by Meghan March
Well, suffice it to say my cheeks burn with embarrassment, but thankfully it’s not like I left an ass print behind on the table.
“You hungry?” Anthony asks.
The bag of Lay’s that’s now empty on the counter didn’t quite fill me up, and the scent of wing sauce coming from the bags has me climbing off the stool and making my way to the table.
Anthony frowns at me. “Thought you were hurt? You trying to pull some shit over on my man, Boone? Because if you are, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
I plop down on one of the chairs and lift my ankle for him to inspect. The bruising is a lovely mix of black and purple today. “It looks worse than it feels, at least with the ibuprofen. As long as I don’t try to dance an Irish jig, I’m pretty sure walking on it isn’t going to kill me.”
With his frown still firmly in place, Anthony lifts a takeout container from the bag. “Boone ain’t gonna be happy to see you walking around. He said he didn’t even want you trying crutches, so I didn’t bring any.”
My eyes widen. “Are you kidding me? What does he expect me to do? Levitate to the bathroom if he can’t carry me?”
Anthony winces. “I’m guessing he didn’t think it all the way through. He’s just worried about you. Thinks all this shit is his fault.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m really okay. Seriously. Providing you don’t take the drugs away, it just aches a little.” I scan the containers as he continues to lift them out of the bags. “Did you bring enough for the entire band? Because this seems a little excessive for only a couple people.”
“Boone likes leftovers. Says he wrote some of his best songs eatin’ cold wings, so the man gets all the wings so he can eat ’em cold later.”
Interesting. That’s a little quirk I knew nothing about, but then again, there’s a lot I don’t know about Boone. I decide to go on a fact-finding mission.
“How old is he?”
Anthony’s gaze cuts to me. “You haven’t googled him?” When I shake my head, he looks truly surprised. “Shit, woman. You gotta be the only bitch ever been in his bed who hasn’t.”
I raise a hand. “Don’t call me a bitch. I don’t like it.”
Anthony shrugs. “Didn’t mean no disrespect.”
I shake it off. “I know, but I’d appreciate if you substitute some other word in the future.”
Before he responds, the back door shuts again and Boone appears in the breakfast nook, or really cavern, because it’s a huge chunk of the room.
“Thanks, man. You always know what I like.” Boone moves to stand behind me and drops his hands onto my shoulders. “You keep yourself entertained and off your ankle like a good girl?”
I open my mouth to tell the tiniest white lie, but Anthony beats me.
“When I came in, she was alphabetizing your spice cupboard.” He jerks his shoulder toward the kitchen, and Boone takes in the bar stool and mess of bottles on the counter that he walked by moments ago without noticing.
His hands tighten on my shoulders. “Ripley . . .”
I crane my head around to look at him. “It’s not like you can expect me to sit on the couch and do nothing for hours. I’m pretty sure I don’t actually know how to do nothing. I’m used to being busy.”
Boone shakes his head and leans down to whisper in my ear. “You know how I mentioned I had plans for that amazing ass of yours? Now they include leaving my handprint on it to get my point across.”
My eyes go wide, and I glance at Anthony to see if he heard. Either he didn’t or he’s skilled at pretending.
When I don’t respond, Boone squeezes my shoulders again and drags his lips to my temple to press a kiss there.
He steps back and scans the containers. “What kind of wings do you want? We’ve got Caribbean jerk, Asian, hot, honey barbecue, and habanero.”
“Habanero and hot.”
He glances back at me. “The fact that you like ’em spicy shouldn’t surprise me at all.”
I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but he loads up my plate and invites Anthony to eat with us.
There’s something about Boone inviting an employee to join us in mowing down this feast that hits me square in the chest. It’s one more instance of my preconceived notions being systematically proven wrong.
Don’t get me wrong, Boone’s still an arrogant asshole sometimes, but he’s not the entitled man diva I expected.
Anthony sits at the table like he’s done it hundreds of times before, and I’m guessing he has. Watching their interaction and how they rib each other, it’s clear that he isn’t solely an employee to Boone. He’s also a friend.
“So, you get those interviews knocked out?” Anthony asks.
I’m curious about this too, because I felt like shit that Boone missed something because of me.
A pissed-off expression flashes across Boone’s features before he wipes it away. “Yeah, I did. But I’m telling Nick and Charity that I’m done with them if they can’t leave the personal questions out of it. I’m there to talk about my music, and that’s it.”
Anthony glances at me, and heat works its way up my neck to my cheeks. Were they questions about me or about the ex? Or both? I’d put my money on the last.
The head of security changes the subject. “You got plans for the rest of the day? Writing?”
I assume writing means writing songs, and my assumption is confirmed when Boone shrugs.
“Nah. Not feeling the words right now. I’m still finding my rhythm for these last few.” His attention shifts to me. “I was thinking I’d set up some targets and see if this city girl can shoot.”
My eyebrows climb up my forehead. “Say what now?”
“You and me and a couple of long guns on the porch. You’re in the country; you gotta do some country shit. And I can guarantee you won’t be walking all over the house on that ankle.”
“I’m fine. I swear. It barely even hurts.”
“Because you took pain meds. That doesn’t mean you’re all better, sugar. You gotta take it easy.”
“The doctor said a few days. Tomorrow is basically three days, and it’s already afternoon, so I’m pretty much there.” My argument may be ridiculous, but it’s the only one I’ve got. “Besides, I’ll go stir crazy if you expect me to sit on that couch all day eating bonbons. I’m not that kind of girl.”
A smile twitches the edge of his mouth. “I figured that out.” He trades a meaningful look with Anthony, and I have no idea what kind of silent conversation they’re having.
When we finish eating, Boone and Anthony carry the containers of leftovers to the fridge, and Anthony bursts out laughing when he opens the door.
Boone spins around to look at me. “What the hell happened to my fridge?”
45
Boone
Ripley is a nut, but damned if I don’t like her exactly that way. I leave the girl for a couple of hours, and instead of taking it easy, she reorganized most of my kitchen.
I can’t help but picture Amber in the same situation. She wouldn’t have moved her ass off the couch. She would have called me every five minutes to fetch and carry for her. I would have wanted to strangle her within a half hour because of the constant interruptions. If one hundred percent of my attention wasn’t fixed on her whenever we were in the same place, she’d stage a snit fit to end all snit fits.
At the time, I’d just assumed that’s what you had to put up with when you were with someone long-term, like embracing their flaws with their strengths, but now I know that’s total bullshit.
Amber was probably a little bit of a bitch.
Ripley, on the other hand, is a straight-up nut.
I’ll take a nut over a bitch any day, even though she’s staring at the .22 in my hands like it’s going to jump up and bite her.
“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” Esteban squawks through the open window where he watches from his cage.
“Zip it, bird,” I say over my shoulder before looking back at Ripley.
“You ever shoot a gun before?”
She shakes her head, still warily eying the Winchester rifle.
“Then it’s about time you learn. Never know when you might need the skill.”
“Maybe we could try something smaller first?”
“Like a BB gun? Because that’s about all that’s gonna be smaller. Maybe a pellet gun.” I take in her expression. “You scared?”
That question has Ripley straightening her shoulders in no time. “Of course not.”
“That’s what I thought. Time to learn to shoot.”
Anthony went out after we were done eating and put targets up in all the usual places, including a few closer ones for Ripley to start with. Is that really part of his job as head of security? Nope, but he does it anyway because he’s a cool guy, even though he’s got his hands full with managing the rest of my security issues, including running down any and all possible threats that come through my e-mail and other fan mail. It’s not a small job. Apparently a lot of people think I’m an asshole.
Maybe subconsciously, that’s why I want to know Ripley can handle a gun. I’ve only had one crazy ass actually make an attempt to shoot me, but you never know what could happen with the whack jobs out there.
“Let’s make a wager. You hit three targets in a row before we’re done, and I’ll eat your pussy until you come three times. Hard.”
It’s not really much of a wager because I’m planning on doing it anyway, but Ripley doesn’t know that. She shifts in the deck chair I pulled up for her, and I bet she’s getting wet.
I love that, for the record.
“That way you’ll be all sweet and relaxed for me before I play with your ass.”
Her gaze darts to mine. “We’re . . . you mean . . . tonight?”
I wink. “We’re just getting started. Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow.”
She mumbles something under her breath, and it sounds like how am I supposed to concentrate now?
“All right, watch me demonstrate.” After going through all the parts of the gun and showing her how everything works, including the safety, I hand her some ear protectors and start popping off rounds, causing four of the targets to spin.
Her eyes are wide when I lower the rifle and engage the safety.
“You’re good at that.” She yells the words because her ears are covered, and it’s really fucking cute.
I remove my ear protectors and lift hers off too. “Sugar, I’m as redneck as it gets. Just because I got money doesn’t mean I’ve changed who I really am.”
“I like that about you.”
It might not seem like much in the way of compliments, but it’s sincere, and knowing about Ripley and her past, it’s pretty huge to me.
“There’s a hell of a lot I like about you, Ripley Fischer. Now, it’s your turn. Put the muffs back on and get ready to kick some target ass.”
46
Ripley
“There’s a hell of a lot I like about you, Ripley Fischer.”
I swear, at least fifty percent of what comes out of Boone Thrasher’s mouth makes me want to jump him. How does he do that?
He even looks as sexy as hell shooting that gun, which is something I never thought in my entire life about another human being, even a hot actor on TV.
When I take the gun from him, my nerves ratchet up to red-alert levels. Ma and Gil were shot. They were both dead in minutes, the coroner’s report said.
“You okay?” Boone asks.
I snap out of my thoughts and back to the present.
“Yeah. Fine.” I know I’m yelling, but I don’t care. If I talk quietly, I can’t even hear myself.
Boone helps me position the rifle against my shoulder. I look down the sight like he explained, bringing the little metal part on the tip between the two metal pieces closer to me. When I’ve got a round orange target sighted in, I squeeze the trigger.
I jerk at the pop, but the target doesn’t spin like Boone’s did.
“You scared yourself. Anticipating the recoil. But now you know there really isn’t one, so you can calm down and nail that target. Got it?”
Boone speaks loudly enough that I can hear him through my ear protection, and I nod.
For some strange reason, even though I wasn’t really keen on doing this, now I’m determined. I want to hit that damn target.
It has nothing to do with the orgasms he promised me.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I focus on the same target and take a deep breath after I line up the sight, letting it out before I squeeze the trigger. I don’t know where the bullet hits but the target spins, indicating I made contact. I raise my head.
“I did it!”
Boone takes the rifle from my hands and engages the safety before kissing the crap out of me.
“That’s my girl,” he says, quietly enough that I almost can’t hear him through the muffs.
Warmth slides through my chest, and it scares the ever-loving hell out of me.
I like him. A lot.
Boone keeps me at the target shooting until my stomach grumbles, but I still haven’t hit my three targets in a row. I can nail two, but then I choke up and freeze on the third. He taps me on the shoulder after the last time I pull the trigger and there’s only a click.
“Let’s pack it up and go eat some of those leftover wings. I can’t have you starving out here.”
I lift the earmuff off one ear. “Do you have more bullets? I’m going one more time.”
Boone’s dark eyebrow rises and he studies me. “Is that right?”
I nod.
“You know I’m gonna make you come hard regardless? Because, sugar, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life when you finally let down your guard.” That warm feeling burns hot again. “Especially when I’m looking at your face from between your legs.” Boone winks.
The warm feeling doesn’t fade when he turns into a smartass. It morphs into flames between my thighs.
Boone Thrasher is dangerous . . . in the best way possible.
“Bullets,” I say, holding out a hand.
“Anyone ever told you that you’re more stubborn than a mule?” Instead of holding out his hand for me to give him the magazine like he had the rest of the afternoon, he drops ten rounds in my hand.
“I don’t think anyone I know has ever owned a mule.”
“My folks used to have one at their place. They adopted it from some farmer who was going to sell it to the glue factory or some shit like that, and my ma wouldn’t stand for it after she heard about it. Got my daddy up at dawn to go down and bargain with the old man. Ma sat in the truck with a shotgun in her lap, just in case he wouldn’t deal, at least according to my dad.”
“She sounds feisty.”
A smile stretches over Boone’s face. “She sure is. Best woman I’ve ever known. Call me a mama’s boy if you want, but I owe that woman everything.” He watches as I load the magazine with painstaking care. “You’ll have to take a ride down there with me and meet them. They’d like you. Ma would recognize a kindred spirit.”
My hand shakes when he talks about me meeting his folks. Like this is something more than me being the rebound after his relationship with his ex-girlfriend went balls up in the most spectacular fashion.
“They sound like great people.” I shove the magazine back into place, readjust my ear protection, and lift the rifle to my shoulder. “It’s game time,” I whisper to myself as I aim at the first target.
It’s shaped like a squirrel, and I’ve been getting lucky with it all day.
Sorry, Mr. Squirrel. You’re only plastic. I wouldn’t shoot you in real life.
I squeeze the trigger and pop off the first round.
Hit! The squirrel spins on his metal frame.
Boone’s cheer comes from beside me, and I have to fight to keep my concentration instead of letting my triumphant smile loose. No celebrating until it’s done and won.
I move on to target number two, this one some kind of r
odent. I slow my breathing and squeeze.
Hit! Inside, I do a little dance, but I make no outward sign of my excitement because I’ve already gotten this far a couple of times.
Keep your expectations low, Rip. Isn’t that what life has taught you? Best way to avoid disappointment.
Depressing words, but true.
I find target number three. It’s a rabbit. I’ve missed it four or five times. Maybe because I think rabbits are super cute and I wanted one from the pet store when I was seven, but Pop said no way would he let that thing in the apartment. I almost switch back to the squirrel, something I know I can hit, but I’m determined. What’s the point of winning if I don’t do it in a way that means something?
Setting my sights on the rabbit, I picture the little furry bastard flipping me off and mocking me for all my misses. Not so cute now, asshole.
I hold my breath as I pull the trigger. It spins!
My finger slams over the safety, engaging it before I jump out of my seat and toss off my earmuffs. Boone takes the rifle from my hand, sets it aside, and clutches me around the waist to lift me in the air over his head and twirl me around in a circle.
“One hell of a shot for someone who’s never picked up a rifle in her life. Damn, sugar, that was badass.”
He lowers me, letting my front slide down his entire body. The heat that had bloomed between my legs is back.
I want him. I try to piece together the words in my head to tell him, stumbling over something so simple, and then I lose my chance because my stomach growls again.
Boone carries me into the house.
“First, I’m gonna deliver on those promises, then we’re gonna get some of those leftover wings together and go for a ride. I got something I want to show you.”
47
Boone
I lower Ripley onto the seat of the ATV, strap down our food in the rack at the back, and settle myself right behind her, lifting her onto my lap.
She’s the perfect size to fit there, with the luscious curve of her ass pressing against my dick.