by Meghan March
Boone glares at me. “I’d rather you be safe than worry about some drunk asshole knowing I’m here. Stay behind me.”
With a huff, I comply. Boone pulls open the door, and a kid in a Vandy T-shirt falls forward.
“The fuck do you want?” Boone barks at him.
The kid looks up, recognition clear on his face. “Shit, man. This is even better than my wallet.” Before either of us can move, the kid lifts his phone and snaps a picture of Boone and me. Together. With my sex hair.
Boone reaches for his phone but the kid is quicker, bolting toward a car waiting at the curb.
“Go! Go!”
With a squeal of tires, it’s gone.
Vandy T-shirt. He’s the one who sold the video.
Boone slams the door shut and turns to me.
“We have a serious problem,” I tell him.
Boone strides to the back door with the little asshole’s wallet in hand. Someone tossed it behind the bar earlier, the cash missing, of course.
But at least we have his name and address.
“He’s going to sell that picture before you can get to him. Guaranteed he already has the contact from selling the video.”
Boone pauses at the door. “Which is why I’m going now instead of staying to fuck you a second time like I’d prefer.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s not happening again. Ever.”
His expression turns dark. “Because of your damn rule? That’s bullshit and you know it.”
It wasn’t bullshit when the press was accusing me of being a whore like my mama.
“I can’t do this. I’m not doing this.” My tone is resolute.
Boone tilts his head to one side, studying me. “Give me one good reason.”
I drop my arms and straighten my shoulders. “I don’t have to give you a reason for anything. I’m not going to date you. It’s not happening.”
Boone pushes off the door and closes the distance until he towers over me. I’m not short at five foot five, but next to his six-foot-plus frame, I feel tiny.
“Who said anything about dating?”
My first instinct is to tell him to leave, but something stops me. Maybe the memory of the best orgasms I’ve had in months.
“Then what do you want? A rebound?”
He shrugs. “Why not? Who’s it gonna hurt?”
“Me! I’m the one the media says is a slut. Oh, and my bar is going to end up closed in about three months if I can’t turn it around, notwithstanding all the fines I’ve racked up.”
“You let me worry about that shit. I’ll get people here, no more than the legal capacity, and my PR team will deal with the media. All you have to do is—”
I jut out my chin. “Be available to you when and where you want?” I’m joking when I say the words, scoffing at the idea.
Boone’s smug smile is anything but a joke. “Exactly.”
“Get out,” I snap.
Obviously knowing when to retreat, Boone raises his hands in the air and backs away. “Think about it. I’m gonna go track down this little punk. Frisco has my number. You let me know what you decide.”
31
Boone
I don’t know what I’m doing with Ripley, but I want to do more of it. Not a relationship, though, given her answer of a solid hell no with a side of no fucking way.
I’m fresh out of a two-year commitment, and getting into something new is the last thing I should even be thinking about. Doesn’t matter. Not happening.
I could have debated with Ripley all night. But with that stubborn expression, there was no way I could persuade her that the sky is blue and the grass is green at this point, let alone convince her that my cock needs to find its way into her pussy on a regular basis, regardless of the label we slap on it.
There’s the upside of the fact that I like being around her too, at least when she’s not bitching me out for something. Shit, even when she’s bitching me out, I still like being around her more than most anyone I know. That’s the part I should probably be worrying about, but I’m not tonight.
No, I’ve got bigger things on my plate. Like the heap of guilt over how our impromptu show ended.
How was I supposed to know that someone would report the bar to the fire marshal and shit would rain down? Venue capacity limits aren’t exactly something I have to think about beyond knowing that sold out means more money in the bank for me.
But getting the Fishbowl shut down and Ripley saddled with all those fines? Shit. I’m getting Nick on it. He’s already texted me four times and left me three voice mails tonight that I’ve ignored, and after what Ripley said about the press, it doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out why. Charity hasn’t called, which could go either way. Hopefully, it means she’s working her PR magic.
With the phone on speaker, I call Nick as I turn in the direction of the Vanderbilt campus. According to the ID in the wallet and Google, that kid lives close to it.
Nick answers on the first ring, but not with a greeting. “What the fuck did you do?”
“You tell me what they’re saying I did, and we’ll go from there.”
“What part of lay low do you not understand? This is a disaster.”
“I did a show at a bar. Big deal.”
“I don’t give a shit about the show. I give a shit about the fact that the media is jumping on the Boone Thrasher is a manwhore wagon and accusing you of cheating on Amber. Why would you give her people an opportunity to spin that? All you had to do was be discreet if you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”
I make a left onto the correct street and slow down to check out the house numbers.
“Listen up, Nick. You want to talk to me like I’m a kid you’re taking to task, you’re gonna lose your biggest client. So, watch yourself. Your job is to handle shit, so handle it.”
“Could you at least have picked someone who wasn’t the daughter of Nashville’s most notorious home-wrecker?”
The comment about Ripley’s mom pisses me off.
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that.”
Nick’s groan fills the car. “You actually like the girl? Jesus Christ, Boone. What did I do to deserve this?”
“Stop whining like a little bitch and do your job. Whatever they’re saying about me cheating on Amber is bullshit. I didn’t even meet Ripley until after Amber’s impromptu wedding, so you can shove the truth down their throats.”
The other end of the line is silent for a long moment.
“What do you want me to do, Boone? Have Charity spin this as some sort of love-at-first-sight shit?”
I choke on the suggestion. “How about spinning it as two consenting adults doing something that’s no one’s goddamned business?”
Nick laughs, but there’s no trace of humor in it. “We both know that won’t work. If we want to get the press to drop this, we have to give them something bigger.”
“Like what?”
I spot the house number on the license and pull off to park on the side of the street behind a new Camaro. Shit. It’s a frigging frat house.
“I don’t know. I’m working on it,” Nick says, and I can hear him clicking on his computer keys.
“You do your shit. I’m off to go kick some college kid’s ass if he’s already sold a picture of me and Ripley to the tabloids.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nick’s voice turns into a yell.
“Sorry, man. Promised the lady I’d defend her honor.”
“Boone—”
I hang up on him and silence my phone as he calls back. I shove open the car door and climb out, jamming my phone into my pocket.
Why does it have to be a damned frat house?
Screw it. I stalk through the front yard and up to the porch.
College wasn’t something I did. Couldn’t have afforded it, even if I’d wanted to. My folks didn’t have the money, and I wasn’t about to drown myself in debt when all I ever wanted to do was write songs and perform th
em. These kids would probably shit themselves if they had to sleep in their cars or hustle tips to eat.
Which is why they’ll never understand that hard work pays off in a big way.
When I make it to the door, I raise my hand to knock, but it swings open before I make contact and a guy steps out.
“Whoa, dude. You here for the party?”
Now that the door is open, I can hear music pulsing from the house, but it sounds like it’s coming from the basement.
“What the fuck kind of party is this?”
He points to his white shirt covered with what looks like highlighter. “Glow party. Basement.”
Great. So now I’m supposed to find that kid in the middle of some black-light rave.
The guy who opened the door turns to leave, but I grab him by the arm and pull the ID out of my pocket. Holding it up, I ask, “You know this kid? He down there?”
He squints, looking closer before shaking his head. “I don’t think he’s in there. He showed up late and left with a bunch of girls from Chi Omega. He’s banging one of their pledges.”
“Where did they go?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Maybe back to their house.” He tilts his head. “You know, you look like that Boone Thrasher guy.”
“I get that a lot. Where’s the sorority house?”
He gives me directions that I hope, considering his fucked-up state, are remotely helpful.
When I stalk down the sidewalk to my car, he calls out and I pause.
“You are that Boone Thrasher guy! I saw the car online. Holy shit, man.”
I just shake my head. There’s not shit I can do about it now, and with any luck at all, he won’t remember me in the morning.
I climb in my car and head for the sorority house.
32
Ripley
“What is this shit?”
My dad’s voice jolts me out of sleep as my door bangs open the next morning. I bolt up in bed, clutching the sheet to my pounding heart.
“What?”
He shakes the paper in his hand so I can’t make anything out on the flapping newsprint. “I told you that none of those celebrity assholes were setting foot in this bar, and you did it anyway.”
Caught off guard, the only argument I can offer is the first one that comes to mind. “Why? What do you care? You never come here. You should be happy money was coming in last night instead of nothing, like a normal Friday night! You’re the one who used the bar as collateral, and now I have to find a way to pay off a hundred grand that I don’t have so we don’t lose everything!”
My dad jerks back. “Who told you about the loan?”
“The freaking accountant, after he got off the phone with the lenders. I was trying to get a line of credit to keep this place afloat while I figure something out.”
“You’re going behind my back now? Fucking some guy like your whore mother, and you’re trying to get money out of this place when it’s not even yours,” he yells. “I should’ve let the bar close years ago.”
I’m still smarting from his comment about my mama, but I recover quickly. I have no choice. “Why didn’t you?”
He glares at me. “I don’t owe you an explanation for shit, but this is where it happened. Until I know who put her in the ground, I’m not gonna rest.”
Realization strikes with the subtlety of a hit and run. “That’s what the loan was for, wasn’t it? I give you enough money to drink yourself into the grave, but not enough to pay a private investigator.”
“So what if it was? You should want to know too.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Of course I want to know. She was my mother!” We stare at each other for a full minute before I ask, “What do you think you’re going to do when you find out? Get some kind of revenge?”
“You leave that to me.” He tosses the paper onto the bed, and I grab it.
It’s a tabloid. The front page is a still shot from the video that Vandy kid sold of Boone onstage. Not the one of us together. Beside Boone is a picture of Amber Fleet, her eyes downcast and still looking way too gorgeous.
The Truth about the Breakup—Boone Bangs Barmaid
“This is total bullshit.” I scan through the article. It paints me as a home-wrecker, drawing comparisons to my mother and Gil Green twenty years ago.
The sick feeling that never completely left my stomach last night is back in full force. I glance up to see Pop staring down at me like I’m a stranger rather than his only child.
“Who gave this to you?” I don’t know why I bother to ask. I already know. “Brandy, right?”
“I’d be in the dark if she didn’t. You don’t tell me a goddamned thing.”
I meet his gaze, gray like mine but dark and full of fury. “No, I just keep your bills paid and your beer stocked. You’ve never asked questions before, so maybe you should quit asking them now.”
His eyes narrow and his face twists with rage as his fingers clench by his side. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to graduate from backhanding to a closed-fist punch. The anger stamped on his features says he’d like nothing more than to hit me, but something holds him back.
“Ungrateful little bitch. When’s the last time you thanked me for making sure you have a job or a place to live? You want to be jobless and homeless? I can make that happen.”
I refuse to cower. Holding the sheet to my chest, I glare at him with years of resentment and disgust.
“Do it. I dare you. You’ll be out on the street right behind me because no one’s gonna pay your bills when I stop.”
“Brandy could run this bar.” He sneers, going for the low blow. “In fact, I bet she’d do a better job than you.”
I snap back in bed, feeling the force of those words more than I ever felt the back of his hand.
Tears of rage burn behind my eyes, but I won’t let a single one fall in front of him. I’m done with this shit. Done being his punching bag. Done working myself into the ground without a single shred of gratitude for everything I’ve sacrificed in the name of family loyalty.
It’s time for me to stand up for myself for once and prove my backbone hasn’t disappeared from my body. It’s the only choice I have left.
“Then she can start today. I quit.”
Pop’s face takes on a mottled red shade as wrath and alcoholism collide.
“You can’t quit because you’re fired! I want your shit out of here by noon. Leave the keys on the bar. I’m done with you. You’re as dead to me as your whore of a mother.”
He turns and stomps out of the room, leaving me sitting up in bed, frozen in place, a lump in my throat choking off my air supply.
When the door to the apartment slams and his footsteps thud unevenly down the stairs, I finally move, but only to blink as the tears come, along with gut-wrenching sobs.
What did I just do? And what am I going to do now?
Four hundred forty-seven dollars and thirty-seven cents. That’s how much money I have to my name. My jobless, homeless name.
It would have been three hundred forty-seven dollars and thirty-seven cents, but I remembered the emergency Ben Franklin I folded up in my wallet what seemed like a million years ago and haven’t touched under any circumstances. Now it has been painstakingly flattened and makes up almost a quarter of my life savings.
Ten years of hard work, and this is what I have to show for it. When I think of every dollar of my own I used . . .
I shake my head. It’s water under the bridge. I can’t get any of it back now.
The final burn? I didn’t even get a chance to pay myself anything from last night’s take—which is gone from the safe, even though the stack of citations still sits on the scarred wood surface that has been a part of my life for so long.
I feed and water Esteban while he preens on his perch, hoping like hell Brandy and Pop will take care of him. Somehow, I can’t picture Brandy changing the newspaper at the bottom of his cage on a daily basis. And what about his bird treats? They
might be few and far between, but he appreciates them all the same. I ruffle his feathers one last time.
“If I could take you with me right now, I would. But it’s not like I can stuff your cage in my car.”
“You’re fired!”
Another tear rolls down my cheek. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”
“You’re fired!” he repeats as I shut the cage door and lock it.
If anything happens to that bird, heads will roll.
Shoving the back door open with my hip, I cart the last sad load of my stuff out to my car.
“Looks like it might be you and me for a while,” I tell my Javelin as I stuff a duffel bag with the rest of my clothes inside. “Please don’t let me down. I’m not sure I could handle it.”
The old AMC’s engine fires up roughly, but at least it’s running.
As I drive away from the Fishbowl, my chest feels like it’s crumpling under the pressure.
I failed.
Somewhere along the line, keeping the Fishbowl open became the same as keeping my mama’s memory alive, regardless of how tarnished it was.
But I failed.
The harsh truth drags another tear from my eye.
I drive in the direction of Hope’s apartment building, praying that she’s there. Honestly, I have nowhere else to go.
I’m so stupid. I should have had a backup plan. Never in my wildest imaginings did I ever think I’d be leaving the Fishbowl. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I don’t know anything else.
The sky opens with a rumble of thunder, and buckets of rain pour down.
Isn’t this just the cherry on top of a shit sundae? My Javelin’s wiper blades work only sporadically, and today just isn’t my day. Squinting through the windshield, I pull up to a stoplight and look over at the car next to me.
It’s a minivan. A man is driving, and a little boy presses his face against the window and points at my car. The dad turns and gives me a nod, and then says something to the little boy, who peels his cheek off the glass before the light changes and they pull forward.