by Meghan March
Is there anything this woman could do that wouldn’t turn me on? I suspect the answer to that question is a solid no.
Once again, I can’t help but think of the one time I tried to get Amber to go out on an ATV with me to see my property. She’d looked at me like I’d asked her to walk through a pit of vipers. She was an LA girl, and not interested in learning about the country way of life. At least, not the part that was the real me.
Even now that she’s out of my life, she’s still causing me grief. When I was putting up the rifle, my phone wouldn’t stop pinging with texts from Nick. Amber is back in Nashville, making demands and causing trouble. Just what I don’t need right now . . . so I left my phone in the house because I wasn’t about to let her ruin this night.
Ripley’s practically vibrating with excitement. She turns her head to the side. “Are you going to let me drive? Or are you one of those guys who won’t let a woman do it when you’re around?”
As much as I want to say no way in hell am I letting her drive because she’s never been on an ATV before, I know she’s fully capable. My five-year-old nephew can run around the yard on his.
“How about on the way back?”
“Deal.”
Something about Ripley makes me wonder what it would be like to make a lot more deals with her. I told myself she was a distraction in the beginning. Someone to take my mind off the fact that Amber fucked me over so hard, but that didn’t last long.
Hell, the first time I got my hands on Ripley, I knew this was something else. Having her in my house, fitting into my life so easily, drives it home.
My future with Amber was always a hazy concept. I couldn’t picture her walking down the aisle of a simple country church to meet me at the front while my family gathered around. I couldn’t see us arguing about what to name a kid, or her trying to talk me out of splurging on Christmas toys so our kids wouldn’t be spoiled brats.
All I could see with Amber was walking down a red carpet while she posed and cameras flashed around us, or maybe sitting next to her at an awards show. Maybe that’s because when I look back on it, I realize we didn’t do a lot more than that together.
But Ripley? She slides into all the other scenes I’ve pictured having in my life like she was always meant to be there. It should scare the ever-living hell out of me, but it doesn’t.
I’ve learned a lot of things in my life already, including the fact that shit happens for a reason, even when you don’t know why at the time. My brother got half his leg blown off in Afghanistan, and there was nothing that could make me understand why that had to happen. But fate had me there on a USO tour at the same time, and I was able to be by his side in Germany as they fought to save his life.
And when he came home early, frustrated and cursing fate for condemning him to this life, he met his wife while she was visiting her brother at Walter Reed. He tells it as love at first sight. She says he was doped up on painkillers, but either way, now they have an amazing boy, another on the way, and a house down the road from my parents.
The worst thing to happen in his life led him to the best thing. You can’t tell me that wasn’t meant to be.
I’m hoping life has a similar plan in store for me. The darkest moment taking me down a path that leads me to the light.
“Are we gonna ride this thing or what, superstar?” Ripley wiggles her ass on my lap, the excitement in her tone loud and clear.
I wrap my fist around her ponytail and tug it to one side as I lean forward, dragging my teeth down the tendon of her neck before adding some pressure at the curve of her shoulder.
Ripley inhales harshly before squirming again, this time for a completely different reason.
“First, we’re gonna ride this thing, and then I’m gonna ride you.”
She arches back, unable to move because of my grip on her hair. “Is that right?”
“Damn right.”
A shiver ripples through her body.
“You wet, sugar?”
“You’ll have to wait to find that out for yourself.”
Her words goad me into firing up the ATV. I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back so she’s flush against me.
“Hold on tight.” I give it some gas and steer us toward our destination.
Fifteen minutes later, I stop the ATV beside my stocked pond. Sure, I took a longer route than usual to get here, but that’s because I wasn’t ready to let Ripley off my lap.
She sucks in an audible breath when she sees the little dock that stops thirty feet into the twenty-acre pond as the sun starts sinking in an explosion of reds, oranges, and yellows.
“It’s beautiful here.”
“Glad you like it. We’re gonna have us a picnic.”
Ripley twists around to look at me. “I never would’ve guessed that you were a picnic kind of guy.”
The breeze catches a piece of her hair that pulled free of her ponytail, and I brush it away from her face. Even though the weather hasn’t taken much of a chill, I’m glad I grabbed a blanket to bring along with us.
“A beautiful woman, a trout pond, a sunset, and cold wings? Those are some of my favorite things. Put ’em all together and it’s the perfect evening.”
48
Ripley
Just like that, Boone crushes my remaining preconceived notions.
When he climbs off the ATV, he leaves me on the seat. “Hold tight a second. Let me get this set up, and then I’ll bring you down.”
“I can walk, superstar. For real. My ankle feels way better.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Tomorrow. Take one more night to let it heal up, and then we’ll talk about it.”
When is the last time anyone cared this much or worried about me like this?
Maybe my mama when I broke my wrist falling down the stairs when I was six? Definitely not Pop. He complained about me being clumsy and running up doctor bills. Of course, he didn’t see the irony when he fell down the same stairs drunk and ended up in surgery with loads more bills that I got stuck paying for.
Boone takes a blanket, spreads it out at the end of the dock, and sits the bag of takeout on it before coming back for me.
“My dad used to take me fishing when I was a kid, and sometimes, if I was lucky, my granddad would come too. Always at the crack of dawn. I never wanted to get up that early, but I also wasn’t gonna miss a chance to hang out with them.”
He keeps talking as he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the blanket.
“Granddad had a pond double this size on his property, and we’d all sit on the end of the dock, or sometimes pile into an old rowboat and head out to the middle. Dad would critique my casting, showing me how to do it better, and then Granddad would critique his teaching method and show us both how to perfect it.”
I can picture a little boy with Boone’s dark hair and blue eyes watching raptly as the two most important men in his life passed down their knowledge.
“That sounds like an amazing way to grow up.”
Boone lowers me to the blanket at the end of the dock where my feet dangle over the edge, and joins me. The water is low enough that I can’t touch it, but not so low that I can’t see the little disturbances in the surface where bugs land and fish come up to the surface to try to grab them.
“It was. We’d haul in as many fish as we could, keeping count of who had the most. Granddad always won, for the record. Then we’d take ’em back to the house and my mom would be there with Granny T, and they’d wait for us to filet ’em all and then fry up a whole mess of them. We’d eat outside on the picnic table, drinking sweet tea and eating whatever vegetables had come from the garden that day.”
The picture Boone paints of his childhood is . . . perfect.
“That sounds incredible. Like something straight out of a movie.”
Boone chuckles as he hands me a container of wings. “I wouldn’t say that. There was plenty of stuff that wasn’t perfect. Trying to pull together the money to buy new shingles to
fix the roof one summer because Ma didn’t have any more pots and pans to catch the drips. I tried to quit guitar lessons so they could put the money toward the roof, but Ma wouldn’t let me. Instead, she traded out preserves for Mrs. Winston, the high school music teacher, to start me on the piano too. I thought Dad was gonna be pissed, but he wasn’t. He just told me that learning every skill that came my way was the smartest thing I could do to make a better future for myself.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat. What I remember most is Mama and me trying to dodge Pop’s slaps for things we didn’t do well enough, and Pop putting me to work as soon as I was big enough to haul a case of beer. She’d argued with him about that, but it ended with her having a split lip and me working.
Other than going to school, I barely set foot outside the Fishbowl and our apartment while growing up. Maybe it was better that way. Less chance for people to ask about the bruises.
A wave of sadness threatens to overwhelm me, so I turn the conversation back to Boone.
“You still close with your folks?”
Boone, in the middle of chewing, nods and finishes before he answers. “Definitely. I see them as often as I can. They’re the most real people in my life.”
“What do you mean?” I ask before diving into my own wings.
“You can tell I didn’t grow up with money. We had a whole lot of love, but not a lot of extras. I didn’t want for anything, though. They found a way to make sure I had what I needed, and I didn’t ask for more than that. They’re the same way now. They wouldn’t dream of asking me for something. No one in my family expects handouts. Shit, I had to pay off my parents’ mortgage in secret because they wouldn’t take the check I wrote from my first record deal. I tried to buy my dad a new truck but he told me no, his old one was still running fine.” Boone pauses and laughs. “He’ll be surprised when one shows up for his birthday this year, though, whether he wants it or not.”
Along with the warmth that accompanies the vision of Boone’s dad getting a new truck comes a wave of despair. Will the last words Pop ever speaks to me be the ones in anger? Then again, when was the last time he actually said something kind?
I search my memory, and all I can find is criticism about how I ran the bar and didn’t make enough money, or some other negative thing he found to complain about.
The shaft of pain that stabs me through the heart is regret for the relationship I’ll never have with either of my parents.
“And Ma,” Boone continues. “She’s always wanted a convertible. She’d deny it as being too impractical, but I’ve seen the way she looks at them, especially in those old movies she loves where the women wrap their hair in a scarf so the wind doesn’t mess it up. I should wait until Christmas, but then the roads might not cooperate, so she’s getting her convertible when Dad gets his truck. And a whole box of scarves wrapped up in the front seat.”
He’s buying his mother scarves for her hair for her convertible. I squeeze my eyes shut at the sting of tears springing forth at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Boone Thrasher is a good man. And yet, I feel like not many people really know the truth about him.
“How did anyone ever paint you as the bad boy of country music?” I ask.
He leans back on the dock and glances at me before staring off into the sunset.
“Don’t get the idea that I’m some sort of saint, sugar. I’ve done plenty of shit I shouldn’t have. Especially when I first started riding that wave of fame. It’s a crazy world out there. Not only does everyone want something from you, but all of a sudden, the barriers start coming down.”
“Barriers?”
“The roadblocks to all the things you wanted that you couldn’t have before. The money, the cars, the houses, the women, the fans, the venues, the interviews. It’s all there, just waiting for you to take what you want from it. And then there’s the booze and the drugs, and God knows none of that shit mixes well together.”
“I can’t even imagine what that would be like.”
Boone turns back to me. “It’s a blessing and a curse. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything, except for maybe to have my privacy and anonymity back. You’ve already seen it. It’s hard to make a move without someone saying something about it, or the press getting wind of it and twisting it into something it isn’t. Then you’ve got the pressure to put out another number-one hit, a platinum album, a sold-out show . . .”
These are all things I never would have really considered, but he’s right. When you think about how famous musicians live, it’s easy to only think about the good parts, and not the crushing responsibilities and expectations that go along with it.
“How do you handle it?”
Boone smiles but it’s a little lopsided, and something about it makes me want to kiss it off his face.
“At first, I loved every second, but when it started to get old, there was a lot of booze, women, and drugs. And there were some fights . . . My brother kicked my ass when he showed up at a show, and I was high as a kite and barely recognized him. He reminded me that what I have is a privilege and I needed to be smart about it. I’m not saying I don’t still get high on occasion, but it’s nothing like the road I was on for a bit.”
My eyes must be wide because Boone adds, “Don’t look so surprised. You know I’m no Boy Scout.”
I shake my head. “That’s not why I’m surprised. It’s just you sound so self-aware about it all.”
This time he laughs, and it’s a genuine one. “Because I am. I’ve got a family that keeps me grounded and stops me from screwing up too bad. And then I’ve got moments like this, when I can get away from being Boone Thrasher, country music’s bad boy, and just be Boone. Catching my own dinner, cleaning it, and cooking it has a tendency to remind me that even though some things have changed, I’m still the same redneck I’ve always been.” He shoots me a wink. “Although my kitchen’s a little fancier these days, the fish still tastes the same.”
I can’t help but voice the thought I had earlier. “You’re a good man, Boone.”
His smile takes on a wicked edge. “I might be a good man, but I want to do very bad things to you.”
That heat between my legs flares into a rush of need. With my fingers sticky from wings, I lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. My voice is husky when I speak again.
“Good. I can’t wait.”
Boone deepens the kiss, and I’m wondering if we’re going to get naked right on this dock, but the sound of another ATV coming toward the pond breaks us apart.
“What the fuck?”
A headlight cuts through the dusk, shining on us.
“Boone! You gotta come back to the house. We got a big fucking problem,” Anthony yells.
“What kind of problem?”
“The cops. They’re here with a warrant for your arrest.”
Boone and Ripley’s story concludes in Real Sexy.
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I’d love to hear what you thought about Real Dirty! If you have a few moments to leave a review on the retailer’s site where you purchased the book, I’d be incredibly grateful. Send me a link at [email protected], and I’ll thank you with a personal note.
Also by Meghan March
Standalone
Take Me Back
Bad Judgment
Beneath Series:
Beneath This Mask
Beneath This Ink
Beneath These Chains
Beneath These Scars
Beneath These Lies
Beneath These Shadows
Beneath The Truth (Coming late summer 2017)
Flash Bang Series:
Flash Bang
Hard Charger
Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:
Dirty Billionaire
Dirty Pleasures
Dirty Together
Dirty Girl Duet:
&nb
sp; Dirty Girl
Dirty Love
Real Duet:
Real Good Man
Real Good Love
Real Dirty Duet:
Real Dirty
Real Sexy
Acknowledgments
I’m starting to lose count of how many books I’ve written, but one thing I can never lose sight of is how blessed I am to have amazing readers. Thank you for following me on this journey. I can’t wait to give you more stories.
To my entire team, I love you all, and I couldn’t do this without you. Let’s keep doing this for a long, long time, okay?
Author’s Note
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About the Author
Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in the woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut.
Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty-talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.
She loves hearing from her readers at [email protected].
@meghan_march
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