Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

by Meghan March

  I’m gonna take a ride with you

  in my 442.

  Rolling down the same old roads

  like we always do.

  Other things may change,

  my love remains the same.

  With you by my side

  in my new old ride,

  in my 442.

  I’d written that song thinking that it would be Amber rolling down the back roads with me, but she’s never even been inside this car. It was delivered the night before I planned to propose. The night she married someone else.

  The burn might still be fresh, but tonight it’s not causing me any pain at all.

  “Where are we going?” Ripley asks.

  I shake off the thoughts of Amber, not wanting tonight polluted with her.

  “First, to the ER so you can get that ankle looked at.”

  Ripley’s expression turns panicked. “No, we’re not. I can’t afford it. Besides, I don’t need a doctor to tell me I sprained my ankle and I need to stay off it for a day, put some ice on it, and keep it elevated.”

  Despite her protests, I turn toward the hospital.

  “You’re stubborn enough to lose an arm and tell me you only need a Band-Aid, so I don’t care what you think you need. I’m telling you you’re gettin’ it x-rayed. We don’t know how bad it really is yet.”

  Ripley shoots me a glare. “If I lost an arm, I’d be begging to go to a hospital. I’m not an idiot.” Her tone is snappish, but I figure that’s better than the panic I saw on her face before.

  “I didn’t say you were. I said you were stubborn. But guess what? So am I.”

  She stares straight ahead, her voice almost inaudible over the growl of my big-block engine. “Look, I’m not just being contrary. I can’t go the ER. I don’t have insurance. I don’t have enough cash. I just . . . I can’t. Not right now. I’ll be fine. Just take me back to Hope’s, and I can wait for her in my car.”

  Is she fucking serious? She can’t mean that. I glance over at Ripley, her spine ramrod straight and shoulders back, her chin lifted.

  I was wrong. It’s not stubbornness, it’s pride. My girl has it in spades.

  “I’m covering the bill. We both know you’re working at the White Horse instead of the Fishbowl because of me.” I reach over and lay a hand on her thigh. “I’m sorry, Ripley. It wasn’t my intent to get you fired and kicked out of your apartment. I—”

  She shifts toward me in the passenger seat. “I quit. He didn’t fire me until after I said I quit. So I’m going to stick to my story. And as for getting kicked out of the apartment, I’ll figure it out. It’s . . . it’s been a long time coming, if you want to know the truth. It wasn’t your fault. Friday night might have been the last shove over the edge, but it’s certainly not the only reason. Don’t go feeling guilty because I’m homeless and jobless. I don’t need your pity.”

  I squeeze her leg. “The last thing I feel toward you is pity. But I do feel responsible, and I’m not shirking that responsibility. You’re just gonna have to deal with that.”

  I finally move my hand and make a right at the glowing Emergency Room sign. Ripley looks at me, her face screwed up in irritation.

  “I’m not going inside.”

  “Then I’ll be carrying you again.”

  “What part of no don’t you understand?”

  “Any of it when it means you don’t take care of yourself. So, stop arguing with me and deal with it.”

  Ripley keeps up with the protests as I park the car, when I open her door and lift her into my arms, and all the way through the sliding glass doors.

  The woman at the triage desk looks up for a beat before going back to her paperwork. But in three . . . two . . . one . . . she jerks her gaze up again for a double-take and her eyes widen.

  “Can you get us into a private room?”

  Her mouth opens, but no words come out. She finds her voice a moment later. “Yes. Of course, Mr. Thrasher. Please come with me.” She glances to another woman working at the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

  Within moments, we’re in an exam room, and I lower Ripley onto the hospital bed.

  “Let me get Dr. Marks for you. I’ll be right back.” She closes the door behind her.

  “This is seriously what it’s like to be you? I mean, you just walk in and people rush to do whatever you need? Wow. I took the wrong career path, because it might be worth it, if only to skip the lines everywhere you go.”

  Heat flashes at the base of my neck because she’s right. This is what it’s like to be me. At least, now it is.

  “It wasn’t always like this. Trust me. And I don’t feel bad about using it to my advantage when I need to, like right now.”

  Ripley looks like she’s going to say something else, but there’s a knock on the door before it opens a crack. A woman in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck steps inside.

  She reaches out a hand. “Mr. Thrasher, I’m Dr. Marks. What can we do for you today?”

  Ripley rolls her eyes at the deferential tone, and it occurs to me that I’ve gotten used to being treated like this. It’s not a surprise anymore. I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that I’ve been taking this kind of service for granted. My mama would kick my ass if she knew.

  “Ms. Fischer sprained her ankle, or maybe broke it, we’re not sure. She needs an X-ray. Can you take a look?”

  Dr. Marks smiles at both of us. “Of course, Mr. Thrasher. We’ll take great care of Ms. Fischer.”

  The deferential treatment continues for the entire sixty minutes we’re in the ER. We’re in and out of radiology in moments, and the X-ray reveals her ankle is sprained. Ripley is fitted with an Aircast and given a prescription for some painkillers. The hospital staff apologizes profusely for being out of crutches in Ripley’s size, for which I’m partially grateful because I know she’d overdo if she could get around.

  Before we leave, I fill out a form to have the bill sent to my financial manager to be handled. Through all of this, Ripley stays quiet, only giving the information requested of her. At least until they bring the wheelchair to take her out.

  “I’ll pass, thank you.”

  The man who wheeled it into the room frowns. “Ma’am, I’m afraid we’ll have to insist.”

  “It’s either this or I’ll carry you again,” I tell her. I figure Ripley will have her ass in that chair so fast, the orderly’s head will spin. Not so.

  Ripley looks up at me. “No wheelchair.”

  I don’t hesitate to lift her into my arms. Call it primal, but I like carrying her around.

  When the orderly protests, Dr. Marks gives him a silencing look before turning back to me. “If you’d like, we can have someone bring your car around and you can go out the back entrance.”

  “I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary. We’re all set.”

  Just when I think that there’s no chance the media could have gotten wind of us being here already, I’m proven wrong. As soon as we step out of the glass doors, a camera flashes.

  Ripley stiffens in my arms, burying her face against my chest.

  “It’s okay. It’s just one guy. He’ll get a few photos and probably try to tail us.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “I’m not usually such a big draw. I swear it’s not always like this.”

  I glance down at her, and I think Ripley gets what I’m saying. The mess with Amber and then the press latching onto Ripley and me has made me way more entertaining copy that I’ve been in the last year. The happy-couple stories get old. What the media wants is drama.

  He follows us at a distance all the way to the car, watching as I get Ripley inside.

  After I close the door, I walk over to him. The guy looks a little scared, like I might decide to kick his ass. Valid concern.

  “You get everything you need, man?”

  His eyes bug out, probably with shock because I’m not yelling. “Uh, yeah. I think so.”

  I nod. “Good deal. Since you’r
e the only guy I see here, you got your exclusive for the night. We’re going home, and I guarantee there won’t be shit for you to see because we’ll be behind gates and trees. Save yourself some time and don’t bother following us. There’s no point.”

  “You’re going back to your place. With the girl? You together? What’s the deal with that?” He launches into a bunch of questions that I have no intention of answering.

  “I told you all I’m gonna tell you, so I’d really appreciate it if you’d move on, man.”

  He yanks a card from his pocket and holds it out. “If you ever want to—”

  I look down at it, and part of me wants to rip him a new one for overstepping, but I’m too tired tonight. I take it from him and shove it in my pocket.

  “Have a good one.”

  “You too, Mr. Thrasher. I hope Ms. Fischer is okay.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  38

  Ripley

  I’ve spent the last decade as a night owl, so being awake at three thirty in the morning isn’t unusual. But now I’m exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

  When Boone heads away from town, I don’t have the fortitude to argue with him about where I’m sleeping, because I have a feeling I would probably lose.

  Even with the outcome a foregone conclusion, any other night I would put up a fight. Tonight, I’m done.

  “If they never find my body, you know they’ll come after you,” I tell him as he merges onto the highway. “That paparazzi guy will make sure of it.”

  Boone’s eyes shift away from the road to me, shafts of light sliding across his face as the 442 accelerates. “You trying to say you think I’m a serial killer?”

  I shake my head before dropping it back against the seat. “No. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “You wanna tell me what went down with your dad?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to replay that memory anytime soon. “Nope.”

  “You wanna tell me about the douchebag in the bar?”

  I open my eyes a tad and check out Boone’s expression. “Law? Not really.”

  “Law?”

  I snort-chuckle at the way Boone says his name. “Yeah, short for Lawrence. He’s wanted to be a lawyer since he was a kid, so instead of going by his full name, he shortened it.”

  “I was right. Total douchebag. And you dated him?”

  Apparently, Boone didn’t catch my not really. I could choose not to answer, but he would badger me anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “And?” Boone changes lanes before taking the next exit.

  “And what? We dated. Then we were done.”

  His pointed look tells me that there’s no way in hell he believes it was that simple. “There’s more to the story than that.”

  Wanting to move on to a new subject, I give him the quick-and-dirty rundown. “He was in law school and I worked at the Fishbowl. Not only did our schedules not mesh, he wanted me to choose between him and the bar. So I did.”

  Boone slows at a stoplight ahead. “Why didn’t you choose the bar this time?”

  I look up at the red headliner because his question is a valid one. Every time I’ve been forced to choose between anything or anyone and the bar, I’ve chosen the Fishbowl. “I don’t know.” My tone is quiet and thoughtful.

  We don’t speak for the rest of the drive. When we pull up in front of an eight-foot-tall black metal gate, Boone slows and it swings open.

  “Sensor in the car,” he explains.

  I nod like that makes perfect sense, but automatic gates have never been part of my life. I can see why he’d need one given what he puts up with, though. The house doesn’t come into view for a good two minutes as we cruise up the long driveway through a field and then woods. Tucked away in the middle of what must be a massive piece of property is a sprawling rock-and-wood structure that looks like it would merit an episode of CMT’s Cribs.

  “Damn. You couldn’t build something a little bigger?”

  Boone laughs. “You sound like my brother. He gives me shit every time he’s here. Like why didn’t I build an indoor pool? Or a tennis court? It’s not like a bowling lane is enough entertainment.”

  “You have a bowling lane?”

  I blink as a massive garage door opens and he drives the 442 inside to park next to a huge black truck that looks like it cost more than the building the Fishbowl is located in.

  “I’ll show you tomorrow. Sit tight; I’m coming around to get you.”

  But I don’t. I open the car door and climb out, hopping on one foot and using the truck for balance. I’d feel bad about leaving fingerprints on it, but the mud on the tires tells me Boone’s not going to care.

  At least, not about the truck.

  “I told you to wait, dammit.” Before I protest, I’m cradled in Boone’s arms again and he carries me into the house.

  It’s dark, but when he flips on the lights, my mouth slackens. It’s gorgeous.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, I know. If someone had left all the designing up to me, I probably would’ve had antlers everywhere, but my decorator put the smackdown on that.”

  He brings me through a huge mud room, an insanely gorgeous kitchen that I barely have time to appreciate, and down a long hallway with a high ceiling. At the end of the hall, he walks into a massive bedroom with what has to be a California king in the center with a frame made of logs and leather.

  It’s so completely Boone.

  “Wow. This is . . . nice.” Inwardly I’m cringing, thinking about the fact that he was in my shitty little apartment.

  But at least you had your apartment then. Now your stuff is in boxes and a duffel bag next to a futon in your best friend’s living room.

  The world of difference between our situations couldn’t be more obvious, and yet Boone isn’t flashy about his money. Law had waited a whole thirty seconds before he told me his salary to try to impress me. I’ve never heard Boone talk about money . . . ever.

  Maybe that’s because he has so much, it’s not something he even thinks about.

  Boone lowers me onto the bed. “You’re staying in here.”

  “But this is your room.” My tone takes on a hint of panic.

  “Good eye.”

  “I can’t stay in here. With you.”

  Boone crosses both arms over his chest. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I can’t. That’s not— It just— I can’t.”

  Boone tugs off his ball cap and drops it on top of a nightstand before running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “It’s too late to argue about this. Let’s wash up, get some sleep, and figure it out in the morning.”

  I’m not trying to be ungrateful—really, I’m not—but I can’t share a bed with Boone. I know we slept together, but this is intimacy on a whole different level.

  “But—”

  “You’ve got a sprained ankle and you’re wearing a damn Aircast. It’s not like I’m gonna try to fuck you tonight, Rip. We both need sleep.”

  My nipples, traitorous little bitches that they are, perk up when he says try to fuck you. Boone doesn’t miss it.

  “No matter how bad I want to.”

  The heat blazing in his blue eyes sears me. For long moments, I meet his stare, and with each passing second, that heat spreads through my body.

  What is it about this man that sets me off like no one ever has before? It’s not fair that I have no control over my physical reactions when it comes to Boone.

  I swallow, wishing he’d say something.

  “You’re killing me, sugar. You keep looking at me like that, and I won’t be able to keep my word.” His tone is husky, dripping with promise, and I’m seconds away from giving in.

  Surprisingly, Boone breaks our stare first, turning and jamming his hands in his pockets. When he turns back around a few moments later, the heat is banked.

&
nbsp; “I’ll carry you into the bathroom and you can do your thing. Holler if you need any help. There’s probably an extra toothbrush in the bottom drawer. Housekeeper stashes them in every bathroom.”

  Without any more discussion, he picks me up off the bed and takes me to a bathroom bigger than my apartment. Well, my old apartment. After Boone carefully lowers my feet to the floor, he shuts the door behind me, and I hobble to the toilet and sit down on the lid.

  What am I doing here?

  Taking a deep breath, I pull up my metaphorical big-girl panties and do what I need to do. With my face washed and teeth brushed, I open the door to find Boone tossing a T-shirt and sweats on the bed. Both massive.

  “You can change while I’m in there.” He picks me up and moves me back to the bed before tossing the clothes closer to me. “This is the best I could do on short notice. I’ll be back in a few.” The words are stilted, missing the easiness I’m used to from him.

  Boone disappears into the bathroom and I hastily change. The T-shirt is like a dress on me, the same size as the one he put on me when I was drunk that night outside the White Horse, so I forgo the sweatpants. It might be a bad idea, but they’re way too big.

  I eye the bed. This is a terrible idea. But I climb under the covers anyway, and pull them up to my chin.

  My brilliant plan includes pretending to be asleep by the time he gets out of the bathroom, but I don’t have to fake it. Exhaustion pulls me under in record time.

  39

  Boone

  A streak of possessiveness flashes through me when I see Ripley sound asleep in the middle of my bed.

  I never felt like that with Amber, probably because she didn’t like this room and insisted on staying in one of the guest suites on the rare occasion she spent the night here.

  The more insights I have like this about Amber, the more I understand that I dodged a bullet. My pride may have taken a beating, but I was lucky it happened the way it did. I was so caught up with the idea of having someone who was only mine, and starting a family and building a life together, that I was blind to the fact that the person I picked wasn’t the right one.