by Meghan March
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. Fucking 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.
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 fuck 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.
Fuck, 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucked 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.
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 fucking 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 assholes 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 asshole. 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 expr
ession 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 fucking 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.’”
My temper, already strained to its limit in the last twelve hours, is close to jumping its chain.
“You’ve got two minutes to have my keys sitting on this bar, or I’ll have the cops here.”
A cocky smile tugs at her lips.
“And whose phone you gonna call them with? Because yours lost the battle with Hank Williams’s face, and I swept up the pieces this morning.”
10
Ripley