find out you’re here from me.”

  Thrasher nods at Earl and Pearl. “Can I buy that round for you, folks?”

  Earl and Pearl aren’t slow, especially when someone is offering to make their Social Security fixed-income budget stretch a little further.

  Earl’s reflection turns to the certified-platinum recording artist. “You buy ’em all night, and we got a deal. I can play deaf, blind, and dumb. Just ask the wife.”

  Pearl twirls around on her stool, surprisingly nimble for her age, but what’s even more impressive is that her peach-tinted curls don’t move at all.

  One night after several Miller Lites, she finally let me in on her secret. “Aquanet. Hold down the sprayer until your finger can’t take it anymore, and then go for another couple seconds. Your hair won’t move for days.”

  I cringe inside, wondering what in the world she’s going to say to Boone Thrasher.

  “Handsome boy like you should have a sweetheart keeping you home at night instead of out at the bars. Maybe if you didn’t have all those tattoos, you’d find a nice girl. Ripley here could use a date, but she won’t take up with no celebrity types. Never ever, not after Rhonda done—”

  And . . . that’s enough.

  I spin around, bottle of Jack in hand, and accidentally use it to knock Pearl’s Miller Lite over, splashing it across the bar and onto her powder-blue polyester pants.

  “Oh my word! Watch what you’re doin’, girl.”

  “So sorry, Miss Pearl. All my fault.”

  Her faded green eyes study my face, not missing my pointed scowl. “Well, I never. What’s wrong with you, child? Now I gotta go dab myself off so this doesn’t set. They don’t make polyester like this anymore.” With a huff, she slides off the stool and toddles toward the restroom.

  Earl doesn’t seem fazed a bit. He holds out his hand to Boone, not even watching his wife.

  “Earl Simpkins. That’s my wife, Pearl. We’re what ya call regulars ’round here.”

  Boone Thrasher shakes Earl’s hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.” When he releases it, he chooses the stool two over and Frisco sits down next to him.

  No one says a word about the fact that I doused Pearl with beer to shut her up.

  Boone Thrasher leans both forearms on the bar and studies me from beneath the low bill of his hat. “How about that Jack and Coke?”

  4

  Boone

  Where the hell did Frisco bring me? That’s the question on my mind as I watch the dark-haired bartender pour a long stream of Jack over ice before topping it off with a shot of Coke from the soda gun.

  Ripley? Is that what the old lady said the bartender’s name was? Frisco’s attention hasn’t left her since we walked into this place¸ and I can see why.

  Her curves are poured into her jeans, and she’s all tits, ass, and thick, shiny hair. Basically, the opposite of Amber. My girl is rail thin, like so many women in the industry who feel the pressure to keep any extra pounds off because the cameras will just add them back on. No matter what I say, I can’t get her to eat a burger to save her life.

  I can’t picture this bartender picking at a salad with no dressing or cutting a piece of ahi tuna into tiny bites. No, she looks like she’d just as soon dive into a steak and stab someone with a fork if they tried to take it from her.

  The mystery isn’t why Frisco wanted to come here, but why she keeps turning him down.

  When Ripley slides my drink in front of me wordlessly, she reaches for a pint glass and aims her gray eyes at Frisco. “You sure you want your regular? Last chance to try something different.” She holds the glass under the tap and waits.

  “Who do you think I am? Give me that Bud, baby girl.”

  Her fingers curl around the handle and squeeze tight. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

  In the bar mirror, I catch Frisco’s wink at her. “And yet I keep calling you that . . . so who do you think is more stubborn?”

  She drops a hand to her curvy hip and stares at him. “When I say no, I mean no, Frisco. I’m not playing hard to get. I’m just not interested.”

  He slaps his hand against his chest. “Wounded. Nearly mortal. You’re lucky I got such a healthy ego or you’d give me a complex.”

  Ripley rolls her eyes and pulls down the handle to start the glass filling with beer.

  The stereo system kicks over to Willie Nelson and I take a drink, appreciating her heavy hand with the Jack as it slides down my throat. I soak up the music and old-school atmosphere as Frisco and Ripley talk. Pearl returns from the restroom and starts up a conversation with her husband about something that happened in 1967.

  I let it all wash over me, and the bullshit weighing me down slips away.

  So I may not have gotten engaged tonight, but there’s no time limit on that. I did, however, debut a kick-ass new single and got to put my sweet new ride through her paces.

  The only worry I’ve got left is what happened to Amber. My phone stays silent in my pocket, and worst-case scenarios play through my head until I push them away.

  Two hours later, my question is answered in a way I never could have guessed.

  5

  Ripley

  The back door flies open, slamming against the brick wall. Unfortunately, it’s not a new customer to bring the nightly total of patrons up to five and the current count up to three now that Earl and Pearl have gone home.

  No, it’s my least reliable waitress.

  Brandy Lear has never been accused of being dependable or intelligent, and if she weren’t my only cousin, I would have fired her dozens of times over.

  It’s almost two hours after midnight, so I have no freaking clue why s
he would even bother showing up for work so late.

  “Rip, I need some money.” Brandy holds out her hand as she picks her way across the worn concrete floor of the bar on icepick heels.

  “Dirty whore,” a squawking voice croaks out.

  “Dammit,” I whisper under my breath. Esteban has been asleep long enough in his cage that I’d half wondered if the ancient African Gray parrot had finally kicked the bucket. But no, all it took was Brandy’s voice to wake him up.

  “The fuck was that?” Boone Thrasher whips around, looking toward the corner of the bar where the voice came from. A huge purple cloth covers Esteban’s cage, so he’s not readily apparent.

  “Shut up, you dumbass bird,” Brandy hollers at the corner. With her slurred words and smudged heavy eyeliner, it’s clear my cousin decided to go out tonight rather than come to work and earn a paycheck. And yet she’s still here looking for money. I wish I could say this is the first time that happened. Cue eye roll.

  “Dirty whore,” Esteban says again.

  The parrot has about eighty-two phrases in his vocabulary, and none of them are fit for polite company. For some reason, when a particularly flamboyant celebrity came to the Fishbowl one night about fifteen years ago, he brought Esteban with his entourage. Instead of taking the bird when he left, he gifted him to my mama as a present because she was so amazed by him. Pop was pissed, but Mama convinced him that Esteban would be a great addition to the place.

  He’s been here ever since.

  Despite his shocking vocabulary, I can’t help but love him. I mean . . . how could you not love a parrot that drops the F-bomb at least a dozen times a day?

  For the sake of business, I do try to keep him quiet at night so he doesn’t freak out customers. Once I tried to move him up to my apartment, but he screeched for two days straight until I brought him back down to the bar. He considers himself some kind of watchdog and actually knows how to bark, which I think is impressive as hell.

  I have no clue how old he is, but at this rate, I’m pretty sure he’s going to outlive me and the bar.

  “Is that a parrot?” Boone Thrasher is off his stool and crossing the room before I can stop him.

  Frisco isn’t the least bit of help. He’s sputtering into his beer, laughing his ass off. He tried rapping with Esteban the first night he came into the bar, but gave up when Esteban squawked, “You sound like shit.”

  I glare at Frisco, but he just laughs harder.

  “Please just—” I start to tell him to leave Esteban alone, but Brandy wobbles on her heels.

  “Oh my God, am I just shitfaced or is that Boone Thrasher?”

  Thrasher stops five feet from Esteban’s cage and cranes his head toward Brandy, who already has her phone on and the camera flashing.

  I think it’s safe to assume he’s never coming back here now. Not that I wanted him to. No matter how well he fills out that T-shirt.

  For the last two hours, I’ve been making the least intrusive study possible of the man, and while his face has been lined with tension and frustration, he didn’t look downright unfriendly until just this moment.

  He closes the distance between him and Brandy in less than a second and rips the phone out of her hand. His fingers fly across the screen, and I assume he’s deleting the pictures.

  “Can’t I have one night of goddamned privacy?” He bites the words out with a glance at me that carries an accusation of betrayal.

  Brandy raises both hands in the air before adopting a breathy tone. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Why don’t you just come on home with me and I’ll make it all better? You don’t ever need to think about that cheating slut again.”

  The atmosphere in the bar crackles with fury as Boone’s gaze shifts to Brandy.

  “The fuck did you say?” The question comes out like a growl from between gritted teeth as his chest rises and falls.

  Boone Thrasher is not a small man. My best guess, he’s six feet tall, two hundred twenty pounds, and when he straightens his shoulders, he looks like he’s about to rain the wrath of God down on my cousin for running her mouth.

  What is she talking about? I dig through my brain for the celebrity gossip that I try to avoid but seem to absorb through osmosis anyway.

  Thrasher has a girlfriend . . . a skinny blonde whose sound is more pop than country. What is her name?

  Ruby? Jade? Some kind of gemstone, I think.

  When Brandy stands there stunned and mute, Thrasher repeats his question with menace. “The fuck did you say?”

  Brandy’s mouth drops open as she slaps her hand against her push-up padded chest. “No. Way. You haven’t even heard, have you?”

  Frisco pops off his stool, probably because he’s seeing what I’m seeing, which is Boone Thrasher two seconds away from losing his shit.

  “Whoa there, Brandy. You might want to watch your mouth when you’re talking about Boone’s girl.”

  Brandy, never one to be accused of having excessive IQ points, half laughs, half coughs. “Well, she sure as shit ain’t Boone’s girl anymore. Amber Fleet married some bajillionaire Hollywood producer tonight in Vegas and told TMZ, aka the whole world, she’s gonna be the biggest star on the planet.”

  “Dirty whore,” Esteban crows right before the room goes silent.

  6

  Boone

  I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but it takes everything I have to keep myself from slapping the words back between this bitch’s tobacco-stained teeth.

  “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 asshole!” 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 fucking 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 fuck’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.