Country music’s bad boy Boone Thrasher has it all. A new single burning up the charts, more money than a country boy can spend, and a hot starlet he plans to marry—until she doesn’t show up for the proposal. The Real Dirty Duet releases in May. Click here to preorder Real Dirty and keep reading for a special sneak peek of the first chapter.
REAL DIRTY
Meghan March
Chapter 1
Boone
As soon as the last chord of my brand new single dies away, I jam the microphone back into its holder and stalk off the stage, leaving the lights and the roar of the crowd behind me.
Where the hell is she?
“Boone—”
“Great show!”
“Nice job!”
Over the noise of screaming fans, people yell to me, but I ignore it all and head for my dressing room. I don’t have shit to say right now. Only a few people knew about my proposal plans, and I can’t stand to see the sympathetic expressions on their faces. I don’t need anyone’s fucking pity. It’s not like I was stood up at the altar. My girlfriend’s flight was cancelled or delayed… and she’s not answering her phone. I’ll just have to come up with a way to top this one. Somehow.
Amber better have a damn good explanation for where the hell she is. I know she’s independent and just as busy as I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t friggin’ worry when she goes MIA.
After shoving open the door with my nameplate on it so hard it smacks into the wall and bounces shut, I flip the lock and lean back against the wooden panel.
At least my parents aren’t here. Jesus. That would’ve been more than I want to deal with.
I love them both to death, but my mom would have alluded to this being the universe’s way of telling me I need to think about what I’m doing.
Marriage is sacred, Boone. Are you one hundred percent sure that she’s the one?
You would think Ma would be thrilled at the thought of adding another daughter-in-law to the family, but it’s safe to say she was more excited about me turning down my community college baseball scholarship to try to make it in Nashville.
When I packed my rusted-out truck with my guitar and clothes, she hugged me hard and dished out her special brand of wisdom. You do what you need to do, Boone. We’ll always be here to support you, and you better believe I’ll be first in line to buy your record as soon as it releases.
Ma didn’t have to wait in line for shit. I hand delivered the first copy the label gave me to her house before release day, but that didn’t stop her from going down to Wal-Mart and buying every one they had on the shelf. All sixteen of them. Because that’s my mom, supportive to a fault… on everything but this.
Tilting my head back, I focus on the white drop ceiling above me. Normally after a concert, I’m riding high, but tonight I’m off my game because of Amber. It’s not every day you have an epic proposal planned and the person you’re going to propose to doesn’t show.
Someone pounds on the door behind me, and I shove off the wood as it vibrates.
“BT! I got the keys to your ride! Wanna get the fuck outta here?”
The voice belongs to Zane Frisco, one of the openers. The crooner with shaggy blond hair picks up plenty of women I pass on because I’m not looking to cheat. This tour has been a pussy parade that launched his career to the next level.
When I don’t answer, he drops his voice. “Vultures are circling, man. Press must’ve found out about your plans. Time to roll.”
There’s no way I’ll make it out of the venue without being spotted, especially if the press is foaming at the mouth to get a story. It takes everything I have not to turn around and punch through the door. I flex my hands into a fist. It’s been a long time since my tattooed knuckles pounded into anything.
Putting my hand through the door isn’t going to change a damn thing though. Uncurling my fingers, I turn around and yank it open instead.
Frisco leans with his shoulder against the door and nearly falls backward when it swings wide.
“Thought you were tunneling out under the wall.” He straightens and holds up my keys with a pair of brass knuckles serving as the keychain. “Your security detail is clearing out the press. Thought now would be a perfect time to get the hell out of here.”
After a couple months of touring together, Frisco gets it. Sometimes, you just need to walk away from all the shit that goes along with being able to draw a crowd big enough to fill a stadium.
I grab the keys out of his hand, and we stride back toward the stage where my brand new obsession waits. The completely restored Olds 442 is sweet as fuck and was delivered only yesterday.
Other than backing her off the trailer and driving into a room for the press to drool over and then up onto the stage, I haven’t taken her anywhere.
I was going to drop to one knee beside it and ask Amber to spend the rest of her life rolling through the backroads with me, but we all know how that turned out.
My fingers flex, wanting to try to get her on the phone, but what would be the point? She’s got to be on a plane, otherwise she would’ve called me back already. She’ll text me from her condo asking me to come meet her as soon as she gets in, just like normal.
She didn’t know what you were planning so cut her some slack, I tell myself. I’m trying to give her some grace, but my patience is wearing thin.
Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches, so why not get the hell out of here and put the 442 through her paces?
As soon as I lay eyes on the slick black and red paint job, I feel lighter. I jerk my chin at Frisco in the direction of the muscle car. “Let’s go.”