Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

Dayum.

Frisco is no slouch in the build department, but the way this guy’s broad shoulders, muscled chest, and thick biceps stretch out his faded black T-shirt has all the spit drying up in my mouth as he strides closer.

Wow. That is a man.

His battered baseball cap is pulled low, hiding his face, but I can make out the dark scruff of a beard on his chin. My gaze slides down to the ink on his arms, and the parts of me that haven’t seen any action in longer than I want to admit roar to life.

My survey drops lower to take in his worn jeans and black shit-kickers before dragging back up to his face just as he lifts his head to meet my eyes.

No way.

Zane Frisco did not bring Boone Thrasher, country music’s reigning bad-boy superstar, to my bar.

I’ve gone too many days without sleep. I’m seeing things.

But when those black motorcycle boots step closer, I know it’s not the lack of REM cycles screwing with me.

Boone Thrasher is in the Fishbowl.

“Jack and Coke. Heavy on the Jack.”

His deep voice is just as raspy as it sounds on the radio, and my nipples peak.

Nope. Not happening. Danger. Abort mission.

Frozen like a deer in the headlights under his intense blue gaze, I force myself to spin around and face the mirrored wall with glass shelves holding bottles of liquor.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath. Celebrities are only good for one thing, and that’s trouble. Except . . . with one phone call, I could fill this place with enough women to put the Fishbowl back in the black for the month.

I let the vision play out in my brain.

Instead of gawkers coming to see the bathroom where former country legend Gil Green was murdered, people would be packing the bar, buying drinks, and trying to get close to the country music entertainer of the year.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles and my lids flutter open.

In the reflection, Boone Thrasher’s gaze slams into mine. My hand freezes in midair as I reach for the half-full bottle of Jack.

“You trust her?” His words come out as gruff as when he growls into the microphone at his concerts. Not that I’ve ever had extra cash to splurge on a ticket to one of the big stadium shows.

To the right in the mirror, my peripheral vision catches the blur of Frisco nodding his shaggy blond head, but my attention stays focused on the face beneath the shredded brim of the black hat.

“Ripley’s good people. She ain’t gonna say shit to anyone about us being here. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Those blue eyes bore holes in me as my tongue darts out to swipe over my lips while I gather my wits to respond.

I start to speak, but no sound comes out. Clearing my throat, I shake my head first instead. “No one is gonna find out you’re here from me.”

Thrasher nods at Earl and Pearl. “Can I buy that round for you, folks?”

Earl and Pearl aren’t slow, especially when someone is offering to make their Social Security fixed-income budget stretch a little further.

Earl’s reflection turns to the certified-platinum recording artist. “You buy ’em all night, and we got a deal. I can play deaf, blind, and dumb. Just ask the wife.”

Pearl twirls around on her stool, surprisingly nimble for her age, but what’s even more impressive is that her peach-tinted curls don’t move at all.

One night after several Miller Lites, she finally let me in on her secret. “Aquanet. Hold down the sprayer until your finger can’t take it anymore, and then go for another couple seconds. Your hair won’t move for days.”

I cringe inside, wondering what in the world she’s going to say to Boone Thrasher.

“Handsome boy like you should have a sweetheart keeping you home at night instead of out at the bars. Maybe if you didn’t have all those tattoos, you’d find a nice girl. Ripley here could use a date, but she won’t take up with no celebrity types. Never ever, not after Rhonda done—”

And . . . that’s enough.

I spin around, bottle of Jack in hand, and accidentally use it to knock Pearl’s Miller Lite over, splashing it across the bar and onto her powder-blue polyester pants.

“Oh my word! Watch what you’re doin’, girl.”

“So sorry, Miss Pearl. All my fault.”

Her faded green eyes study my face, not missing my pointed scowl. “Well, I never. What’s wrong with you, child? Now I gotta go dab myself off so this doesn’t set. They don’t make polyester like this anymore.” With a huff, she slides off the stool and toddles toward the restroom.

Earl doesn’t seem fazed a bit. He holds out his hand to Boone, not even watching his wife.

“Earl Simpkins. That’s my wife, Pearl. We’re what ya call regulars ’round here.”

Boone Thrasher shakes Earl’s hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.” When he releases it, he chooses the stool two over and Frisco sits down next to him.

No one says a word about the fact that I doused Pearl with beer to shut her up.

Boone Thrasher leans both forearms on the bar and studies me from beneath the low bill of his hat. “How about that Jack and Coke?”





4





Boone





Where the hell did Frisco bring me? That’s the question on my mind as I watch the dark-haired bartender pour a long stream of Jack over ice before topping it off with a shot of Coke from the soda gun.

Ripley? Is that what the old lady said the bartender’s name was? Frisco’s attention hasn’t left her since we walked into this place? and I can see why.

Her curves are poured into her jeans, and she’s all tits, ass, and thick, shiny hair. Basically, the opposite of Amber. My girl is rail thin, like so many women in the industry who feel the pressure to keep any extra pounds off because the cameras will just add them back on. No matter what I say, I can’t get her to eat a burger to save her life.

I can’t picture this bartender picking at a salad with no dressing or cutting a piece of ahi tuna into tiny bites. No, she looks like she’d just as soon dive into a steak and stab someone with a fork if they tried to take it from her.

The mystery isn’t why Frisco wanted to come here, but why she keeps turning him down.

When Ripley slides my drink in front of me wordlessly, she reaches for a pint glass and aims her gray eyes at Frisco. “You sure you want your regular? Last chance to try something different.” She holds the glass under the tap and waits.

“Who do you think I am? Give me that Bud, baby girl.”

Her fingers curl around the handle and squeeze tight. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

In the bar mirror, I catch Frisco’s wink at her. “And yet I keep calling you that . . . so who do you think is more stubborn?”

She drops a hand to her curvy hip and stares at him. “When I say no, I mean no, Frisco. I’m not playing hard to get. I’m just not interested.”

He slaps his hand against his chest. “Wounded. Nearly mortal. You’re lucky I got such a healthy ego or you’d give me a complex.”