Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

When I told him I needed to get the bird, I hadn’t really considered exactly what I was asking for. I just moved my bird into Boone Thrasher’s house. Where I’m staying temporarily. As in, maybe for another night or two.

Hope called on the way home from the Fishbowl, but given the fact that I didn’t want Boone to overhear any of the conversation we were guaranteed to have, I silenced the call and texted her to let her know I’d get back with her as soon as I could. And then I’ll have to ask her if I can move Esteban to her place when I go back to crashing on the futon.

I really hope she doesn’t have a problem with it. Otherwise, I’m going to be out of luck.

When Boone finishes feeding Esteban, and avoids getting pecked in the process, he pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got about five calls to return and a radio station interview I’m two hours late for.” He walks to the table, grabs the remote, and hands it to me. “I gotta handle this shit before I do anything else.”

My stomach twists. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I never would’ve—”

Boone leans down and silences me with a kiss. “I do what I want, and there’s nothing else I would’ve rather done this morning, so don’t apologize. It ain’t the first time I’ve missed something, and it won’t be the last.” He stands again, but tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Although I gotta say, this is the best excuse I’ve ever had. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

He strides from the room, and I’m left alone with Esteban as he crows, “Don’t apologize.”

“There’s nothing else I would’ve rather done this morning.”

Boone Thrasher feels like he’s almost too good to be true.

I lean back on the couch and stare up at the TV screen. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, I could be looking online for another part-time job, or even trying to figure out where I could possibly rent an apartment that will let me have a bird . . . but instead, I flip on the TV and cuddle into the comfortable couch, letting myself drift for a few minutes.

Maybe my life is finally turning around.



In a not-so-shocking turn of events, I discover I’m not really good at doing nothing.

When someone opens the door an hour later, I’m sitting cross-legged on a bar stool, organizing Boone’s spice cupboard. I’ve already done the fridge and the pantry.

Call me crazy, but when I got hungry and carefully made my way over to the pantry to find something to eat, I was horrified at the disorganization. First, Boone has a ton of food. Probably enough to feed an army, but it was all just shoved onto the shelves in a mishmash.

My OCD tendency reared its ugly head, and while I devoured an entire bag of Lay’s potato chips, I rearranged every shelf. It felt good to be somewhat useful instead of just taking up space on the couch, so I moved on to his fridge. That was a complete disaster.

Now, I’ve got paprika in one hand and peppercorns in the other when I hear the garage door shut and a man’s footsteps coming down the hallway. He stops when he enters the kitchen carrying two giant takeout bags with a familiar yellow circle around a winged buffalo.

“What the f*ck?” That’s his first question when he sees my arm cocked, ready to bean him in the head with the paprika.

“Who are you?”

He’s got to be at least six foot four, three hundred pounds. Basically, he’s built like a linebacker, and no amount of spices would stop him if he decided to squash me like a bug.

But I’m scrappy, so I won’t go down without a fight.

His eyebrows go up. “You gonna throw that at me? ’Cause my hands are kinda full right now with your lunch, Ms. Fischer.”

“How do you know my name?” My mind races to recall if I’ve seen this guy before, and I come up empty. “Who are you?”

“Anthony Prentiss, head of Boone’s security team. And for the record, the only spice that really scares me is dill weed. Don’t know what it is, but I don’t want any weed in my food unless it’s the good kind.”

His deadpan answer knocks a chuckle loose from me. “Then you’re lucky dill weed is already in the proper alphabetical order and I’m on the Ps now.”

“You’re a weird chick. Boone didn’t mention that.” He continues past me to the table where this morning we . . .

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.