by Meghan March
Arkansas plates. Probably tourists coming to enjoy the city on a family vacation.
I wonder what that would have been like.
A family who went places together. Spent time together. Outside of a bar.
I’ll never know. It’s not in the cards for me. Never has been.
I press down on the gas pedal and my car lurches forward, only for the resistance on the pedal to go slack a quarter mile from Hope’s place. I coast to the side of the road.
“You can’t do this to me! Not now.” I slap my hands on the steering wheel before apologizing like my car truly does have feelings. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Just a little further.” I look down at the instrument cluster . . . and the fuel gauge rests on empty.
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I drop my forehead to the steering wheel. This day officially can’t get any worse.
33
Boone
“Did you set out to do the opposite of everything I told you? Because now I’ve got some college kid’s dad calling and threatening to sue for millions for emotional distress because you scared the ever-loving piss out of his son!”
Nick is on a roll.
I’ve been avoiding his calls, so he finally came out to the house and my security guy let him in. He’s on the approved list—for now. If he keeps talking to me like I’m ten, he won’t be for long.
Still, I can’t help but laugh over what happened last night.
“The kid pissed himself in front of a house full of sorority girls. How is it my fault his dad raised a complete pansy-ass punk who waded into shit deeper than he could swim through?”
Nick’s face turns a deeper shade of red at my chuckle. “I swear to God—”
“Have you heard the side of the witnesses, because there were about fifteen girls there who will tell you that I didn’t raise my voice or touch the kid. Then I signed autographs for half an hour and took pictures with them while he deleted the picture from his phone and removed it from the cloud. I told him I’d come back for a way less pleasant visit if I found out he was full of shit, and the girls all swore he’d never get laid again if he sold it.” I paused. “Actually, I doubt that kid is gettin’ laid again regardless after pissing himself in front of that group. Those girls are ruthless.”
“What the hell did you give them? Money?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I gave them all Charity’s number. They’re getting tickets to whatever show they want.”
“This better not go to court; that’s all I can say.” Nick grips his forehead with his thumb and index finger, highlighting his receding hairline.
“Why would it? I didn’t do shit. Tell that kid’s dad that his son will be in community college if they try anything, because I’ll drain him dry for invasion of privacy or some shit. Make it up if you have to. There’s gotta be something. You’ve got my lawyer’s number. Deal with it.”
Nick finally looks at me again, the color of his face returning to normal. “Can you please just try to lay low? We’ve got a media shitstorm that’s accusing you of cheating on Amber, Amber’s people are calling with their own accusations, and on top of that, I need you at two radio stations tomorrow morning to promo that single, which is what we actually need people talking about.”
“I thought there was no such thing as bad publicity. And the single is hauling ass up the chart, so you can’t tell me that any of this is killing my numbers, Nick.”
He looks at the ceiling, probably trying to find some patience, but he’s gotta know I’m right. This ain’t my first rodeo.
“You’re walking a fine line between celebrity and infamy. Watch your step.”
“I’m not even gonna pretend to know what that means, but I’ll tell you this—everything the press is saying about me cheating on Amber is bullshit. That’s gotta be defamation or libel or whatever, because there’s not a single lick of truth to it. So why don’t you go rattle some cages and see if you can’t shut them up?”
With a sigh, Nick stands. “Fine, but you need to stay away from that girl from the bar. There’s nothing but trouble there.”
The fact that Nick thinks he can tell me what to do always pisses me off, and today is no exception. “Not happening. You do your job, get Charity bustin’ some ass doin’ hers, and I’ll handle my own shit the way I see fit.”
He shakes his head and I follow him to the door.
“I hope you know what you’re doing—”
“Don’t I always?”
Once the door closes behind him, I spend the rest of my day with my guitar, a notebook, and a pencil, putting down more lyrics than I have in months.
Ripley is one hell of a muse, and every time I think of her, I catch myself smiling.
I finally put away my notebook as the sun goes down, and take my phone off silent. I’ve got five missed calls from Nick, but I ignore them. Frisco’s call is the only one I return.
“What’s up, man?”
“You might want to google yourself.”
34
Ripley
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Seriously, I owe you¸” I tell Hope as I hop up in her pickup truck and we head for the White Horse Saloon.
She shoots me a sidelong look from across the cab. “You act like I didn’t offer you both my futon and a job the last time I saw you.”
“Yeah, but now I’m notorious.”
“Stop it. You’re still my best friend. I don’t care if you tell me you’re a mutant working for the X-Men, the futon and the job are yours.”
I laugh at her comic-book reference before considering another hurdle. “Will your boss be pissed that you hired me?”
“My boss doesn’t give a shit about anything but the receipts from every night. As long as we’re selling booze, he’s happy. He doesn’t care who’s slinging it as long as they’re not skimming off the till. That’ll get someone fired in a night.”
When she mentions employee theft, I finally tell her something I’ve been keeping to myself for way too long. “Brandy’s been skimming from the Fishbowl during every shift for the last year and a half, maybe longer.”
Hope stops at a red light, her mouth open in shock. “And you didn’t fire that skanky bitch? Why not?”
“Pop wouldn’t let me. He said I must not have been paying her enough.”
“Are you shitting me?” Hope’s voice rises an octave.
“Nope.”
She shakes her head. “Meanwhile, you didn’t take a paycheck for weeks at a time.”
I nod because we both know that’s a fact.
“I think I’m going to be sick. If that little ho shows up anywhere near me, she’ll walk away with two black eyes and a broken nose.”
“She’s not worth it.”
“Maybe not, but she still deserves it. She’s gonna run that bar into the ground. I give it a week or two, tops.”
My heart pangs at the thought, but there’s nothing I can do now. “If she makes it a month, I’ll be shocked. Then again, maybe we’ll both be wrong, and she’ll turn it into some slutty topless place and haul in more money than I ever did.”
Hope shakes her head. “She’d have to get approval for partial nudity, and we both know she’s not smart enough to do that.”
“I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t bother with approval before she whipped her tits out.”
Hope laughs, but the sound is rife with bitterness. “I really hate that girl.”
I have my own feelings about Brandy, but I can’t say I hate her completely. She’s one of the few family members I have left.
“Enough about her and the Fishbowl. Tell me what else I need to know for tonight.”
Hope launches into an explanation of a few things that I wouldn’t have realized offhand, even though I’ve been running a bar for years. The White Horse is a way bigger, more sophisticated operation, so it doesn’t surprise me that they do some things differently.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll get you set up with a uniform tank wh
en we get there, and you’ll be raking in the tips in no time.”
I force a smile onto my face. This is my life now. Couch surfing with friends, and everything I own in my car.
Go, me.
“Oh shit, did I get you? Didn’t mean to spill that. Totally my fault,” the man says, his words slurring.
With a sleeve of plastic cups in each hand that I’d just retrieved from the stockroom, I look down at my white tank top with the White Horse Saloon logo on the front. It’s soaked through with what smells like someone’s gin and tonic, and now my headlights are on high beams from the unexpected dousing of a cold drink. At times like this, I wish I wore padded bras.
Yay. Flashing my nipples the first night on the job. Employee-of-the-month material right here.
With gritted teeth, I smile at the clearly intoxicated stranger who has a dumb grin on his face. “No worries. Have a good night, sir.” Skirting around him, I head toward Hope to hand off the cups and ask her if I can get another tank top.
“Ripley, is that you?”
I look up and almost run into Law, my ex who lasted longer than any of the others.
Jeez. Just when I think this day can’t get any worse . . .
My cheeks hurt from all the fake smiles I’ve plastered on my face today, and the one stretching my lips now is just as phony as all the others.
Lawrence Diller was still a law student when we broke up two years ago after he kept accusing me of choosing the Fishbowl over him. At that point, I was working six nights a week, and our schedules never seemed to mesh when it was convenient for either of us. Also, he didn’t particularly like bars, which is probably why I haven’t seen him since. So, why now?
“Hey, Law,” I drawl. “What are you doing here? This isn’t really your scene.”
He’s wearing a pressed collared shirt still tucked into dress pants, with an expensive-looking watch wrapped around his wrist.
“Just passed the bar exam, so we’re out to celebrate.” He waves at a group of five guys behind him. “Some of the other associates are from out of town, so we figured we’d barhop down Broadway tonight. You work here now?” He stares pointedly at my protruding nipples, and presumably the logo on my shirt.
Another fake-as-shit smile on my face, I answer with an upbeat tone. “Yep, decided on a change of scenery.”
“I thought you’d never leave the Fishbowl and your old man, no matter how bad they dragged you down with them.”
His astute observation stabs me through the heart.
“Well, things change,” I say through clenched teeth.
“New girl! I need those cups!” Hope’s assistant manager, Brian, yells from the pass-through, saving me from this awkward conversation.
“I gotta go. Have a good time. Congrats.”
I turn to head his way, but Law catches me around the waist in an overly familiar gesture that would have been fine when we were dating, but now, I stiffen.
“We should talk. Things are going really great for me. They started me at a hundred fifty grand a year, and I’ve got a sweet condo downtown. I broke up with the girl I was dating for a couple months because she wanted her MRS more than a law degree at graduation. And damn, Rip, I miss you. I shouldn’t have walked away.”
All his declarations hit below the belt. It’s a struggle to keep the smile intact, but I manage somehow.
“I’m glad things are going well for you, but I really gotta get back to work. Um, maybe we can talk later,” I say in a cheerful tone that’s total crap. My suggestion is completely insincere, but I hope he doesn’t realize that. “Enjoy tonight!”
When Law releases me, I hurry behind the bar. Hope’s eyes are huge, and she takes the cups and tosses them to Brian.
“Was that Law? What happened to your shirt? What did he want?”
“Yes, and some asshole spilled on me. I don’t know what he wants.”
Hope raises an eyebrow as she glances over my shoulder. “He wants one thing, girl, and that’s you. His eyes are glued to your ass.”
I roll my eyes. Of course they are. Law loved my ass. The sex hadn’t been off-the-charts amazing . . . unlike with someone else whose name I refuse to mention, but it hadn’t been bad either. Just average, I guess.
“Can I beg you for another tank? I’ll pay for it out of my tips.”
Hope scoffs. “You get five. I’ll get you one if you want to run down to the basement and grab another keg. It’s going to get your shirt filthy anyway. I made Brian bring up the last three, and he’s apparently on his period now and told me it’s someone else’s turn.” She shoots a sharp glance toward the assistant manager.
“No problem. Where am I going?”
She gives me directions, along with the key to the storage room, and I make my way through the crowd again toward the stairs. I’ve been hauling kegs for as long as I’ve been able to lift them, so it’s not a big request.
But of course, because today can’t get any shittier, Law follows me down into the basement.
“Rip, babe, I mean it. I want to talk. You’re the one that got away, and now that my life is everything I’ve always wanted, I need someone to share it with. You wouldn’t even have to work in a bar; you could go to school if you want.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, searching for patience somewhere deep inside, and come up empty. “I can’t have this conversation right now. You should go back to your friends.”
“Promise you’ll call me tomorrow, and I’ll leave you alone tonight.”
“Sure. Fine.” I’m lying, but he could never read me well enough to know that.
Hoping this conversation is well and truly over, I turn toward the door marked Private: Employees Only, but Law lays a hand on my shoulder and spins me back around before his lips slam down on mine. Completely stunned by the fact that he’s pulling some kind of alpha move, it takes me a few seconds before I push him away.
“Whoa. Hey. What the hell?”
I can taste the alcohol he’s been drinking, which explains his sudden display of masculinity.
“Needed to give you something to think about.”
“Got it. Thinking. Go back to your friends, Law.”
With a self-satisfied smile, he gives me a jerk of his chin before he trudges up the stairs. I wait until he’s halfway up and shoots me a backward glance before I unlock the storage room and slip inside.
I slump against the door and stare up at the ceiling.
Seriously? Tonight, of all nights.
Law’s words echo in my head like a slap. “You wouldn’t even have to work in a bar; you could go to school if you want.” Me working as a bartender is still not up to his standards, obviously. And if I were considering going back to him for even a second, that would ensure a big fat nope of a response from me.
This is who I am. If that’s not good enough for anyone, they can go fuck themselves.
With a grunt of frustration, I lift the keg Hope asked for off the floor and maneuver the door open with my elbow, then hip check it shut before setting the keg on the floor and making sure the door locks behind me.
The stairs look even steeper now that I have a keg to lug up them, but tonight, I’m all about proving I can do whatever I put my mind to, even if it’s as simple as moving something from point A to point B.
I have worth. I have something to offer, I remind myself, even though I feel like a bottom-feeder right now.
As I get to the top of the stairs, Law is waiting near the end of the bar with his friends. When he sees me, he charges toward me.
“Hey, let me help with that, babe.” He reaches out to snatch the keg from my arms.
The sudden loss of the weight throws me off-balance and I stumble backward . . . right down the stairs.
I’m too stunned to tuck and roll. No, I just flop and tumble, my arms and legs flailing until I crash to a stop at the bottom, jamming my legs against the floor.
Oh. My. God.
I just fell down a flight of stairs. I could have died.
But I didn’t.
I’m okay.
Maybe I don’t have the world’s worst luck.
“Oh God. Ripley! Are you okay?”
It’s Law, already on his way down the stairs as I stumble to my feet, my head swimming.
“I’m fine. It’s okay.”
I take one dizzy step forward, but when my ankle rolls and pain shoots up my leg, my stomach drops. I instantly take the weight off my leg as tears spring to my eyes.
No. No. No. This can’t happen.
Law rushes toward me, skidding to a stop. “Shit. Are you okay?” He pats me down for injuries, not noticing that I’m holding the railing to avoid putting my weight on both feet.
I grit my teeth. “Fine. Totally fine.”
“Are you sure? That was a hell of a fall.”
I look up the stairs to see if anyone else noticed, but no one else is rushing to the rescue.
“I’m fine. I gotta get that keg to Brian and get back to work.”
He reaches out a hand. “Let me help you up the stairs. Seriously, that looked really bad. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself.”
I bite down on my lip to stop myself from groaning as I take the first step up the stairs. Law is too busy talking about how bad my fall looked to realize that I’m seconds from crying.
Breathing through the pain, I hobble my way up and stop next to the keg at the top, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort.
“You sure you don’t need help?”
“Positive. I gotta get back to work.”
Without waiting for him to respond, I heft the keg into my arms again, screaming inwardly as a shaft of pain stabs at my ankle.
I thought I was lucky? Not a chance.
I manage to get the keg behind the bar and swap it out. Brian gives me a nod of approval, which helps restore a bit of my pride but doesn’t do a thing to help my ankle. Hope returns and tosses another tank to me, and I catch it in midair.
“Go change. I’ll cover you for a few. Rudy is coming in too. It’s almost ten, so this place is gonna be hoppin’ in a bit.”