by Meghan March
The security guard charges into the crowd, which surges in my direction as people try to get out of the range of the dozen or so people throwing punches. Two girls crash into my back, and my face smashes into the fire marshal’s shoulder.
“This is another reason why we have capacity limits,” he yells. “These people are going to get trampled. You’re done. I’m shutting you down. Get them all out.”
“Please, don’t do that. Let’s go outside and talk about it.”
He glares at me with a dark scowl but follows me as I push through the crowd to get out the front door. Instead of the quiet street with scattered bar patrons I expect, it’s packed with cars and people.
“I’ll get them out. There won’t be any issues.”
“No, I’ve made my decision. It’s a matter of public safety now.” He pulls out his phone as people fight to get out the front door.
“Who are you calling?”
Before the fire marshal can respond, a crowd surrounds us from outside, cameras flashing and microphones waving.
“Are you Ripley Fischer? What do you say to the accusations that you were the real reason for Boone Thrasher and Amber Fleet’s breakup?”
“Ripley! Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps by becoming the mistress of a country star?”
“How long have you been sleeping with Boone Thrasher?”
Oh my God.
The questions jab into me like blades, each striking all the way to the bone. My stomach twists into knots as it hits my feet.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. My breathing picks up. I’m going to hyperventilate. Maybe I’ll pass out. Then I won’t have to face them—
“Ripley! Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
“How big is Boone Thrasher’s dick? My readers want to know! Spill, girl!”
The voices are overwhelming, the questions coming from all directions as I stand there, frozen like an idiot deer about to be creamed by a Mack truck.
How is this happening?
“Ma’am, you need to get these people out of here.”
I twist around to stare at the fire marshal again, but my ears are ringing from the questions being shouted.
“Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps?”
I keep my back turned, my shoulders hunched, needing to protect myself from the cameras any way I can.
The fire marshal apparently doesn’t care that this evening is tipping into nightmare territory. He has some sort of notebook out and is scribbling on the open page.
“I’m citing you for overcapacity, and as soon as I can get back in the building, I’m going through your fire-safety measures. If I find you’re missing a single fire extinguisher, you’re going to have serious problems.”
Reporters continue yelling at me, tossing out more demands to know about Boone and me and my mom, and I reach down and pinch my thigh to wake myself up.
This can’t be real. This is just a bad dream.
The sting from my fingernails tells me it’s not. My reality is actually this big of a disaster.
The security guys from inside herd dozens of people out the front door, and the reporters pounce on the fresh meat.
“Does anyone have pictures of Boone and Ripley Fischer together? We’ll pay!”
A guy wearing a Vandy shirt stumbles to a drunken halt in front of one reporter. “The bartender chick with the nice rack? I got a video of him dedicating a song to her. I’ll sell it to you.”
Oh my God.
I have to get out of here.
I shove my way through the people streaming out the door, my gaze drawn to the stage where I last saw Boone.
But it’s empty.
He’s gone.
And I’m left to clean up the mess.
I’m always left to clean up the mess.
28
Ripley
The last hour passed in a fog.
When the fire marshal leaves, I shut the front door behind him with a decisive click and throw the lock. Leaning against the nearest table, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes.
More than anything, I want to sink to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees, and give in to the tears that have been threatening since the first awful question was thrown at me like a Molotov cocktail by those reporters.
How could anyone think I had something to do with Boone and Amber breaking up? I didn’t even know him then.
Who would give them that kind of tip? It doesn’t make any sense.
I swallow back the lump in my throat and straighten.
The stack of citations the fire marshal left sits on the bar like the pile of crap it is. In addition to overcapacity, he wrote up the Fishbowl for outdated fire extinguishers, failure to test the sprinkler system regularly, and three other violations that sounded made-up to me.
“What a crazy night.” Carter picks up a toppled stool before reaching for another.
The bar is a wreck. Two tables, three stools, and six chairs—all broken. There’s shattered glass on the floor, along with puddles of spilled drinks, vomit, and what looks like blood from the fight. Cups cover the tables, some tipped over and leaking onto the floor.
Dory, Carter, and I survey the mess with the same daunted look on our faces.
“You guys can go. I’ll deal with this.”
They both look at me like I’m nuts. And maybe I am, but right now I don’t think I can handle making small talk while we clean up this disaster.
“Not a chance. I’ll clear those tables and wipe them down. Carter will get the broken furniture out of here, and you can handle the mopping. Let’s do this.” Dory sounds like a drill sergeant, and they both spring into action.
I stare at the citations for another long moment, flipping through them and tallying the numbers in my head. I don’t know how much we made tonight, but these fines are going to eat up most, if not all, of the cash. But first, I need to make sure Carter and Dory get paid. They rallied tonight with the kind of loyalty that’s worth more than money.
Another hour passes and Dory and Carter have finished their tasks, leaving me with a hug from each and half the floor to mop.
“Call me if you need me tomorrow. My daughter picks up the kids at five, so I’m around after that,” Dory says.
Carter offers his help if it’s needed again too, but I can’t imagine it will be.
Can I even open tomorrow with these citations?
I wave to both of them, and the sick feeling that’s been churning in my stomach intensifies as the question hangs over my head.
It’s the weekend, so it’s not like I can pay the fines or call the city and ask questions. The only thing I can do is get this place back into shape, and hope that some kind of solution occurs to me tomorrow before we’re due to open.
I dunk the mop back in the bucket and squeeze it dry as my brain turns to worst-case-scenario solutions. If the fines take all the money we made tonight, maybe I can close another night a week and work somewhere else to help make ends meet for a while. I bet Hope would give me shifts Tuesday and Wednesday nights at the White Horse . . .
Someone pounds on the locked back door, but I have absolutely no intention of opening it. I’m done with human interaction today. Done.
“Ripley, it’s me. Open up, sugar.”
The deep voice is distinctive enough that there’s no question who it is.
Call it irrational if you want, but hearing Boone Thrasher’s voice after I’ve spent the last couple of hours dealing with the mess he walked out on pisses me off enough to stomp to the door and yank it open.
“What are you doing here?”
He leans back on the heels of his trademark biker boots with his hands jammed in his pockets, his eyes searching my face.
“Can I come in?” He looks around like he’s expecting paparazzi to jump out of the bushes and surprise him.
Given what happened earlier, I step aside and let him in before shutting and
locking the door again. When I turn around, I catch him scanning the bar before he turns back to me.
“Everyone gone?”
I nod, my anger and frustration threatening to boil over as his posture relaxes.
“I didn’t want—”
I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I can’t hold it in any longer.
“What the hell happened tonight? You and Frisco decided you’d put on an impromptu concert and didn’t bother to tell me first? I’m assuming you were trying to help, but we weren’t prepared. I didn’t have servers, enough people to help cover the bar, someone to work both doors so I could, I don’t know, prevent the fire marshal from shutting me down!” I’m yelling by the time I get to the end of my tirade, and Boone’s expression tightens and his shoulders stiffen.
“You’re really giving me shit for trying to do something nice? Any bar owner in this town would drop to their knees and beg us to come play. And, yeah, we were here to help. You made a shitload of money tonight, which was the whole point. This place has one foot in the grave, and we thought if you could get some more traffic, maybe you’d have a shot at saving it.” By the time he’s done, he looks just as pissed off as I probably do.
“Yeah, well, you trying to help me save this place might have killed it even faster. Shit blew up in my face and you just disappeared.” I pause to deliver the worst part. “Not to mention now everyone thinks I’m your whore!”
Boone takes a step back, his face morphing into a harsh scowl. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you see the reporters out front before you bolted? Couldn’t you hear them yelling at me?”
His brows draw together in confusion. “No. We grabbed the equipment and went out the back.”
I rub a hand over my face and tell him most of what they said. I leave out the part about my mom because I can’t bring myself to repeat the words.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?” Boone explodes, pacing across the freshly mopped section of the floor. He turns and pins his gaze on me. “Someone you know had to have tipped them off. This shit doesn’t happen by accident. Who would’ve seen us here?”
The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been sucker punched.
“You’re blaming this on me?” My voice echoes off the high ceilings, and my temper snaps. “Get out of my bar.”
Boone stalks toward me instead of heading for the door. His black T-shirt stretches over his broad chest and thick arms, and the heat of anger in his gaze has me backing up until my ass bumps the brick wall. Boone keeps coming.
“Get out? Not a fucking chance. I went out of my way to do something nice—twice—for you, not letting you get assaulted in a bar and then coming here tonight, and you’re trying to throw me out on my ass? Not happening.”
His arrogance tips my temper from pissed off to enraged.
“What? You want some kind of thank-you?”
“It would be nice.” His words come out a low growl.
I clench my jaw. “Thank you, oh-so-wonderful Boone Thrasher, for lowering yourself to try to help me. Please, spare me from any more of your favors, because now the media thinks I’m some kind of home-wrecker, and this bar is dying quicker than before!”
Boone presses a hand to the wall beside my face. “Shut up.”
My mouth drops open. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said shut up.”
“How dare you—”
Before I can rip him a new one, Boone’s lips crash down on mine.
29
Boone
She’s fucking gorgeous when she’s pissed. The cliché, and song lyrics to accompany it, flash through my brain before being taken over by everything Ripley.
I want her.
I want all that rage burning through her underneath me. On top of me. Wherever the hell I can get her.
Instead of shoving me back like I expect, Ripley curls her fingers into my shirt, digging into my shoulders as her body molds to mine.
With a groan, I reach down and grab a handful of her curvy ass before pulling her leg up to wrap around my waist. I grind into her, my cock straining against my jeans, and the friction kicks up the need for her another notch.
What is it about this woman? Right now, her brain might hate me, but her body sure doesn’t.
Ripley releases her grip on my shoulder with one hand to bury her fingers in my hair and tug my head to the other side so she can readjust, taking what she wants from the kiss.
I let her take the lead for a few moments before I pull back and meet her hazy gray gaze.
“You’re gonna strip those boots and jeans off, and I’m gonna fuck you on this bar. After I’ve got you in a better mood, we’re gonna figure out how to handle this.”
The haze burns off her eyes to be replaced by heat. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Shut up.”
Normally, I wouldn’t talk to a woman like that, but Ripley pushes all my buttons. What’s more, she gives as good as she gets. I wrap my hands around her waist, pick her up, and carry her to the bar. Her fingers clutch my biceps, holding tight when I sit her where I want her.
With a look at her obstinate expression, I have a feeling she’s not going to follow my directions too well.
“You don’t want to strip? Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
“Who says I even want you? Maybe once was enough.”
“You’re full of shit, sugar.” With a swift move, I cup her center, feeling the heat even through the denim. “I’d bet my favorite bike on the fact that your tight little pussy is wet.”
She lifts off the scarred wood, pressing into my touch, and her gaze narrows on me. “Maybe it’s because of someone else.”
Oh, fuck no.
“Who? That bartender of yours? Not a chance.”
“Maybe it was Frisco.”
Irrational jealousy pumps into my blood. I glance down at her nipples puckered against the low-cut Man in Black tank she wears. Ducking my head, I close my teeth around one and tug.
Ripley’s sharp inhalation tells me what I need to know. I release it when she arches back.
“Frisco ain’t here. This is all for me. You can lie all you want, Ripley. I’ll still give you what you need, even if you won’t admit it.”
“Shut up and fuck me.”
A grin stretches my lips. “That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”
I step back, and with two yanks, her boots are on the floor. Ripley lifts her ass and helps me peel the jeans down her legs.
“Jesus. Don’t you ever wear panties?” The sight of her slick pussy damn near takes me to my knees.
“Not if I can help it.”
I sweep my thumb across the wetness, dipping between her bare lips. “You’re soaked, sugar.”
“You talk too much, superstar.”
Her words act like lighter fluid, sending my need flaring and my plan to shit. Instead of taking my time, I have to be inside her.
“Get my cock out. I need to fuck you.”
For the first time, she doesn’t snap back with a defiant answer. Her hands go for the buttons of my jeans, tugging them open, and my cock springs free. When Ripley’s hand wraps around it, my groan fills the room. I tangle her fingers with mine to stop her from jacking me off right here.
“Not coming until I’m inside you.”
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the condom I shoved there earlier tonight and tear it open with my teeth. Before I can put it on, she tugs it from my hands and rolls it down my shaft with another squeeze. I step closer to the bar and fit my cock against her entrance.
“Look at me,” I demand.
Ripley’s gaze collides with mine.
“You’re gonna watch me fuck you, and when we’re done, you try to lie to me and say you didn’t love every minute of it.”
30
Ripley
My mouth drops open at Boone’s words, and he leans forward to steal another taste from my lips before burying his cock balls deep
on the first stroke. I reach out to brace myself on the cool wood, and before I can adjust to the fullness, he pulls back and thrusts again. Fast and then slow. Fast and then slow. The changing pace lights my body on fire, and I grab the edge of the bar, white-knuckling it for the ride.
As he pounds into me over and over, I hold off my orgasm as long as I can, like I’m proving some kind of point.
“Oh God.” I gasp as the climax smashes into me. “Boone. Shit.”
“Give it to me. I want to hear it.”
At his order, the moan I’ve been keeping in spills from my lips. “Fuck yes. Fuck yes.”
He hammers into me as my body tenses, pleasure rippling through every cell. Finally, Boone’s thrusts slow as his cock pulses inside me.
His groan is unintelligible. He lowers his forehead against mine as I haul in breath after breath.
Pounding starts on the door, and we both jerk our attention to the front of the room.
“Oh my God.” I scoot back on the wood at the same moment Boone pulls out of me. “You have to get out of here. Now. Go!”
“I haven’t even rolled the condom off my dick, and you’re—”
I jump down, grab my jeans, and pull them up my legs. Boone ducks behind the bar, I assume disposing of the condom, and I tug on my boots.
“Go!” I motion him toward the back door as he shoves his dick in his pants and buttons them.
“Are you crazy? It’s the middle of the goddamned night. I’m not letting you open the door to someone by yourself.”
“Then hide.”
“No way.”
The pounding comes again.
“I lost my wallet!” a voice yells from outside. “Anyone there?”
I rush toward the door, but Boone reaches out to snag my arm and pulls me back.
“You just hauled in a shitload of cash tonight. Did it ever occur to you that someone could be here to rob you?”
“I can hear voices! Open up! I just want my wallet!”
“Stay behind me,” Boone orders.
“You can’t open the door. He’ll see you.”