Real Sexy: Book 2 of The Real Dirty Duet

by Meghan March

  “I think we can make it a little better.”

  I lean toward her, and she presses a hand to my chest. “You need to take it easy, superstar. I want to see your ass on the couch, kicked back and watching TV. I’ll get you a soda and find something to make for dinner.”

  “Anthony’s bringing takeout and a cake.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Not necessary.”

  “Completely necessary. Now, let’s go inside where you can exercise your birthday-girl privileges and pick what you want to watch while we wait.”

  * * *

  She picked Boondock Saints. If there was any remaining question of whether Ripley was the perfect woman for me, that ended the discussion. I was ready to watch whatever chick flick or rom-com she wanted, but Ripley again proved that she’s not like anyone else.

  Mine.

  The garage door opens and Anthony calls, “Honey, I’m home, and I brought dinner.”

  “Shit house.” Esteban has been an asshole during the entire movie, repeating lines and phrases. Apparently, he’s expanding his vocabulary.

  Anthony walks into the living room and glances toward the cage. “Did that damn bird just call me a shit house?”

  Ripley tries to stifle her laugh but fails. “I think he means brick shithouse, if it makes you feel any better. I’d say that’s as close to a compliment as he gets.”

  Anthony shakes his head as he stares in the bird’s direction. “Guess he gets a pass.”

  Anthony is built like a brick shithouse, and I’m trying to recall if I’ve said that in front of the bird or if his creative streak is stronger than I realized.

  “How many words and phrases does he know?” I ask Ripley.

  She shrugs. “I googled it once and read they can learn over two hundred, but he’s still shy of a hundred.”

  “Smart cookie.”

  We all look toward the bird as he preens. Then I take in the bags in Anthony’s hands.

  “You get it all?”

  He nods. “Obviously. Girl, next time, it would go a long way if you could give me some advance warning for this shit. I know I’m pretty damn amazing, but miracles take a little more time.”

  Ripley’s cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t need a miracle. I didn’t need anything.”

  Anthony crosses over to the table and sets the bags down before fishing something out of one.

  “Not true. You definitely needed this.” He comes toward us with his hand tucked behind his back. When he stops next to the couch, he reveals a silver tiara with pink rhinestones.

  Ripley’s eyes go wide as she looks up at Anthony, at the tiara, and then to me. “You didn’t need to do that,” she whispers.

  “Every woman needs to be a princess sometimes. Happy birthday,” Anthony says, settling it on her head.

  “Damn, man. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to snake my girl.”

  Anthony winks at me. “Just forcing you to raise the bar. If you’ll give me another minute, I’ll set out dinner and put the cake on the counter for when you’re ready. Shit, I forgot the balloons in the car. Hold on.”

  He disappears, and Ripley adjusts her tiara and shakes her head at me.

  “What?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re something else.”

  “A good something, I hope.”

  She smiles and her whole face lights up. “The best.”

  I decide in that moment I’d move heaven and earth to bring that smile to Ripley’s face as often as possible.

  32

  Ripley

  Boone turns off the lights and walks toward the table with candles glowing atop the cake. As he walks, he sings “Happy Birthday” in the most devastating rendition I’ve ever heard.

  When he stops, I’m dangerously close to tears. I rein it in and take a deep breath, preparing to blow out the candles.

  “Hold up. You gotta make a wish first.”

  The top of the cake looks like it’s in danger of setting off the fire alarms with all thirty of the candles, so I know I need to think fast if I’m going to have any frosting that’s wax-free.

  “I don’t need anything. This is already perfect.”

  “Just make a wish, Ripley. Something big and scary that you’ve never dared wish before.”

  With his face flickering in the candlelight, something comes to mind. Like Boone ordered, it’s big and scary, and I’ve never let myself think about it before.

  “That. That right there. Whatever you’re thinking right now, hold it in your mind and blow out those candles, birthday girl.”

  I swallow back the lump in my throat and take a deep breath. Part of me is terrified to do it because of what it could mean if that wish came true, but another part of me jumps to the forefront and makes sure every flame is doused by the time I finish.

  “Happy birthday, Ripley,” Boone whispers before his lips slide across mine, stealing a kiss.

  When he pulls back, my mind is blank except for the wish shining like a beacon.

  * * *

  “I need two vodka tonics with lime, a Budweiser, and a margarita,” one of the cocktail waitresses calls across the bar, and I snap into action.

  It’s Tuesday, and one of Nashville’s hottest new artists is setting up onstage. The White Horse is packed tonight. Hope is off, and the rest of us are hustling to keep up with orders from people at the bar and waitresses on the floor.

  I set the drinks on the tray and slap the ticket beside them.

  “Thanks, hon.” With a nod, the waitress disappears into the crowd, balancing the tray like the pro she is.

  I give my ankle a stretch, still feeling the twinge that creeps up on me. Running down the bleachers, vaulting over a fence, and sprinting through dirt at the rodeo didn’t help matters, but I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

  I move down the bar, wiping it with a rag as I go, and look up at the next group to take their orders. I freeze as I make eye contact with the two women.

  Holy. Shit.

  I look around, but no one seems to notice that a country music legend is sitting at the bar, or that one of the hottest female artists of the year is perched on the stool next to her.

  Tana Vines and Holly Wix.

  Actually, now I suppose she’s technically Holly Wix Karas, wife of the infamous billionaire who tracked her down after a one-night stand and married her. I followed the whole story on a gossip site that I now avoid after seeing pictures of me with Boone on there.

  Pull it together, Rip.

  “What can I get for you, ladies?”

  “Sprite for me,” Holly Wix says with a smile. “But Tana needs a glass of your best red.”

  Tana shoots Holly a look. “You told me you were planning on pumping and dumping. You can drink, dammit. I’m not drinking by myself.”

  “I can’t do that. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  Tana rolls her eyes. “Wait until kid number two. You won’t think twice about it.”

  “Either way, I’m not drinking tonight. We’re lucky Crey was still in his office, or I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the house in the first place.”

  My gaze bounces back and forth between them like a Ping-Pong game.

  “That man . . . I swear. He would’ve put a team of ten security guys on us rather than just my two.”

  For the first time, I see the two men in suits taking up space just to the side and behind the women, blocking them from view with shoulders the size of linebackers.

  “That’s why we have to make this quick before he tracks us down, swoops in, and carries me out of here.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. I knew this Karas guy sounded like an asshole in the press, but . . .

  “You know you love that alpha shit. God knows I do too. When Mick lays down the law and says he’s going to paddle my ass . . .” Tana shifts. “Anyhoo, there go my panties.”

  I feel like I’m overhearing a conversation I shouldn’t be privy to, but I ca
n’t stop listening as I fill a glass with ice and Sprite and reach for our best bottle of red.

  I set the glasses in front of them, and it hits me that Holly and Boone have recorded duets together. They even did one live . . . Oh hell, was that the night Amber stood him up? Crap, it was.

  Her presence here can’t be a coincidence.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, ladies?”

  Holly leans an elbow on the bar and looks me in the eye. “Yes, there’s one big thing. I’d really like to hear you sing, Ripley Fischer. Someone showed me a video, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. And then I saw another video, and I called up Zane Frisco to get the scoop.”

  Shock has stolen my vocabulary, but that doesn’t seem to bother Holly because she keeps speaking.

  “Frisco filled me in on all the gossip I’ve been missing while living in mommyland, which included the fact that I was really talking to the wrong person, so I gave another old friend a call.”

  “Boone?” I guess.

  Holly nods with a brilliant smile on her face. “And my dear friend Boone mentioned that you were thinking about talking to some labels, so I had to rip him a new one because the only label you should be talking to is mine. I’d like to hear you for myself first, but I think it’s safe to say that Homegrown Records is very interested in you.”

  Oh. My. God. Holly Wix’s label is interested in me. Holy. Crap.

  “Did Boone put you up to this?”

  Tana interrupts. “Oh, honey, no. I got to hear one side of that call, and Holly was dragging information out of that boy one piece at a time. She’s been talking about you nonstop for three days. I mean, you may have sealed the deal when you threw yourself over a fence to save him from a stampede, but this is as real as it gets. Boone doesn’t have a clue we’re here.”

  “It was one bull.”

  Tana waves me off. “Pfft, I won’t even go near a cow unless it’s grilled and on my plate, so you’re Xena: Warrior Princess in my book.”

  Holly’s gaze turns shrewd as she studies me. “She’s right. Once I realized you were a badass bitch and had a set of pipes, I knew we had to talk, and soon.”

  “Hey, can I get a drink over here?” a man yells from a few feet away.

  “Don’t you holler at her. She’s busy!” Tana’s thick drawl attracts more attention than she realizes.

  “Holy crap, you look just like Tana Vines.”

  “Impersonator, honey. If I didn’t, I’d be pretty shitty at my job.”

  “What do you need, sir?” I ask the man.

  “Four Buds. Bottles, not draft.”

  I look to Holly and Tana. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurry to the cooler and pop the tops off the bottles and serve them up.

  “What about me?”

  With an apologetic glance at the two women, I serve four more customers. When I finally make my way back to Holly and Tana, it’s to find two men heading toward them, parting the crowd in the bar like the Red Sea.

  “Oh shit,” Tana says.

  Holly takes a sip of her Sprite. “Double shit. They both found us.”

  The infamous billionaire Creighton Karas is just as forbidding in person as the media has made him out to be. His dark hair and expensive suit scream don’t piss me off because I’ll bury you. His gaze is fixed on Holly, and I could swear the rest of the people in the bar don’t even exist to him.

  “Tana, what the hell are you doing?” The voice belongs to another country legend—Mick Vines, Tana’s husband. In their day, they caused their own media firestorm.

  Behind both men trail two more guys in suits.

  “Hey, baby,” Tana drawls. “I’m almost ready.”

  “Holly.” Karas’s tone is quiet but firm.

  “Yes, my love?”

  His hard features go soft for a moment. “Is there something I’m missing here, because your text said you had a late meeting that was urgent.”

  “I did. We’re almost done. Crey, meet Ripley. She’s Homegrown’s hottest new prospect.”

  His gaze shifts to me, and with the intensity of his stare, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has superpowers that enable him to see down to the depths of my soul.

  Karas’s chin lifts. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Fischer.”

  His statement doesn’t require a response, for which I’m thankful because I don’t know what the hell to say to this imposing man. Then it slaps into me.

  Wait, how does he know my last name?

  There’s only one explanation I come up with. This guy is scary.

  “Babe, let’s go. Paps are already circling.” This comes from Mick.

  “Those assholes are worse than turkey buzzards.” Tana downs the rest of her wine. “I guess I’m ready, but we didn’t get a firm answer out of Ripley. Holly needs to hear her sing so she can sign her to the label.”

  “That may be the case, but unfortunately, it’s not happening tonight.” Karas delivers the verdict.

  Holly rolls her eyes. “Then I guess I have to come back tomorrow for open-mic night so I can hear what I need.” She looks to me. “Does that work for you, Ripley?”

  “Holly—”

  “Shh, Crey. We’ll have more security. It’ll be fine.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Damn right we will.” His attention zeros in on me one more time. “Make sure to let management know that my security team will be contacting them in the morning to go over plans.”

  “Uh, okay?”

  “Crey, if you scare her, she’s not going to want to sign with Homegrown. Boone already told me I had my work cut out for me to convince her, so I don’t need you making it more difficult.”

  “He did?” I ask.

  Holly winks. “He told me quite a bit, and I’m so happy for you both.” Her smile disappears. “As long as you don’t screw him over like that bitch Amber, we’ll be all good. Otherwise, you should know that I know people in the family.”

  The family? Holy shit, is she talking about the mob?

  “And on that note, I think we’re done here,” Creighton Karas says with finality in his tone.

  “’Bye, Ripley!” Holly and Tana both wave as they slide off their stools. “See you tomorrow!”

  I watch as the entire contingent makes its way out of the White Horse, half the crowd standing gape jawed and the other half snapping pictures like crazy.

  What the hell did I just agree to?

  Boone has a lot of explaining to do.

  33

  Boone

  Holly’s practically bouncing in her seat, and her excitement is contagious.

  Seeing Ripley on video is a lot different from seeing her perform live. Even though I’ve got all the confidence in the world in her, I’m still a little nervous. Shit, I’m more nervous than before I step onstage in front of thousands.

  Tonight’s attendance has been heavily curtailed due to Creighton Karas’s ironhanded rule over security, but I can’t blame the bastard. When Holly told me she showed up here last night with only Tana and two guys, I asked her if she’d lost her damned mind. She flipped me off. I miss that girl. After touring with her, she became like a little sister to me, and I’m glad as hell to see her succeeding and finding her own happiness.

  When we talked last night, she also broke the truth to me about the fact that she never liked Amber. She thought Amber was a bitch from day one, and was irate that she’d fucked me over, but happy I’d parted ways with her.

  Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that, I couldn’t disagree with Holly. I also wanted to shake her and ask her why she hadn’t bothered to tell me in the first place. But then again, no one did. Not my parents, my brother, or my friends. No one. They just let me almost make the biggest mistake of my life—a mistake that meant I never would have met Ripley.

  That thought is enough to twist my gut into knots.

  “What’s she singing tonight?” Tana asks from the other side of the table.

  “I don’t know. She
didn’t tell me.”

  I don’t mention that Ripley was too pissed off at me when she called because I had the keys to a rental car delivered . . . and it was parked in the spot where her Javelin was before Anthony stole it. Although it wasn’t really stealing. He just got a wrecker to put it on a flatbed so we could take it out of state.

  Regardless, she was fucking pissed.

  “She killed that Carrie song. I’d love to hear her sing something else, though,” Holly says.

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Next up, we’ve got the White Horse’s own Ripley Fischer!” the announcer calls, and Ripley climbs onto the stage with a guitar in hand and wearing her White Horse tank and tight black jeans with tall black boots.

  Fuck. She looks gorgeous.

  Behind us, the crowd yells, and Holly and Tana both cheer.

  Ripley walks straight to the mic and doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. She doesn’t introduce herself or speak to the crowd before she puts the guitar strap over her shoulder and starts with a few chords.

  “I didn’t know she played,” Holly whispers.

  “Me either,” I reply, even though it burns to admit it.

  Within a few moments, it’s clear what she’s playing, and I can’t keep the smile off my face.

  Maren Morris’s “My Church.” Unlike the video I saw of Ripley belting out Carrie Underwood, this one embraces her husky voice as she adds subtle power behind it. The line about finding redemption when she gets in her car has to be a subtle jab at me for stealing the Javelin, and I laugh.

  This woman. She’s everything.

  By the chorus, she’s got everyone in the bar on their feet, singing along. There’s magic in her voice, and when Holly grabs my arm and squeezes, I know she hears it too.

  When Ripley whispers thank you into the microphone and leaves the stage, Holly is out of her seat before I am. “That’s it. I want her. She’s the new sound I’ve been dying to hear.”

  “Then you’ll have her,” Karas replies. I’m pretty sure Holly could have said she wanted the international space station, and he’d agree to get it for her. “We’ll get the contracts drafted and schedule a meeting in the office. Also, the nanny just texted that Rose is fussy, so I’d like to get home.”