Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

My temper, already strained to its limit in the last twelve hours, is close to jumping its chain.

“You’ve got two minutes to have my keys sitting on this bar, or I’ll have the cops here.”

A cocky smile tugs at her lips.

“And whose phone you gonna call them with? Because yours lost the battle with Hank Williams’s face, and I swept up the pieces this morning.”





10





Ripley





They’re all the same. Every celebrity I’ve ever met has that constant streak of entitlement running through them that somehow exempts them from the burden of politeness.

From beneath his ball cap, backward today, the vein in Boone Thrasher’s forehead pulses with pissed-off rage. He wants to strangle me right about now. I recognize the signs.

But guess what? I’m not feeling all that charitable toward him either. No one comes into my place and threatens me, especially not after I’ve called to make sure that his car wouldn’t get towed by the wrecker company, even though he parked in a loading zone overnight, and I locked up his keys for safekeeping. Then there’s the matter of me barely sleeping because I jolted up at every noise and looked out the window in my bedroom at least a dozen times to make sure his car was safe and sound.

I don’t care whether he knows all these details, because only one thing matters. Boone Thrasher does not get to come in here and act like an ass*ole to me.

I’m waiting for the outburst when he squeezes his eyes shut and balls his hands into fists before stretching his tattooed fingers out again.

When his lids lift, those bright blue eyes clash with mine.

“You ever had your entire life dissected by the media, laid out for the public like your privacy doesn’t even matter?”

At his question, my heart lurches in my chest and my mouth goes dry. He doesn’t have a damned clue.

I shove open the office door and slam it behind me, closing my eyes and leaning on the desk as I haul in a breath.

I know better than anyone what it’s like to have your entire life dissected by the media and laid out for the public like your privacy doesn’t matter. I also know that they don’t care about the collateral damage they cause in getting their story.

But I’m done trading barbs with Boone Thrasher. Now I just want him and his damned car out of here so my life doesn’t get sucked into the press again.

I drop to my knees in front of the safe and spin the dial, screwing up the combination twice.

My mom’s birthday. Ironically, also the day she was murdered.

The lyrics to Brad Paisley’s mocking and oh-so-accurate song “Celebrity” filter into my head.

Boone Thrasher may have lost his shallow girlfriend to someone who could give her more than he could, but at least he didn’t see his mother’s body lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor in the bar where he has to work every day.

On the third try, I get the combination right and yank out the keys with a shaking hand. I rise on unsteady legs, open the door, and stride out—slamming directly into his broad, hard chest.

My first instinct is to jump back like I stepped into a burning house by accident.

Boone snatches the keys from my hand before I can gather myself.

“Thanks,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the brass knuckles hanging from them.

“Don’t mention it.” The words escape my clenched jaw on my next breath.

“I didn’t come here to piss you off, Ripley, but it seems I already did, so I’m gonna make myself clear.” His gaze holds me in place. “If I hear any reporter or gossip site mention that I was here, you’ll be seeing me again and it won’t be nearly as pleasant.”

“You can take your warnings and shove ’em up your ass, Thrasher. I’m not afraid of you.”

He steps back, holding my gaze the entire time. “That’s your first mistake. Let’s hope it’s your only one.”

I flip him the double bird, and the ass*ole has the nerve to laugh at me as he walks out.

In a moment, he’s gone, and I’m left all alone in an empty bar with nothing but memories to haunt me.

A squawk comes from the corner. “Shove it up your ass.”

Correction—memories, Esteban, and—dammit—that stupid ring.





11





Boone





I crumple the paper in my hand and toss it on the floor beside the lectern. Cameras click and flash in front of me.

“Y’all know me. I’m not the type to read some polite statement from my publicist when I can tell you how it really is.”

A few chuckles come from the crowd of reporters, and my publicist covers her face with a hand.

“I’m not an eloquent bastard, so I’ll keep it short. Sometimes shit doesn’t work out the way you plan. That’s life. It’s what we do when things don’t go our way that defines our character. I’m not gonna run Amber’s name through the mud, so if that’s what you’re here for, you might as well get a head start on leavin’. But I will say this—just because she chose someone else doesn’t make him the better man. You want to know more about how I’m feeling? Pick up my next record.”

I back away from the lectern and walk out of the room before they have a chance to start clamoring with their questions.

Once I’m out in the hall, Charity, my publicist, steps forward and announces that the press conference is over. Both Nick’s heavier footfalls and the click of her heels follow behind me within moments.

“Were you trying to give me a heart attack when you decided not to read that statement?” Charity’s voice is higher pitched than normal, which usually means she’s trying not to lose her shit.

I shoot her a look, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously? You actually expected me to read that canned statement? You have met me before, right?”

Nick waves at the door to an empty office and we all step inside as the reporters spill into the hallway. Once he shuts the door, he crosses his arms over his chest. “I think he nailed it. They’ll be slavering to get their hands on the next album, which means Boone can dry his eyes about this Amber mess on a nice fat pile of cash.”

Again, it’s always about the money with Nick. At least I can count on one thing that never changes.

But as for the next album . . . hell, I told them that’s where they’d find out what I’m feeling, but the truth is, I don’t feel a damned thing right now. I’m totally empty. Devoid of emotion. Maybe it’s self-preservation, but I’ve got nothing to fuel the creative beast. At least, nothing but bruised pride and regret.

My new phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. Ma. She must be watching the news. Nick and Charity are debating something, so I step away and answer.

“Hey, Ma. How’s it going?”

“I saw your press conference. Baby boy, I’m sorry you’re dealing with this, but you handled it like a champ.”

“Just said what I needed to say.”