by Meghan March
Jesus, not exactly what I planned when I walked into the White Horse Saloon, but then again, I don’t regret it either.
Any of it.
“So why do you sound so pissed off?”
I cast again, not willing to let Nick cost me another fish when I rarely get a chance to drop a line in this early, if ever.
“Amber’s camp is starting to make noises, and the better you look, the louder they’re getting.”
“What kind of noises?”
Nick pauses and his voice drops low, like he’s worried about being overheard. “I got word late last night that there’s a chance she’s filing for an annulment this week.”
“An annulment? You’ve gotta be joking.”
“Britney did it. So did Kenny Chesney. So it’s not like Amber will be the first. Shit, I bet they already had odds on how long that marriage would last in Vegas.”
Even though Amber has only officially been out of my life for less than a week, with every day that passes, I realize the writing has been on the wall for much longer and I was too blind to see it. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see it. I haven’t seen her in over a month. Even when we were in the same city on the same night, we couldn’t manage to connect. Before the proposal, I hadn’t heard her voice in ten days. We’d communicated solely through texts.
What kind of relationship is that?
Not much of one, in my opinion.
The more distance I get from her, the more perspective I find. I loved the idea of Amber, but now I’m starting to wonder if I ever loved her. It’s a hell of a realization to chew on as the sun rises on this beautiful Tennessee morning.
“From here on out, feel free to keep anything you hear about Amber to yourself. I closed that chapter and I’m moving on.”
“What if she hasn’t?” Nick asks.
I sit up straighter. “I think she closed it pretty loud and clear when she married another man.”
“Fine, but I’m still watching it like a ticking time bomb.”
“That’s your job, Nick. Not mine. Anything else I can help you with today?”
“Yeah, call Charity when it’s a decent hour. You’ve got a whole slew of radio station interviews to do with this new single. Have you seen the charts? It’s already climbing to the top. You’re gonna have another number one on your hands by the weekend. We’ll do some morning shows, and if the radio play keeps going, probably a few of those late-night gigs that I know you hate.”
It takes everything I have not to swear into the phone. Those late-night TV show hosts are all trying to outdo each other to be the funniest fuck on TV, and all it does is succeed in pissing me off. They love to make us country folk look like idiots to help their ratings.
“I’m not agreeing to shit yet. Have Charity tell me who reaches out, and I’ll tell you where and when I’ll consider going.”
“Every other artist on my client list would kill for these opportunities—”
“Then hand ’em down the line. Because I don’t need some slick asshole in New York or LA trying to make me look like a dumb redneck on late-night TV.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“On my terms.”
“Fine. But let me or Charity know the next time you’re gonna pop into some local bar and get the crowd fired up. We like to get ahead of this kind of media coverage and make sure you’ve got enough security.”
“That all?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” I end the call and stare out at the reflection of the sunrise on the glasslike surface of the pond.
Funny Nick should mention popping into some local bar to get the crowd fired up. I think tomorrow night, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Maybe I’ll even get a parrot fired up too.
25
Ripley
Friday night at the Fishbowl is usually a little bit busier than the other nights of the week, but tonight is nothing like normal.
A few tourists showed up with their guidebooks around five o’clock and peeked into the women’s restroom as if expecting the dead bodies of my mother and her lover to still be lying on the floor. That’s not the surprising part, though. That happens at least three times a week.
The surprising part came when they took stools at the bar and ordered drinks. With alcohol. The expensive kind.
Okay. Good sign.
Earl and Pearl showed up and took their regular seats around seven, and Esteban woke up from his nap.
“Old fart. Old fart,” he crows.
Another regular, Jim, who hasn’t missed a Thursday or Friday night in over a decade, crosses to the cage and tosses a handful of bar mix at him.
“Damn bird. You ever gonna learn something new? You’ve been talkin’ the same old shit for years.”
“Show me the money.”
I’m assuming Esteban picked that one up during the era of Jerry Maguire, but he breaks it out when someone hassles him about adding to his vocabulary, which I have to admit indicates the bird is probably smarter than most of the people in the bar.
“Fuck off, damn bird.”
“Fuck off. Fuck off,” Esteban parrots back with alarming accuracy. It’s not like that’s a new one, though, but the tourists stare at the bird wide-eyed.
“It swears?”
“I hope you’re not offended. I’m pretty sure that bird is smarter than I am, but he doesn’t seem to understand that his language isn’t always fit for polite company.”
The woman shakes her head and laughs. “That’s one heck of an addition to a bar. The guidebook says it was a gift?”
I nod with a tight-lipped smile. “He sure was, which means we couldn’t exactly give him back when he started to stun us with his expansive vocabulary.”
The man orders another drink, and I take his money with a genuine smile.
An hour later is when things start to get weird. And by weird, I mean busy. With more paying customers.
A group of twenty-something girls strut in, giggling behind their hands, and take a table near the wall opposite the bar.
“That’s the parrot, isn’t it?”
“Jordan wants one of those, but I keep telling him that’s a deal breaker. I’ll move out before he does that.”
“How you doin’?” Esteban says before fluffing his feathers.
I cross the bar to take their orders because Brandy still hasn’t shown up for work, which means I may have to call in a favor and see if Dory can come in tonight. Normally, I only call her if I’m deathly ill and can’t manage the bar, or if for some reason I get called away because something happened with Pop, but lucky for me she’s always happy to help. Back before times got tough, she worked here six nights a week. Now she babysits her grandkids during the day and seems plenty happy about that.
I step out from behind the bar to make my way over to the full table. “What can I get you, ladies?”
A blonde with perfect beach waves and whiter-than-white teeth answers for the group. “We’re having shots! Let’s start with Dirty Girl Scouts. Or would you rather have Redheaded Sluts?” She turns to consult the table.
“Redheaded Sluts. I need a buzz.”
The blonde relays the order to me like I didn’t just hear it myself, and adds, “We were going to pregame, but we wanted to get here early and get a table.”
I open my mouth to ask her why in the world they thought they needed to get here early to get a table, but the front door swings wide and another group of girls, six this time, comes in and makes a beeline for the other large empty table.
Earl, Pearl, and Jim’s heads all turn in unison, confused expressions marking their features.
Me too, guys. Me too.
“Party time. Party time.” Esteban is practically bouncing on his perch at all the action.
What in the world is going on?
But I’m too busy to ask because another group of girls arrives and pushes two tables together. I pull out my phone and call Dory, but she doesn’t answer. The door opens
again and I shoot a desperate text to Carter, another friend of mine who has helped me out before, then hustle to make drinks and deliver them before taking more orders. I’ve made more girly shots in the last hour than I have in the last year. We don’t usually even get bachelorette parties, but it’s like Vanderbilt’s sorority row threw up in the Fishbowl tonight.
“Do you have a drink called the Fishbowl? I mean, if this were my bar, I totally would. Just think of how cute the pictures would be. All those straws in an actual fishbowl. Totally Instagrammable. You know?” This is from another college-age girl whose ID I had to check twice just to be sure it wasn’t fake.
“Sorry, I don’t have any fishbowls handy right now, but how about some shots?”
A cheer goes up from the table, and I’m taking orders and making drinks as fast as I can. We’re down to three empty tables when Carter walks in the door.
“Thank you, baby Jesus. Dory hasn’t replied yet, and I’m dying for some help.”
Carter, a skinny twenty-three-year-old who came to make it on Music Row, takes in the packed bar, and his eyes go to the stage platform in the front corner that’s been empty since my mom died.
“They’re not here yet? This place is about to be even more packed.”
“What?” I can barely hear Carter over the voices and the music that I turned up.
Earl, Pearl, and Jim are looking cranky at their normal seats at the bar, while other customers try to squeeze between them to wave money in my direction.
Carter bursts into action, and I’m slinging drinks and delivering them as fast as I can.
Not fifteen minutes later, it all makes sense when the door opens and the bar patrons burst into cheers.
Oh. No. He. Didn’t.
Frisco and two other guys I’ve never seen walk in, followed by four huge guys dressed in solid black. Security?
But they’re carrying guitar cases, and one has a hand truck stacked with square black cases . . .
What the hell?
“Hey, Fishbowl! We’ll get set up and be ready to rock your world in a few!” Frisco yells as I take three more drink orders and nearly run into Carter.
He lays a hand on my arm and takes in my shocked expression.
“You didn’t know?”
“Do I look like I knew?”
“But how?”
I shake my head. I don’t have time to talk to him right now. I’ve got drinks to make, and then Zane Frisco has a hell of a lot of questions to answer.
26
Boone
Frisco should be close to finishing his first set when I push open the back door of the Fishbowl.
The place is jammed with screaming girls, and plenty of guys too. Just like I hoped it would be. When I drove around back, one of the guys we sent was working the door, so it appears everything is going according to plan.
Ripley’s thick hair is up in a knot on her head, and she’s making drinks like a boss. Another bartender is working with her, and I spot a waitress with a tray of cocktails, working the crowd, but it’s not the one from the other night.
Frisco’s got the whole bar on its feet, and no one notices as I slip inside. Pulling my hat lower, I move toward the stage, keeping my head down. One of the security guys gives me a nod and holds up a hand to get Frisco’s attention.
He finishes the song, and as soon as the bar quiets for a moment, he speaks into the microphone.
“Y’all ready to make some real noise? Because I’ve got a hell of a surprise for you tonight! My good friend Boone Thrasher decided to join us to play a few. Make the man feel welcome, Fishbowl!”
The stage damn near collapses from the way the crowd is screaming. I pull a set of earplugs out of my pocket and stuff them in my ears before climbing onstage and accepting my guitar from one of the guys.
Frisco steps back from the mic, and I speak into it.
“Y’all having fun tonight?”
The response is even louder than before and unintelligible, but I get the picture. They’re having fun.
“Before I get started, I want to thank Miss Ripley Fischer for letting us come take over her bar tonight to show you a good time. Ripley, this one’s for you.”
I launch into one of my first big hits, “Sexiest Girl I Know,” and the crowd goes nuts.
She’s gonna kick my ass for this, and damned if I ain’t looking forward to it.
27
Ripley
I freeze as a song I’ve heard on the radio at least a hundred times is dedicated to me and played live in my bar.
Pop is gonna be so pissed. His logic is so twisted and bitter that I’m not sure he’ll even be happy about the extra money coming in, given that it’s because of two country stars taking the stage he forbade me to use.
But maybe if he doesn’t find out . . .
A customer throws another twenty on the bar, and I decide that I don’t give the first shit where the money is coming from. I have bills to pay, and cash coming in the door is the only way I’ll be able to keep this place from going under. Not to mention, I want to pay back that thousand dollars smug Stan laid out for the mortgage so I can tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine.
So, I’m focusing on the fact that the Fishbowl is making a killing, and not on the ass chewing I’m going to get when Pop finds out I didn’t stop Zane Frisco and Boone Thrasher from taking the stage. My stubborn old man would shut the doors right now if he were here. Well, that’s not happening tonight. I push the thought out of my mind and send up a quick prayer that we don’t run out of liquor. Then I get back to making drinks and taking money.
In only a few hours, we’ve made more than the Fishbowl would usually pull in during a whole month. Maybe two. Even Earl and Pearl are finally smiling because I told them their drinks were on the house all night. Jim bolted when the crowd got thick, and his stool is now occupied by a redhead with a blonde sitting on her lap.
One less cranky man to worry about, and more room for paying customers.
“This is awesome! Did you see they’re charging a cover at the door too?” Carter yells over the music as he grabs four beers and pops the tops. “The Fishbowl is back, baby!” He sets the bottles on the counter and grabs me around the waist to pick me up and twirl me in a circle.
The song ends as I slide down Carter’s body. Boone’s gaze locks on mine as soon as my feet hit the floor.
“How about we light this place up? I got another song you might’ve heard a time or two. It’s called ‘I’ll Fight for Her.’”
“Ooh, I think someone’s jealous,” Carter says as Boone launches into a loud and raucous song about not being afraid to beat some guy’s ass for touching his woman in a bar.
I shake my head. “No. Not a chance.” I hip check him. “Get back to work and sling those drinks!”
He grabs both sides of my face and plants a kiss on me in true flamboyant Carter style. The people at the bar scream and cheer, and Boone’s voice deepens another notch to a growl that vibrates through my whole body.
I push away and get back to the customers lined up three deep. Paying customers. I do a little dance inside.
There’s no way Boone is jealous.
Impossible.
Boone has kept the place rocking for over an hour when Carter signals from the end of the bar.
“What do you need?”
“We got a problem, Rip.” He jerks a shoulder toward the front door and a pissed-off-looking man in a rumpled dress shirt standing with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Who—”
“Fire marshal. Says someone called in a complaint that we’re over our capacity.”
“Shit. I’ll go talk to him. Don’t worry about it.”
After I wipe my hands on a towel, I slide out from behind the bar. I have to yell over the music to be heard once I reach him.
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“I received a complaint that this business was a fire hazard due to overcapacity tonight, and just by looking, I�
��d say they’re right. But I’m going to let you tell me how many people you’ve got in here so we can sort this out.”
I can barely hear him, and I’m hoping the words I think are coming out of his mouth aren’t the ones he’s really saying.
A complaint? From who? This neighborhood isn’t exactly hopping, with only a few other bars and a tattoo shop on our lower-rent street.
I lead him toward the guy working the door, one of the people who came with Frisco when he first got here.
“We can’t be over capacity. Someone’s working the door. We’ve been watching the numbers.” Mentally I add, at least I hope someone has.
The fire marshal points over the crowd to the back door of the bar as it opens and more people pour inside.
“And what about that door?”
Oh hell.
“Umm, we’ll escort some people out. It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it personally. We’ve never had this problem before, and I promise I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
Two hammered girls stumble toward the front door and their drinks go flying, splattering fruity red liquid all over the fire marshal’s white shirt. Previously white, I should say.
“You need to get at least a third of these people out. Right now, or I’m shutting this place down.”
No. No. No. Not on the only busy night we’ve had in years.
“Got it! Give me five minutes, sir. I’ll be right back.” I give the fire marshal a tight smile.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I make my way to the security guy and yell to him in order to be heard. “We have to get some people out. Can you help?”
“I can try.” Together, we usher people out the door as the fire marshal stands with his arms stiffly crossed over the stained shirt. That’s when the fight starts.
I don’t know who threw the first punch, but a scuffle breaks out in front of the stage. The music stops, and Boone points to someone in the crowd.
“Hey, asshole, what the fuck? You’re out of here.”