by Meghan March
“I was getting out.”
Boone shakes his head. “You’re nuts, you know that? You think I’m letting you out here when I wouldn’t leave you alone in a bar? Not a chance. If you gotta hurl, let me know. Because if you puke in this car, I’ll send you the bill for the cleanup.”
I’m gearing up to rip him a new one until he adds the last part about the bill. That threat steals my thunder and instead produces a cackle the likes of which has never left my lips before.
“You think that’s funny?” Boone demands, probably thinking I’m batshit crazy, and rightly so.
“What’s funny is you think I could pay it. Maybe if I’d sold you out the other night. Maybe then I’d have an extra ten bucks to do a damn thing, but I don’t. I respected your privacy. I didn’t even hit you up for cash to keep quiet like my cousin did.”
The past and the present collide in my head as I continue my rant. “You want to know why I didn’t? Because I don’t need the Fishbowl famous for another country music legend dying there. Guess you’re lucky you made it out alive.”
19
Boone
Ripley’s drunk.
Not even drunk. She’s blitzed. Hammered. Shit-faced. And she’s the cutest frigging drunk I’ve ever seen, even if she’s a little on the crazy side.
Her words about dying stop my thoughts cold.
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“You. Good thing you didn’t go to the bathroom or you could be another dot on the tourist map showing where you died.”
That’s when it hits me.
I have heard of the Fishbowl before. Everyone has. How did I not remember?
Rumor has it that the owner’s wife was Gil Green’s mistress, and they were screwing in the bathroom when they were both murdered while there was a bar full of people just outside the door. No one heard their cries for help, but the gossips couldn’t decide if it was because of the performance going on right then or if they didn’t have a chance to scream.
The owner was cleared because he was serving drinks during the murder, and there was no evidence he hired a hit man to kill his cheating wife and her lover. No other suspects were ever seriously questioned because no alternative motive could be identified.
According to gossip, business tanked practically overnight, except for the gawkers. All the little things that Ripley had said the first night I met her, and the next morning when I picked up my car, finally come together to complete the puzzle.
Ripley’s mother was murdered in the bar she’s fighting to keep afloat. Jesus fucking Christ.
Instead of the hundred different thoughts rushing through my brain, I ask, “Do you live above the bar or somewhere else?”
“Above the bar, but I can walk. It’s not far.”
I ignore her and pull out into traffic. There’s no way I’m letting her walk.
“Not happening.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Boone Thrasher. Let me out of this car!”
She can yell all she wants, but I’m not letting her out until she’s somewhere safe. I didn’t get her away from those two assholes inside the White Horse to leave her to the predators that could be walking the streets.
It’s clear she doesn’t think much of me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to help her anyway. At least now her rule about celebrities makes sense. I wonder why Frisco never put it together? Or maybe he did and never mentioned it to me?
She grabs for the door handle again.
“Hey, settle down. I’ll have you there in a minute.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
I glance over. In the glow of the streetlights, her dark hair is wild around the stubborn set of her features. I’ve been out of a relationship for four days, but my dick doesn’t care about that as it goes half-hard at her headstrong declaration. I’ll tell you what to do and you’ll like it is my instinctive reaction.
Her contrary nature should piss me off, but instead it’s doing the opposite—which ends up pissing me off anyway.
Before Amber, I went through women like I went through towns on my early low-budget tours—one blurry night of fun and forgotten the next morning. But all that changed when I stood in the hospital as my brother walked out of the delivery room holding a little blue bundle up in the air as he called out, “It’s a boy.”
All those mornings of waking up next to a woman whose name I didn’t remember might have fit the stereotype Ripley has pegged me with, but in all other respects, I’ve never fit that mold. I don’t wear a cowboy hat and boots onstage. I don’t sing with a heavy twang. I break the rules and forge new ground. I refuse to be a stereotype.
I thought with Amber I’d rid myself of that last remaining trace, but we all know how that worked out.
“Watch out!”
I’m halfway through the intersection when Ripley yells and I look to the right. My foot slams down on the gas and the 442 surges forward, just missing being T-boned by a truck running a red light.
Ripley slaps her hand over her chest. “Oh my God. We could’ve died. Right here. Right now.”
My heart is hammering from the near miss, and my hands tighten on the wheel before turning us down the side street leading to the Fishbowl. I don’t speak until I park behind the building next to Ripley’s Javelin. I hope to fuck she didn’t walk to the bar, but it’s a moot point now.
“Asshole was probably drunk, running a red light like that.”
Ripley’s eyes are wide, an expression on her face I can’t identify. “I almost died.”
I reach out and drop a hand on her knee. “You didn’t. You’re fine.”
“It would’ve all been that asshole Stan’s fault.”
Now she’s talking drunken gibberish because that doesn’t make a bit of sense.
“Who the hell is Stan? Was he driving that truck?” I make a mental note to track the guy down and beat his ass if he was.
She shakes her head, bringing a hand up to her temple, and I assume her world is spinning right now.
“No, but it’s still his fault. And Brandy and Pop. All of them. I should just walk away from it all. Why do I put myself through this?” Ripley drops her head forward and her dark mane of hair obscures her face. “Why can’t I just let go?”
That’s when I realize she’s not talking about the truck. She’s talking about her life. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize that things are bad at the Fishbowl. If it was that empty on a Saturday night when Frisco took me there, I can’t imagine how dead it must be every other night of the week.
In fact, it looks completely dark inside. The neon light next to the back door is off too.
“You supposed to be open tonight?” I ask.
“No. I mean, we used to be, but Wednesdays are bingo night and Earl and Pearl don’t even come in, so it seemed like a waste to just stay open for a random passerby.”
The fact that they’re not open because the old couple is playing bingo might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, but I’m not about to tell Ripley that.
She tugs at the door handle again and struggles to pull it open.
“Hold on, sugar. I’ll get you out.”
I turn off the engine and slide out of the car, planning to come around and get her door. She’s still fumbling with the old-school buckle when I open the door.
“Here, let me.” I brush away her hands and unhook the latch. For the first time since we left the White Horse, I take a second to appreciate her curvy legs tucked into red tooled-leather boots, and the short black skirt peeking out from beneath the hem of my T-shirt.
I try to picture what she was wearing at the bar before her shirt was torn. It was red with a deep vee cut down the front. With that skirt and boots and her curves . . . damn.
I don’t mean to say the words out loud, but they come anyway. “I can see why you attracted so much attention tonight.”
20
Ripley
“I can see why you attracted so much attention tonight.”
Such a man thing to say, and one that puts me on guard immediately.
“I can wear whatever I want. It doesn’t mean it’s some sort of invitation to be pawed at.”
Boone’s big tattooed hands—hands that made incredible sounds tonight with a guitar—pull the seat belt away and I bolt out of the car, stumbling into his naked chest, nearly sending both of us sprawling. His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his blazing-hot body, keeping us both steady and upright.
Oh, sweet Jesus. I’m touching Boone Thrasher’s naked chest. I hate that I’m freaking out over this, but I tell myself that it wouldn’t matter whose chest it was because holy crap, this guy is rock solid.
“Whoa, sugar. I wasn’t trying to piss you off, but it seems like I’m damn good at that anyway.”
Both of my palms are pressed flat against his skin, and in my drunken state, my tongue is way too loose.
“Jesus, you’re built like a beast.”
“No more than you’re built like a bombshell.”
I feel his husky response in all the places I shouldn’t. My nipples harden into deceitful little points, and I’m not even going to give credence to what’s happening elsewhere in my body.
I want to hate him. Everything about him. He shouldn’t make me want to climb him like a mountain to plant a flag at the top saying Ripley was here. No way. No how.
But my body doesn’t get the memo.
Shoving against his chest, I step back, out of the warm circle of his arms. When I spin toward the door, my legs get tangled up and I stumble forward again.
“Shit, girl. How much did you have to drink?”
“Don’t lecture me about drinking. It’s not like I haven’t watched you do it too.”
I try the door, but obviously, it’s locked. I jam my hand into my purse and feel around for my keys, but apparently I take too long.
“For the love of God, woman, let me do it or we’ll be out here all night.”
I snap my head around to glare at him. “You can go anytime.”
“Like I’m going to leave you alone in the dark in this neighborhood. I didn’t go through all this trouble to get you home in one piece to leave you out here to fend for yourself.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. No one has bothered to give a shit about me up to this point, and I turned out just fine.”
I don’t think about how pathetic my statement is because I’m too worried about digging through my purse. I shake the bag and hear the keys jingle, but for some reason, I can’t put my fingers on them.
Boone snatches the purse from me and produces them in a moment. He shoves them one by one in the door until it opens, and follows me inside.
“What are you doing?” I hear the rustle of Esteban in his cage, but he says nothing, so I assume the parrot is too tired to care.
Boone pulls the door shut and it locks behind him.
“Why are you still here?” I keep my voice hushed just in case Esteban isn’t completely asleep. My question doesn’t come out very friendly, but I cut myself some slack because I’m worried not only about waking up a parrot, but also trying to send my body the message that we don’t like Boone Thrasher and my nipples need to calm down.
My body is still not getting the memo.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t break your neck getting upstairs. Come on, wild thing. Let’s put you to bed so I can find mine.”
An image of a half-naked Boone Thrasher laying me down on my old blue quilt, pressing his hard, hot body into mine as he makes me forget the complete shitstorm of my life for a few hours, has my mouth watering.
Sweet baby Jesus. I want him.
Stop, Ripley.
Heat burns low in my belly, and I’m terrified of what I might do if I don’t toss my ass in a cold shower.
“I’m fine.” I spin around and stride toward the light switch.
Except in my drunken state, my coordination isn’t nearly as good as it is in my head, and once again, I find myself pressed up against Boone’s bare chest.
This is so unfair. How am I supposed to hate him when he smells so good, and I could just open my mouth and take a little lick and find out if he tastes as good as he smells . . .
Oh my God. I need to stop. Now.
But the dark scruff on his chin brushes my cheek as he lowers his head to speak, and I’m caught up again.
“Just let me help you. Consider it my good deed for the day, and I’ll get out of your life.”
My brain protests that we don’t want him to leave because we’d rather climb him. Why am I using the royal “we”? I really am drunk. Maybe that’s why he’s being so un-assholish.
“Why aren’t you being an asshole?” The question pops out of my mouth because apparently I decided I needed an answer to it.
Boone’s chest—still bare and emanating with a scent that makes my pheromones lose their ever-loving shit—shakes with a burst of laughter. The vibrations ripple down my body, settling between my legs before traveling all the way to the soles of my boots.
He lifts his head. “Sugar, if you could read my mind right now, you’d know it’s taking everything I’ve got not to be an asshole.”
I look up and meet those brilliant blue eyes. How can they be soft and burning at the same time?
“What do you mean?”
The heat overwhelms the softness, and it flashes through me like the vibrations, centering right on my clit. A second later, Boone clears his throat, snuffs out the fire, and sets me away from him like I just told him I had a mild case of genital warts. Which, for the record, I do not have. Mild or otherwise.
“Your place is upstairs?” His tone turns gruff, and I suddenly feel like the stupid drunk girl who needs to shut her mouth.
“Yeah, but you don’t need to go any further. I got this.”
Instead of letting me walk away, Boone growls and I find myself upside down, flung over his shoulder as he flips on the light for the back stairway.
“What the hell are you—”
“Saving us both from making a huge mistake. Now, stop moving before I drop your ass.”
What mistake? Wait, does he mean . . . The threat of being dropped stills my struggles the rest of the way up the stairs, but my mind spins.
Stop, Rip. Just stop thinking completely.
When we get to the door at the top, Boone grabs the handle at the same moment I tell him, “It’s locked. It’s the black key.”
With a grunt, he palms the keys and jams the black one into the single lock on the door.
“You don’t even have a dead bolt. How the hell is that safe?” Inside the apartment, he lowers me to my feet but keeps glaring at the door. “You need a dead bolt. One kick and that door is toast, and you’re at the mercy of anyone who breaks in.”
More streaks of heat flash through my body at his concern.
When is the last time someone worried about me? Why is that such a turn-on? Oh my God, I need to get him out of here before I make a huge mistake.
I hit the switch, and a dim glow fills the living room and kitchen area. The spare bedroom is on the right, and my room is on the left. My earlier vision of him pressing me into the quilt comes back as my gaze sticks on the hard ridges of his pecs before skipping down his abs.
I have to get him out of here. My anti-celebrity barriers are falling with every indication that he might actually be a decent human being—with a little help from his insane body. I don’t care if that makes me shallow, because I don’t know any woman who wouldn’t drool over that six-pack. Or, wait, is that an eight-pack?
In the midst of counting his abs—like an idiot, I might add—I remind myself that he just got dumped by his girlfriend in a spectacularly public fashion. And yet . . . he didn’t say a bad word about her in that press conference that I watched along with everyone else in this town.
So what? That doesn’t mean he’s any different from the rest of them.
Boone turns and I get a view of his back.
Sweet Jesus. Not. Fair. Those broad shoulders stretched his T-shirt with perfection, and they look even better without it.
He walks toward the door, presumably planning to leave and never come back. This would make the Ripley of an hour ago completely happy, but the Ripley of right now has a panicky feeling in her chest and the distinct impression that she’s about to lose her one chance at something amazing.
If I were sober, the idea never would have crossed my mind, but after who knows how much Crown in my Coke and the fact that Boone’s body is enough to make anyone lose their good sense, I mumble something.
He stops five feet from the door. “What did you say?”
Oh God, maybe this is a terrible plan. Abort mission.
“Nothing,” I reply, the squeak in my voice giving away the total bullshit nature of my answer.
He spins around, takes three big strides, and stops in front of me. With one of those magic hands, he tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“No, you said something. Tell me.”
Why is it that every time he gives me an order, I feel it where I know I shouldn’t?
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I heard you say the words revenge fuck as clear as day.”
21
Boone
A dark red blush stains Ripley’s cheeks when I call her out on what she said.
Her lips are too damned tempting.
“Say it again.”
Her gray eyes snap with equal parts heat and embarrassment, and I can’t get the image of her riding me out of my head. I was trying to escape this apartment without pinning her to the wall, but she totally screwed up that plan.
Her tone is hesitant when she repeats what she said moments ago. “I asked if you ever got your revenge fuck this week. It only seems fair after . . . everything.”
Ripley tries to turn her head away, but I grip her chin between two fingers and get a primal sense of satisfaction when her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate.