by Meghan March
They’re all the same. Every celebrity I’ve ever met has that constant streak of entitlement running through them that somehow exempts them from the burden of politeness.
From beneath his ball cap, backward today, the vein in Boone Thrasher’s forehead pulses with pissed-off rage. He wants to strangle me right about now. I recognize the signs.
But guess what? I’m not feeling all that charitable toward him either. No one comes into my place and threatens me, especially not after I’ve called to make sure that his car wouldn’t get towed by the wrecker company, even though he parked in a loading zone overnight, and I locked up his keys for safekeeping. Then there’s the matter of me barely sleeping because I jolted up at every noise and looked out the window in my bedroom at least a dozen times to make sure his car was safe and sound.
I don’t care whether he knows all these details, because only one thing matters. Boone Thrasher does not get to come in here and act like an asshole to me.
I’m waiting for the outburst when he squeezes his eyes shut and balls his hands into fists before stretching his tattooed fingers out again.
When his lids lift, those bright blue eyes clash with mine.
“You ever had your entire life dissected by the media, laid out for the public like your privacy doesn’t even matter?”
At his question, my heart lurches in my chest and my mouth goes dry. He doesn’t have a damned clue.
I shove open the office door and slam it behind me, closing my eyes and leaning on the desk as I haul in a breath.
I know better than anyone what it’s like to have your entire life dissected by the media and laid out for the public like your privacy doesn’t matter. I also know that they don’t care about the collateral damage they cause in getting their story.
But I’m done trading barbs with Boone Thrasher. Now I just want him and his damned car out of here so my life doesn’t get sucked into the press again.
I drop to my knees in front of the safe and spin the dial, screwing up the combination twice.
My mom’s birthday. Ironically, also the day she was murdered.
The lyrics to Brad Paisley’s mocking and oh-so-accurate song “Celebrity” filter into my head.
Boone Thrasher may have lost his shallow girlfriend to someone who could give her more than he could, but at least he didn’t see his mother’s body lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor in the bar where he has to work every day.
On the third try, I get the combination right and yank out the keys with a shaking hand. I rise on unsteady legs, open the door, and stride out—slamming directly into his broad, hard chest.
My first instinct is to jump back like I stepped into a burning house by accident.
Boone snatches the keys from my hand before I can gather myself.
“Thanks,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the brass knuckles hanging from them.
“Don’t mention it.” The words escape my clenched jaw on my next breath.
“I didn’t come here to piss you off, Ripley, but it seems I already did, so I’m gonna make myself clear.” His gaze holds me in place. “If I hear any reporter or gossip site mention that I was here, you’ll be seeing me again and it won’t be nearly as pleasant.”
“You can take your warnings and shove ’em up your ass, Thrasher. I’m not afraid of you.”
He steps back, holding my gaze the entire time. “That’s your first mistake. Let’s hope it’s your only one.”
I flip him the double bird, and the asshole has the nerve to laugh at me as he walks out.
In a moment, he’s gone, and I’m left all alone in an empty bar with nothing but memories to haunt me.
A squawk comes from the corner. “Shove it up your ass.”
Correction—memories, Esteban, and—dammit—that stupid ring.
11
Boone
I crumple the paper in my hand and toss it on the floor beside the lectern. Cameras click and flash in front of me.
“Y’all know me. I’m not the type to read some polite statement from my publicist when I can tell you how it really is.”
A few chuckles come from the crowd of reporters, and my publicist covers her face with a hand.
“I’m not an eloquent bastard, so I’ll keep it short. Sometimes shit doesn’t work out the way you plan. That’s life. It’s what we do when things don’t go our way that defines our character. I’m not gonna run Amber’s name through the mud, so if that’s what you’re here for, you might as well get a head start on leavin’. But I will say this—just because she chose someone else doesn’t make him the better man. You want to know more about how I’m feeling? Pick up my next record.”
I back away from the lectern and walk out of the room before they have a chance to start clamoring with their questions.
Once I’m out in the hall, Charity, my publicist, steps forward and announces that the press conference is over. Both Nick’s heavier footfalls and the click of her heels follow behind me within moments.
“Were you trying to give me a heart attack when you decided not to read that statement?” Charity’s voice is higher pitched than normal, which usually means she’s trying not to lose her shit.
I shoot her a look, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously? You actually expected me to read that canned statement? You have met me before, right?”
Nick waves at the door to an empty office and we all step inside as the reporters spill into the hallway. Once he shuts the door, he crosses his arms over his chest. “I think he nailed it. They’ll be slavering to get their hands on the next album, which means Boone can dry his eyes about this Amber mess on a nice fat pile of cash.”
Again, it’s always about the money with Nick. At least I can count on one thing that never changes.
But as for the next album . . . hell, I told them that’s where they’d find out what I’m feeling, but the truth is, I don’t feel a damned thing right now. I’m totally empty. Devoid of emotion. Maybe it’s self-preservation, but I’ve got nothing to fuel the creative beast. At least, nothing but bruised pride and regret.
My new phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. Ma. She must be watching the news. Nick and Charity are debating something, so I step away and answer.
“Hey, Ma. How’s it going?”
“I saw your press conference. Baby boy, I’m sorry you’re dealing with this, but you handled it like a champ.”
“Just said what I needed to say.”
“I know . . . and I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think this whole mess is the Lord’s way of ensuring you didn’t make a mistake that would stick with you for the rest of your life.”
I let her words roll around in my brain before I respond. “Since when have you thought me marrying Amber was a mistake?” My folks were reserved when I told them about my plan, but neither of them came out and said it was a bad idea. Now that I think back on it, maybe I should have taken more time to think about their reactions.
“I didn’t say it was a mistake. She was a nice girl, but . . .”
“What, Ma? Just tell me.”
“Just tell him, woman. You shoulda told him earlier.”
My dad’s voice comes over the phone, and I picture him standing beside Ma in the kitchen while she calls me.
She pauses for a moment before she drops the bomb. “Amber made it pretty clear that she didn’t want kids the last time you brought her around.”
The confession hits me like a knife to the chest, because having kids is really fucking important to me. I thought the last time we talked about it, Amber was on the same page, that we both wanted to start a family while we were still young enough to enjoy doing all the shit kids want to do. Jesus Christ. How much of what she said was bullshit?
I clear my throat. “She really said that?”
“I’m sorry, Boone. I was hoping you two would work it out if you went through with asking her, but she started rambling about wanting to start acting and how she couldn’t ruin her figure
with kids.”
I clench my teeth as the knife twists. “I gotta go, Ma.”
“Boone—”
“I’ll talk to you later. Love you both.” I hang up without letting her say good-bye.
I’m such a fucking chump.
After I shove my phone back in my pocket, I stalk back to Nick and Charity. “We’re done, right?”
They both nod.
“Then I’m getting out of here.”
“Try to lay low and let it all blow over,” Charity says.
“And write that damned record,” Nick adds.
Predictable responses from each of them.
I turn to leave the room, but Charity stops me with a hand on my arm.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but it would be a good idea to avoid being seen with any women for a while. I think you can make the most of this by playing up the media’s sympathy. If you go out and start banging every girl in sight, they probably won’t hold it against you, but it’s not going to get you the kind of response we want. Your relationship with Amber really cleaned up that manwhore image you had, so let’s try to keep it that way for as long as we can.”
When Nick groans, I crane my head to meet her gaze. “Are you seriously telling me what to do with my private life right now?”
Charity lifts her hand and holds it up, palm out. “No, not at all. But I’m telling you that public perception matters. You can screw whoever you want in private, but the paparazzi are going to be watching you close for a while, ready to get the scoop on who Boone Thrasher is going to date next. I’m just saying that we can play this in a way that boosts your career and doesn’t tarnish the image you’ve shined up, so why not do it?”
I know it’s Charity’s job to look out for me and my image, but right now her instructions are the last thing I want to hear. I don’t bother responding as I stride from the room.
Nick follows me out. “The SUV is already waiting to take you home. If you want me to get you some company, just say the word. Charity doesn’t need to know shit.”
I stop in the middle of the hallway, and Nick almost runs into me. With my voice pitched low, I deliver my reply. “There has never been a time in my life, even before I had enough money to buy and sell you, that I needed help gettin’ a woman. You might still think I’m a dumb hick, but I’m a dumb hick who doesn’t have a problem gettin’ laid. You get me?”
Nick nods. “Sorry, man. I just—”
I shake my head, and he goes silent as I leave.
I love my life. Really, I fucking do, but there are days like today when I wish I could walk away from it all. Trade it for a simple existence where I work eight-to-five with my dad and brother in their small-engine repair shop and coach Little League during the summer. Maybe meet up with buddies at the bar every Friday night for a beer. The life I would have had.
But as I climb into a blacked-out Cadillac Escalade and the driver pulls away through a crowd of flashing cameras waiting on the sidewalk, I think about everything I sacrificed to have this opportunity. The birthdays and holidays with my family I missed because I didn’t have money to get home and was too proud to ask for help. Those nights I spent choking on smoke and hoping I’d make enough in tips to eat the next day. The days I spent living in my car because I didn’t have a couch at someone’s place to crash on. All that would be for nothing if I walked away, and what’s more, I know I could never forgive myself for wasting what I’ve been lucky enough to achieve.
And then I think about that punk kid with more balls than talent who headed to Nashville with nothing but a guitar and a crazy-ass dream.
So what if the media hounds me for every detail of my personal life? He’d tell me to suck it up and who the hell cares, that nothing is sacred when you live your life on a stage for the world to watch.
He’d tell me to give them the best damn show I can, because I worked too hard and gave up too much to do anything else.
Thirty-five minutes later, when we roll up to the gates of my house, I decide that punk kid is right.
I’m Boone Thrasher, and nobody dictates my future but me.
12
Ripley
It’s Wednesday and the clock on my phone just flipped over to eleven forty-five, which means I’ve got exactly fifteen minutes before I’m late for lunch with Pop.
My Javelin doesn’t like being pushed to her limit, so there’s still a chance I’m going to be late, which will no doubt earn some kind of snide comment from him.
Does it make me a terrible daughter that I’m glad I only see him once a week now? When he lived in the apartment above the bar, every day was soaked in bitterness and anger, and too many of them included a stinging cheek from the back of his hand.
I’m not happy he took that tumble down the stairs, broke his leg, and had to spend time in a rehab center. God knows I can barely afford the payments on the medical bills that come every month, but getting him out of my space gave me the buffer I’ve been needing for a long time.
I pull into the parking lot of the tiny diner where we always meet. He can walk here from the senior living community where he’s living now. Another bill that the “profits” from the bar can barely cover, and my savings account is running dry from making up the difference.
I stare at the diner for a solid thirty seconds before I finally climb out of my car, giving her an extra pat for delivering me safely and not dying on the side of the road somewhere, and head inside.
Pop is already waiting at the same booth he takes every week, a cup of steaming coffee sitting in front of him on the red Formica table.
As soon as I slide onto the yellow bench seat across from him, Lisa, our regular waitress, stops by our table.
“What can I get you, hon?”
“Water, please.”
“I’ll have the tuna melt on rye,” he says to her before he even greets me.
Lisa looks to me. “Regular for you too?”
I glance up at the board where the specials are written. Chicken pot pie. “I’ll have the special instead.”
With a nod, she swirls away, calling out the order to the kitchen.
“Hey, Pop. How’s it goin’?”
His big hands, the ones that never held the seat of my bike as I learned to ride without training wheels, but did teach me how to properly build a pint of Guinness, wrap around the mug.
“It’s goin’. My next-door-neighbor’s dog won’t quit its yapping, so I ain’t been sleepin’ real well lately.”
“Did you talk to the manager about it?”
He gives me a short nod. “Yeah, she says she’ll take care of it, but I don’t know when that’ll be.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s changed his mind about AA, but when he coughs, I catch a whiff of cigarettes and malty beer.
It’s always five o’clock somewhere.
“Anything else new?”
He lifts his coffee to his lips and takes a sip before setting it down, and his bloodshot gray eyes meet mine.
“Yeah, Brandy came to see me yesterday. Said you’re running the bar into the ground and don’t want me to know about it.”
That tattletale bitch.
I keep my tone even. “Is that right?”
He nods, his eyebrows drawing together. “You hiding shit from me, Rip?”
I have to tell him something . . .
I knit my fingers together in my lap and squeeze. “Sales have been slow. We haven’t had a lot of customers. But I’ve got some ideas on how to get more people through the door. I’ve been thinking that if I start an open-mic night, maybe get a few big names in to kick it off, I can really draw a crowd. Maybe even charge a cover.”
My dad’s expression goes dark and his hand clenches the mug. “Big names? You gonna offer to fuck ’em too?”
The swipe is quick and sharp. I should have expected it, but I wasn’t prepared. Especially since it sounded for a half second like he gave a shit about how the bar was doing.
He stares at me as Lisa returns with my water, setting it down on the table with a quick mention that our food will be right up.
I wait until she’s gone to bite out a reply. “No.”
“Oh yeah? So you mean female big names? You know a lot of those these days? Because Brandy said that the only ones who come sniffing around are looking to get you on your back.”
Is there a special word for killing a cousin? Because Brandy is dead.
“Brandy talks a lot of shit, Pop. I wouldn’t give a whole lot of weight to her words. She barely shows up for work even when she’s scheduled, so it’s not like she knows what’s happening. I’m the one spending damn near twenty-four hours a day in that building, making sure the take can cover all the bills, including your apartment and your twelve-pack-a-day habit.”
“And when it can’t? Huh? Where is that money coming from, Rip? Your pocket?”
“Yeah. My savings account. Which is almost drained.”
“So, what’re you gonna do next? Find some rich guy to start picking up the slack? Because we both know that’s what your ma—”
“Stop. Right there. Don’t you dare say another word because I will walk out right now and you won’t see me again.”
I start to slide out of the booth, but my dad calls my bluff.
“Oh yeah? You gonna leave the bar behind too? Because you walk out of here right now, you’re gonna kiss that place good-bye. You’d be just like your ma, abandoning the family.”
His statement is a slap to the face, momentarily stealing my breath.
I’m the one shedding blood, sweat, and tears to try to keep the bar going. Pop doesn’t lift a damned finger. All the things I want to say scramble up my throat until I nearly choke on them.
Pop knows I won’t walk away. Knows that every memory I have of Mama is tied up in that place—whether good, horrible, or otherwise—and I don’t know how to let go of the only pieces of her I have left.
I drop back into my seat just in time for Lisa to bring our lunches to the table.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”