by Meghan March
The guy onstage, whose set I just cut in on, welcomes me with a huge smile and one hell of an introduction.
“You sure you’re cool, man? I don’t wanna put you out.”
His eyes widen. “Dude, you’re my idol. I’ve been listening to your albums since I was in high school, and now we’re standing on the same stage.”
The kid’s speech makes me feel older than my years, but I know he’s not trying to insult me. For him, it’s truly an honor to be onstage with me, and I’m not going to take that away from him. God knows I’ve felt like that plenty of times myself with country legends I’m now lucky enough to call friends.
“What’s your name?”
“Theo Sampson.”
I hold out my hand and shake his. “Thanks, Theo. You play any of my songs?”
“Every single one.”
“Then stick around and we’ll play one together.”
His entire face pales before excitement lights up his eyes. “You serious?”
“Sure am.”
He passes me the mic that’s still gripped in the fingers of his left hand. “Awesome. I’ll be at the bar. Anytime you’re ready.”
“Can I borrow your guitar?”
His eyes widen even further. “Dude. Of course.”
“Great. Appreciate you, man.”
Two of the guys onstage are handing over guitars to Frisco and Quarter, but the drummer stays where he is.
I flip on the mic and speak into it. “Let’s give it up for Theo Sampson! He keep you guys entertained?”
The crowd screams.
“That’s what I thought. Give him another year and maybe you’ll see him on tour with me.”
The kid turns around on the way to the bar, and he looks like he might lose his shit. He salutes me and keeps walking . . . right up next to a brunette who looks way too much like the one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. She spins on the stool, her dark hair swinging around her shoulders, and I get a glimpse of her face in the light coming from the bar.
It’s her. Ripley.
Coming here all of a sudden seems like it was the hand of fate or some shit like that. Now I know exactly what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give the girl who can’t stand celebrities a hell of a show.
“What’s up, Nashville? Who’s having a good time tonight?”
The roar of the crowd fills the bar to deafening levels, and I wait for them to quiet down before I speak again. Part of me is second-guessing this, but I know Frisco and Quarter are right. I don’t lay low. I face shit head-on.
“I know most of you have heard that I haven’t had the best week, and damned if life didn’t sucker punch me with that one.”
There are a few awwws, but I keep going.
“It occurred to me tonight when we were sitting on my back deck shooting skeet that your character ain’t forged when things are going your way. It’s forged when shit gets ugly, messy, and hard. It’s about how you pick yourself up from those cheap shots and keep trucking forward. Ain’t it?”
Another roar of approval.
“So instead of keeping the world out of my business, I want to invite you into my shitty week so we can get over it together. Because I bet some of you have had a rough week too.”
Beers are raised and more people yell, but my eyes are on the dark-haired woman at the bar, her mouth open just enough to show her shock. Yeah, sugar, you too.
“That’s what I thought. So, how about we sing some songs and have a good time tonight and forget about all that crap weighing us down, because we’re better than that. Tomorrow, the Lord is going to bless us with a new day, and that’s something to be thankful for.”
The cheers and screams threaten to shake the walls of this place.
“That’s what I like to hear!” The buzz of adrenaline filling my veins is stronger than at my last show in front of thirty thousand.
This is what I’ve been missing. This is who I am.
I turn to Frisco and Quarter. “You ready?”
They both give me a nod, and with a glance at the drummer, we get ready to rock.
16
Ripley
Boone Thrasher’s words ricochet in my chest like some kind of fundamental truth as Hope pushes two drinks toward me.
“They’re both doubles. I’m gonna be working my tits off until we close, so if you need something, come on back behind the bar and help yourself.”
The guitars wail and Boone Thrasher’s low, husky growl fills the bar as he begins to sing. If I’d been wearing panties, they would have been a lost cause within moments, but at least I’d keep them on. I see at least a dozen women yanking thongs down their legs from beneath their skirts to throw them at the stage. Ewwww.
Within minutes, it’s like a tornado blew through Victoria’s Secret and dropped its load right in front of Boone Thrasher. A normal occurrence for him, I assume.
How is it possible his voice can be that intoxicatingly sexy? And why did it sound like he was talking directly to me when he said all that stuff a few moments ago?
If I turn back around, will I think he’s singing to me too?
Riiiiight, Rip. A shaft of disappointment stabs into me, but I bury it. It’s not like I want him to sing to me. I have my rule for a reason.
Besides, Boone Thrasher has trouble stamped so plainly on his every feature, a woman would have to be blind not to see it.
I am not blind, I assure myself as I toss back another drink.
Besides, this is what celebrities do. They walk into a bar like they own the place and take it over. No asking permission, and no asking forgiveness. Although, from how fast the booze is flowing with Hope and her bartenders hustling to keep up with people tossing money at them, there’s no need to ask for either. Boone Thrasher is probably welcome here anytime he gets the wild idea in his head to step through the door.
The alcohol hits me harder with the double shot, and a plan starts taking shape in my buzzed brain. There’s this woman who contacts all the bars and clubs in town and gives them a number to text when there’s a celebrity or professional athlete sighting. Then she sends out an alert to thousands of people who subscribe to her service, and the place is mobbed. The tipster gets a hefty fee for it if the sighting turns out to be real, or so I’ve been told.
I’ve got her number, but I’ve never used it. It’s not like the Fishbowl is a hotbed of celebrity sightings, but even the handful of times Zane Frisco came to the bar, I never considered it, although I could definitely use the money. Even broke, it seems I’ve got standards, or maybe because that’s just not the kind of person I am. I have to wonder if Brandy knows about it, because she probably would have been the first to call something like that in. Anything for a dollar. Maybe it’s fate that she’s never shown up for work on a day that Frisco has been in.
Even if some other big shot came into the Fishbowl, I don’t think I could do it. Scratch that, I know I couldn’t. It gives me an icky feeling just thinking about it. Besides, the Fishbowl is a black mark on tourist maps.
Murder scene of country music legend Gil Green and his mistress, Rhonda Fischer. Cold case still unsolved.
My life would have been totally different if Gil Green had never set foot in our bar. Sadness for what might have been is drowned out by irrational anger directed at stars who wear entitlement like a second skin and take whatever they want, not caring about the broken families they leave in their wake.
I reach for my drink and tip it back. I’m getting shit-faced tonight.
17
Boone
With every song the crowd sings along with me, I shed another layer of my memories of Amber and any plans I might have had for our future. I throw myself into the music, and by the time I’m almost finished with the set, I feel like the man I was before I met her. Before I let myself get sucked into her lies and bullshit.
Frisco was right. This is exactly what I needed tonight. Not just for the gossip rags to pick up and circulate, but for me.
“How about one mo
re song?”
Everyone in the bar hollers, and I nod at Frisco and Quarter. They both know what I’m thinking.
“When I wrote this song, I thought I was writing it about a woman I’d already met, but we all know how that turned out. Now I realize I wrote this song about the woman I’ll eventually find who’ll ride shotgun with me for life.”
The chorus of Me! and I want to ride with you! grows louder and louder until I strum my guitar and we blow the roof off the bar with my latest single.
When Frisco, Quarter, and I step off the stage, security crowds around us and leads us toward the back door.
“Easier to get you out this way, Mr. Thrasher. The crowd’s a little wild tonight.”
“Fine with me.”
“Hold up!” Frisco yells.
“What?”
“I ain’t done with tonight. I’m ready to do some real drinking and partying now.”
Quarter nods, and the head security guy looks back at me.
“Up to you, man.”
These guys have created a wall, but I can still see the hands of fans trying to touch me. I’ve accomplished what I came here to do, and there’s no reason for me to stay.
“I’m straight. You guys can hang around as long as you want.” They both reach out and we swap handshakes.
“Catch you later, brother. You slayed it tonight. This is going to be on every gossip site within hours. Boone Thrasher is back.”
I open my mouth to say that I never left, but Frisco and Quarter are already sliding out from between the security crew and disappearing into the raucous crowd.
“You ready?” one of the guys asks me.
“Yeah, let’s move.”
We start walking again, this time slower as they cut through the mass of people. We’re about ten feet from the end of the bar when I see her again.
Ripley.
Except she’s not alone. She’s pinned against the wood by two men, and has a panicked look in her eyes as she struggles to get out from between them.
I grab the shoulder of the guy in front of me. “Hold up! You got a bigger security problem than me, man.” He stops as I point at Ripley where she’s yelling to a bartender. The woman flipping bottles doesn’t catch her distress signal.
“We’ll get you out of here first, and then we’ll come back to take care of her. She’ll be fine for a few minutes.”
Ripley flings out both hands and shoves one man a foot back, but he’s on her again in less than a second.
“You got your priorities screwed up, man. Women first, every fucking time.” I duck between the two men and head for Ripley.
There’s nothing that pisses me off more than a man putting his hands on a woman who doesn’t want it, and when it comes to this woman, I’m seeing red.
“Hey! Assholes! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I dodge the grasping fingers of women trying to get to me and lose my hat in the process, but I finally get the attention of the guys trapping Ripley.
“None of your business,” the guy in a cowboy hat that looks like he bought it today slurs as Ripley’s wild gray eyes meet mine. “Move along.”
“You made it my business when she shoved you back and you couldn’t take a hint.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Without my hat on, I suppose I don’t look the same as I did onstage, but before I can tell him exactly who I am, Ripley knees him in the balls.
Triumph fills her face as he goes down, but his hand lashes out and snags her shirt, yanking it down so her tits, spilling over her bra cups, are bared.
I rear back to deliver a blow but security beats me to it, yanking the douchebag away . . . but Ripley’s shirt goes with him as his grip tears it down the center.
Her hands go to her chest, trying to cover herself, and I’m more worried about her than dumbass number two.
Mistake.
A fist comes flying out of my peripheral vision and glances off my chin. Another of the security guys dives at the man, taking him down.
“Get her! We’re leaving!”
The man who had initially said they’d handle Ripley after they had me clear takes her by the arm and pulls her along.
Something about seeing another man’s hands on her after she fended off two dicks who couldn’t take no for an answer rubs me the wrong fucking way.
“Let go of her.”
His gaze cuts to mine as I reach out and wrap an arm around her shoulders, blocking anyone’s view of her bare skin with my body.
We barrel through the crowd to the back door. When they push it open, I’m half expecting the flashing cameras and shouted questions of the paps, but instead it’s quiet.
“You got a car around here?” security asks.
I nod, but that’s not my main concern. I grab the back of my T-shirt and strip it off over my head. I hold it out to Ripley, but she stands frozen.
“Take it. Put it on.”
Her eyes are fixed on me, but she still doesn’t move.
18
Ripley
My ears ring from the noise level of the bar, but Boone Thrasher’s words cut through loud and clear.
“Take it. Put it on.”
I can’t move. I’m stunned and speechless.
Sweet baby Jesus, why is his shirt off?
He shoves the T-shirt at me again, but when I still don’t move, Boone Thrasher, country music’s bad boy, proceeds to put it on me.
“Arm. Other arm.”
My body follows his commands, but I’m dumbstruck. His body is a work of art. All hard muscles set off by intricate tattoos.
“Where’s your car, Mr. Thrasher?”
“I’m a block over.”
“You want us to escort you?”
I think Boone shakes his head, but I’m too busy staring at his pecs and abs. Good God. Those can’t be real.
“No. We’ll attract less attention without you.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Boone wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I’m so drunk and stunned by his physical perfection that I stumble along beside him. His T-shirt hangs like a dress on me, but it doesn’t stop me from climbing into his beautiful car when we reach it.
“Where are we going?” I ask, but he shuts the passenger door without replying. When he slides into the driver’s seat, I stare at him with only the glow of the street light illuminating the interior.
“I’m taking you home before you end up raped and God knows what else.”
The harsh tone of his voice straightens my spine. “I was fine. I would’ve handled it.”
He reaches over me, his arm brushing my chest as he snags the seat belt and buckles it into place before taking care of his own.
“Sure you were. You were handling yourself right into being the meat in a tourist sandwich whether you wanted it or not.”
“You don’t know that—”
“You’re drunk and you’re female. That puts you at a disadvantage. You work in a bar. You should know firsthand what can happen when girls like you go out drinking by themselves. Why would you set yourself up to be a target for assholes like that?”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m sorry, but most of us don’t have an entourage to follow us everywhere we go, no matter the time of day. And I wasn’t alone. My best friend is the head bartender.”
He shakes his head and mumbles something I can’t make out.
“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch what you said, Mr. Country Superstar, who can walk into any bar and take the stage and have an entire Victoria’s Secret worth of panties get thrown at him.”
I know I’m babbling, but I’m too drunk to care. In my head, Boone Thrasher is tied up with everything I hate, and hauling me out of a bar and lecturing me just pisses me off even more, regardless of how amazing he looks shirtless.
Quit thinking about that, Ripley.
“I said you’re drunk, and you’re lucky I was there.” Boone’s tone comes out gruff and too
much like a reprimand for my taste.
I hold up both hands. “Oh, I’m lucky, am I? You don’t know shit, jackass.”
“I know you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, well . . . you’re the one with no shirt on.”
He turns the key and the engine roars to life as he shoots me a look that I don’t currently have the vocabulary to describe. “You’re really gonna bust my balls for giving you my shirt so you’re not walking around topless?”
Memories of the oh shit moment when my shirt ripped down the center and plenty of people in the bar got a view of my sheer bra enter my foggy brain. If not for the wall of security around Boone coming to the rescue, my humiliation would burn a whole lot hotter.
“You didn’t have to give me your shirt,” I say, not coming up with any other kind of argument. “I would’ve been fine.” I glance down as he shakes his head.
Holy crap. I’m wearing Boone Thrasher’s shirt. I don’t know why it’s just occurring to me, but I lift the hem to my nose and sniff.
The scent of clean, woodsy man fills my nose. It smells too good for my peace of mind. But still, I take another deep breath. Yum.
“What the hell are you doing?”
My head jerks left and I find Boone staring at me. Oh my God, he just busted me sniffing his shirt. Jesus H. Christ. I’m such a creeper.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The words all come out in a single rush of breath. Desperate to change the subject, I watch as he puts the car in gear. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home, where you should’ve stayed if you were planning to get hammered. Now I just need you to tell me where that is.”
His tone, a mix of scolding and condescension, pushes me over the edge, and I decide that I’ve had enough. I can get myself home. I go for the door handle, yank it open, and try to climb out, but the seat belt snaps me back in place.
“What are you doing? Close the damned door.”
I fumble to release the buckle but Boone is quicker, reaching across me and wrenching the door shut, then slamming his hand down on the lock.