Real Sexy: Book 2 of The Real Dirty Duet

by Meghan March

  “I got this.” I move to the frame and use the tip of the blade to remove the screws holding it onto the wall. Together, we lift off the dust-covered picture of Willie.

  Ripley flips it over, and at first, I see nothing but the back of a yellowed sheet that looks like it came in the frame. But when Ripley peels it away, another piece of paper falls free.

  “What is that?” I squint at it as she focuses the flashlight on the faded handwriting.

  “I don’t know.” She scans the paper and locks onto the signature at the bottom. “Holy shit. It’s a letter from my mama.”

  She begins to read it out loud.

  * * *

  If you’re finding this, I’m guessing I’m not around anymore. There have been plenty of days I’ve thought about what it would be like to do the deed myself, but I couldn’t leave my little girl alone in this world.

  * * *

  Ripley blinks, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Oh my God.”

  * * *

  She deserves better than this life, and I’m trying to give it to her. I know everyone’s thinking the worst, but sometimes you have to let them smear you if there’s a bigger purpose down the road. I’ve never cheated on my husband. Not with anyone, including Gil. Despite what everyone’s saying, I’m not pining away, hoping he’ll leave his wife. I don’t feel that way about him. He’s just a nice customer who saw me with bruises one too many times and finally forced me to tell him what was going on.

  It takes a lot out of a woman’s pride to admit she hasn’t walked out on the man who hits her. Gil wanted to help me make a future outside this bar, and I’ve been hoping that’s what my songs will do. I figured if anything happened to me, at least the money would end up going to my baby girl.

  Whoever’s reading this letter, can you make sure she knows I did it for her? Who knows, maybe one of them will end up a number-one hit, and she’ll never have to worry about money for the rest of her life. All she has to do is talk to Gil, and he’ll make sure she gets what’s coming to her. He set up a fancy trust so Frank can never get his hands on a dime of it.

  He’s gotten enough from me.

  Blood.

  Sweat.

  Tears.

  I’m done with it.

  My bag is packed, and tomorrow I’m finally doing it. I’m leaving my husband, and I’m taking my baby girl with me. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but the feeling in my gut tells me that having a backup plan might be smart.

  I just hope I don’t lose my nerve.

  Either way, I’d be really grateful if you’d make sure this letter gets to Ripley Fischer. She always deserved better than everyone calling her mama a whore, but at least this way she’ll know it wasn’t true. I’m not the type to be unfaithful. I’m better than that.

  All I want is for my baby to have a life where she can hold her head high and be proud of where she came from.

  If something happens to me, all you need to do is look close to home. Frank is on a hair trigger, and I’ve always wondered if he’d just push me down the stairs one day and be done with it. But I’m too useful to put out of commission permanently, I suspect. Then there’s Laurelyn waiting in the wings to step into my place. She always wanted what I have, so my leaving should make her really happy. She’s welcome to Frank, since she always said he should’ve been hers to begin with anyway.

  I’m done.

  —Rhonda Fischer

  P.S. Tell my girl I love her. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

  * * *

  Tears are running down Ripley’s face when she meets my gaze in the darkness of the bar.

  “She . . . she wasn’t . . .” Her words are interrupted by a hiccup. “How could I not have known? All this time? I thought—”

  The lights to the bar flip on, momentarily blinding us both.

  “You thought exactly what we all thought.”

  42

  Ripley

  Aunt Laurelyn comes toward Boone and me, a gun in her hand.

  “And what everyone else is going to keep on thinkin’. So just drop that right on the floor and back up. Then you’re gonna tell me where that diamond ring is Brandy said you stashed here.”

  My brain is working overtime, trying to put the pieces together.

  Mama thought Laurelyn wanted Pop. Pop was out in the bar when she was killed . . . and as far as I know, the cops never questioned my aunt about the murder.

  “Why?” I breathe the word.

  Laurelyn waves the gun. “I didn’t open it up to question-and-answer time. Now, give me whatever it is you’ve got there, and tell me where the damned ring is.”

  All the saliva in my mouth dries up as I focus on the barrel of the old pistol, and memories come crashing together in my brain. It’s the gun Pop always kept behind the bar. He used to let me watch him clean it sometimes.

  It went missing when Mama was murdered and was never found. The cops presumed it was the murder weapon, which is why they took Pop in for questioning, even though he was making drinks when the murder happened.

  “Where did you get the gun, Laurelyn?”

  My aunt centers it on me. “Been carrying it around a long, long time.”

  I don’t even have to ask her if she did it. I know she did. And then she hugged me afterward and bought me a goddamned Happy Meal.

  “Why? She was leaving anyway. If you wanted Pop, she was going to let you have him.”

  Boone stills beside me, and I can almost hear him cursing me in his brain.

  “I didn’t know that! I didn’t know until we found a damned packed bag upstairs and it was already done!”

  “But how? I was the first one inside, and there was no one else in the bathroom.”

  None of it makes any sense. When I skidded to a halt on the tile, there was only Mama and Gil, dead on the floor.

  Laurelyn shakes her head at me and laughs. “Says who? I jumped on the toilet in the stall and closed the door. When you ran out—”

  “You snuck out and pretended to break down when you saw them.”

  She shakes her head. “Something like that. It wasn’t like I planned it. Frank was drinking as much as he was serving, so I took the gun from behind the bar and tucked it in my pants because I didn’t trust him not to shoot up the place. Maybe I should’ve let him. And then I walked into the bathroom and saw them in there together . . . and I just . . . I couldn’t stand to see her humiliate her Frank one more time under his own goddamned roof. He deserved better than that! He stayed by her, even with the rumors going around.”

  The confession crashes into me, and I’m horrified to finally hear the truth. Before I can think of a single thing to say, Laurelyn waves the gun around.

  “Tell me where you hid that damned ring. Brandy said that rock is worth at least ten Gs, and I need the money more than either of you.”

  Boone finally speaks. “Ma’am, I’ll give you all the money you want and you can get the hell out of here. All you have to do is put the fucking gun down.”

  “Shut your mouth, boy. I didn’t ask you.”

  “Mama? Are you down here?”

  Brandy’s voice comes from upstairs before I hear the creak of footsteps on the old treads.

  Oh shit. I don’t know how Aunt Laurelyn’s going to cover up this one, but I know there’s no way in hell she’ll shoot her own daughter. I look to Boone, but his eyes are fixed on the gun that wobbles in Laurelyn’s hand as she glances toward the stairs.

  “Hold on, girl. I’m coming back up.”

  The treads keep creaking.

  “I told you to wait upstairs,” Laurelyn yells at Brandy when she hits the bottom step.

  My aunt’s arm bobs as she looks away, and Boone launches himself at her, tackling her to the floor like he did with the rodeo clown. A shot explodes from the gun, deafeningly loud. Both Laurelyn and Boone go still, and Brandy shrieks.

  “No!” I scream and bolt toward them.

  I can’t handle a replay of what happened at the rod
eo, and I’m not losing another person I love in this goddamned bar.

  Before I can drop to my knees, Boone rolls off my aunt, keeping both her hands pinned over her head. Thankfully, I don’t see blood coming from him.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he grunts before he knocks Laurelyn’s hands against the floor, and she finally releases her grip on the gun.

  “Help!”

  Brandy’s wail finally gets through to me, and I see her on the floor at the base of the stairs, dark red staining her pink shirt. But how?

  I rush to her side. “Where are you hit?”

  “I don’t know. What’s going on? Who has a gun?”

  “Call 911,” Boone orders from where he has my aunt pinned to the floor. He looks to Brandy and then back to me. “Must have been a ricochet or something.”

  “Brandy!” Aunt Laurelyn yells, and Brandy’s gaze cuts to her mom.

  “Mama? You shot me?”

  “I told you to stay upstairs,” Laurelyn spits out.

  Like I did with Boone at the rodeo, I sacrifice my shirt and use it to put pressure on Brandy’s wound. “Hold this on there. Tight. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

  Once I get a dispatcher on the line and fill her in on the situation, Brandy lifts the shirt off the wound. At the sight of her own blood, her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps to the floor, unconscious.

  When I relay that to the dispatcher, the woman promises help is on the way.

  The cops get there first, then the PI with Pop in tow. Apparently, they figured out the clues in the lyrics and were coming to investigate the bar too, but they didn’t expect to walk into pandemonium.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Is someone gonna tell me what the hell happened here?”

  43

  Boone

  Hours later, after being interviewed by multiple cops, telling our stories over and over, and listening to Ripley’s father being questioned, Ripley and I are finally allowed to go home. She’s been holding it together like a champ, but I know the break is coming. I can feel it.

  It happens as we pull into the garage at my house.

  “Her own sister?”

  I hop out of the truck and open Ripley’s door to lift her into my arms and carry her inside.

  Ripley’s father confirmed to the police that twenty years ago, his sister-in-law had indeed told him that his wife was having affairs. Since the man apparently doesn’t know how to handle anything head-on, his solution was to drown himself in the bottle and take out his anger on his wife and daughter. He never even confronted Rhonda to find out if it was true. After Rhonda and Gil Green were murdered, Laurelyn had offered him more than a shoulder to cry on for comfort.

  Frank had been adamant when he said there was no way he would have touched his sister-in-law. He wouldn’t even look at her, because she looked too much like his dead wife and he didn’t want any reminders.

  He never realized that by telling Laurelyn to pack her shit up and leave, he was giving her the perfect out to escape the consequences of her actions.

  Brandy wasn’t shot. The bullet had gone wild and shattered a picture across the room, sending a piece of glass flying that sliced into her like shrapnel. Physically, she was fine after being patched up with a butterfly bandage, but watching her mother being led away in handcuffs had left her unhinged. I can still hear her screaming at her mama that she always knew she didn’t love her enough.

  Laurelyn hit back, telling Brandy she would never have come back to Nashville if it weren’t for the bar and Frank. We could hear Brandy’s hysterical screeching even as we left the building.

  Now, Ripley’s tears soak my shoulder as she sobs. I sit down on the couch in the living room where the sheet music still lies on the table, and hold her on my lap.

  She snuffles and hiccups before lifting her head. “I’ve thought the worst of her all these years. I never once thought there was a chance that she didn’t cheat. What kind of daughter am I?”

  “Sugar, you can’t blame yourself for that. You thought exactly what you were told to think as a kid. Why would you have questioned it? The evidence was all right there, supporting everything you were told.”

  “But they were wrong and . . . God, I feel like I don’t even know who I am right now.”

  “I’ll tell you who you are—the strongest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”

  She rocks against me. “That’s not true. I never once thought . . . And the truth was right there.”

  “And you saw it. You found it. You put the pieces together, and now you can tell the world what really happened, if you want.”

  “If Laurelyn had just stayed away . . .”

  I glance at the sheet music on the table. “I suspect the private investigator probably shook her loose and had her starting to worry, plus she said she couldn’t pass up the chance to make some easy money at the bar. Coming back to the scene of the crime let her keep an eye on things, just in case the PI was getting too close.”

  Ripley nods. “What happens now?”

  “They charge her, and hopefully she pleads guilty.”

  “If she doesn’t, then we’ve got a whole public circus of a trial.”

  My shoulders tense at the thought. That’s the last thing she needs right now, and I hope like hell the confession from Laurelyn and our statements will be enough.

  “No matter what happens, we’ll face it together. You and me, sugar. A package deal, and one hell of a team.”

  Ripley meets my gaze, her stormy eyes even cloudier than normal with the sheen of tears. “Why would you throw yourself at her? She could’ve killed you!” Her panic is delayed, but not surprising.

  “You think I wouldn’t take a bullet for you? You charged a pissed-off bull for me.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “Well, I did, and there was no way in hell I was going to live the rest of this life without you. If letting her shoot me would keep you breathing, then so be it.”

  “You really do love me,” Ripley says, her tone hushed.

  “You’re just figuring this out?”

  She shakes her head and wraps her arms around my neck. “No, but don’t you dare ever do anything like that again. I need you breathing to be happy. So, let’s work on both of us staying alive.”

  “Deal,” I tell her as I press a kiss to her lips and lift her into my arms.

  Esteban cocks his head at us and fluffs his wings. “Lovebirds.”

  The damned parrot always gets it right.

  44

  Nashville Cold Case Solved; Guidebooks Got It Wrong

  Twenty years later, the questions surrounding the murder of country legend Gil Green have finally been put to rest, and it’s not what the guidebooks told you. Rhonda Fischer, late wife of Frank Fischer, proprietor of the infamous Fishbowl bar, finally got her say. A letter from the slain woman was entered into evidence at the trial of her sister, Laurelyn Lear, who agreed to a plea bargain. Sentencing is scheduled for later this week.

  Fischer’s daughter, Ripley, now finds herself in the spotlight for a completely different reason. She and country music darling Holly Wix have released a brand-new duet. “Don’t Tell Me No” debuted at #1 on the country charts and is the first single off Ripley Fischer’s freshman album, Finding Myself, which is slated to release next month.

  Fischer has also been making headlines as the woman at country music bad boy Boone Thrasher’s side. The couple recently made a hefty joint donation at a Nashville pet shelter where the couple adopted a dog. Thrasher announced yesterday that he and Fischer will be touring together next year.

  Thrasher’s latest album hits stores in two weeks, and is rumored to include several songs written for Fischer. The release of the latest single gives credence to that, as fans were stunned when they learned the chart-topping hit was actually a marriage proposal.

  Fischer publicly stated that since Thrasher put the question in a song, he’ll have to wait for her answer in one too.
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  Epilogue

  Ripley

  Three months later

  My gaze darts from one person to the next while Boone tries to explain the Karas family tree to me, but I’m lost. I don’t think it’s crazy, because I dare anyone to try to figure this out during the course of one baptism.

  How many secrets can one family have?

  Apparently, when it comes to the Karas family, a lot.

  Creighton’s sister, Greer, and her husband, Cavanaugh Westman, a guy I’ve only previously seen in movies, accept the solemn duty of being godparents to the squirming baby in white lace.

  Rose and I are quite well acquainted now that I spend a good deal of time at Homegrown Records. After all, once a baby spits up on you, there’s a sort of bond that’s formed—less official, but still sacred.

  It’s not until after Rose is placed back in Holly’s arms and the remainder of the standing, sitting, and kneeling happens that the service is over and we follow the crowd to a massive fancy white tent set up behind the church. At least a dozen men wearing dark suits are set up as security, and one checks identification for a second time before letting us in.

  “They have more security here than they did last week,” I whisper to Boone.

  Last week we attended an event that was so incredibly surreal, I still can’t believe it actually happened. I walked down a red carpet, and while I’ve done that before, it never gets old, and then I performed at a freaking awards show.

  I was so insanely terrified, but the woman proudly watching as her baby is passed around today calmed my nerves by giving me a slightly creepy alternative to picture them in their underwear.