Real Sexy: Book 2 of The Real Dirty Duet

by Meghan March

  “Holy fucking shit. That’s going to take all of five seconds to hit the news cycle. But what the hell could he be arrested for?”

  “It has to be my fault. I swear to God, if Brandy is behind this, I’m going to rip the hair out of her head like she used to do to my Barbies.”

  Hope knows all about my long-standing issues with Brandy. “You really think she’d do that?”

  “There’s not much I’d put past her at this point.”

  When Hope merges onto the highway, she glances at me. “Then we best go find out from the source, don’t you think?”

  3

  Ripley

  The Open sign flickers in the high window next to the fluorescent fishbowl. The fish blinks as though his light is about to burn out. Except for the few cars belonging to regulars, there are hardly any vehicles parked out front.

  “Place is hoppin’, isn’t it?” Hope says, sarcasm rich in her tone as we pull around the block to park in the back.

  “Like always.”

  Brandy doesn’t have a car, but I have to believe if the bar is open, then she’s gotta be here and working. It’s somewhat shocking to think of her getting to work on time and managing to open the place.

  Then again, now that I’m not here to stop her from skimming unlimited money from the till, she has a better incentive.

  I shove down the bittersweet pang as I carefully make my way to the back door, my ankle twinging from my climb over the fence. When I push open the door, Earl, Pearl, and Jim are in their customary places at the bar. A quick scan reveals a half dozen unfamiliar faces nursing drinks, and a few pairs of eyes light up when they catch sight of me.

  Gossip seekers?

  It seems about right. Or maybe they’re thinking that if I show, maybe Boone will come too.

  Glad they don’t know the reason that won’t be happening.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Brandy’s voice snaps out from behind the bar like a bullwhip. “You aren’t welcome and you know it, so just turn around and crawl back to wherever you came from.”

  Brandy’s face is caked with thick makeup, especially around her cheekbone. Her contouring looks like shit. On a regular day, it’s her eye makeup that looks the worst—heavy eyeliner with even heavier smudging.

  I close the distance to the bar and stop at the end. “What did you do?”

  Earl, Pearl, and Jim all hunch forward as though making sure they don’t miss a single word of this.

  Brandy’s hand shakes, and she splashes liquor on the wood instead of making it all inside the shot glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I lean in closer and pitch my words low, hoping my audience doesn’t hear them. “You called the cops.” Brandy’s gaze darts away. “Is this about Esteban? You hate that bird, so this is ridiculous.”

  “I’m not talking to you,” she says, her voice low and harsh.

  “Because you’re full of shit. I swear to you that I’m going to make you regret whatever lies you’ve told the cops. You understand me? They don’t take kindly to people wasting their time.”

  She slams the liquor bottle down on the counter. “That damn bird wasn’t yours to take. Uncle Frank was pissed.”

  That I have a hard time believing. “He’s wanted to get rid of Esteban for years. No way Pop would go through all this trouble to get him back.”

  Brandy’s gaze shifts away again and my gut tells me I’m missing something, but she’s not going to tell me a thing.

  “Fine. I’ll leave, but you better believe I’m gonna figure out exactly what you did, and you’re going to regret it.”

  “More like you’re gonna regret getting mixed up with Boone Thrasher. I always knew you were going to be just like your mama. Too bad the bird’s not here to call it like it is, but my mom and I see it plain as day.”

  I know what she’s talking about—Esteban squawking one of his favorite phrases—dirty whore. Then the word mom slams into me.

  “Wait, what does Aunt Laurelyn have to do with anything? Is she here?”

  “Not yet, but she’ll be here soon. We’re gonna turn this bar around and make bank. It’ll be just like it always should’ve been now that you’re out of the way.”

  Laurelyn stepped in and ran the bar during those first few weeks after Mama died, and Pop barely crawled out of bed except to get another bottle. Once he pulled himself together, he told her to get the hell out, that he couldn’t stand to see her face anymore because she looked too much like Mama. Aunt Laurelyn took Brandy and moved to Memphis the next day. I used to wish she’d taken me too, and part of me resented her for leaving me with Pop. I haven’t seen her in ages.

  “I’ve been trying to dig this place out of a hole for years, and if I couldn’t, there’s no way you’ll be able to.”

  Brandy flips her hair, drawing my eyes once again to her shitty makeup job. “We both know my mama was always better at serving drinks than fucking the customers, unlike yours.”

  “Shut your damn mouth, Brandy.”

  “Not till you get out of my bar!”

  Hope steps up beside me, and I can feel the rage rolling off her in waves. If we don’t leave now, she might be the one to take out Brandy, and I’m not about to risk my cousin calling the police again.

  “Fine. I’ll go. But first, you have to tell me how you paid the fire marshal fines already and managed to get all those safety upgrades in place.”

  Brandy’s lips twist into a mocking smile. “I didn’t.”

  I shake my head. “You’re an idiot. He’ll be back, and he’ll shut this place down.”

  With a smug look, Brandy picks at her nails. “Good thing it’s none of your business anymore.”

  The thought of the Fishbowl being closed for good tugs at my heart, but there’s nothing I can do now. I need to let it go. But how?

  “Good luck. You’re going to need it.” I turn to Hope. “Let’s go.”

  As I follow her out of the bar, a feeling of finality settles in my bones and tears sting my eyes.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, Mama.

  I pause in the doorway and take one last look behind me. I memorize the smell, the feel, the pictures of the stars on the walls, and tuck it all deep inside me.

  The best and worst moments of my life happened here, and I’m no longer welcome. The thought burns, and I suck in a breath and bite my lip.

  I’m not saying good-bye, Mama, because you’re not here anymore. It’s just a building.

  When I step outside, the sense of loss threatens to overwhelm me.

  Once we’re in the truck, Hope fires up the engine. “You going to be okay?”

  “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  Instead of putting the truck in gear, Hope looks over at me. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision. Your mom would want more for you than to be trapped in that bar under your dad’s thumb. It’s time for you to figure out what you want, Ripley. The world’s a lot bigger than those four walls.”

  “I know.” And I do. Hope is speaking the truth, but I haven’t exactly had time to cope with the huge changes in my life, let alone a chance to figure out what I want.

  Hope pulls out of the parking lot and points the truck in the direction of her apartment. “What now?”

  “Maybe—” My phone vibrates, interrupting me. Law’s name pops up on the screen.

  Why would he be calling?

  “You gonna answer that?”

  I look at Hope as I pick up the call. “Hello?”

  “You still with that guy? The one from last night?” Law’s voice is hurried and tense.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The country singer. Boone Thrasher. Are you really with him?”

  “What does it matter, Law?” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him there’s no chance we’re ever getting back together, but he keeps talking.

  “I got called into work to do some research for a
partner tonight. A criminal law partner that represents Boone Thrasher.”

  Dread curls in my belly. “What kind of research?”

  “Assault and battery. That’s what he got arrested for. You really want to date a woman beater, Rip?”

  4

  Boone

  It’s been a long time since I had my ass shoved in a cell. Back then, I paced the floor, pissed off that I was stupid enough to get caught drinking with my buddies in a building set for demolition the next day, but glad that they’d gotten away, even if I hadn’t.

  My dad didn’t speak for most of the ride after he bailed me out a few hours later, but when we got home, he parked the truck in the drive and turned to me.

  “I’m thinking you already know you don’t want to be spending any more nights in jail.”

  Somehow his quiet question made the shame more acute than a tirade would have. “No, sir.”

  “Then use your head, Boone. The Lord has bigger plans for you than this, so don’t prove him wrong.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Apologize to your mama when you get inside. She’s been worried sick about you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Guilt flooded me next.

  After I tromped into the house and apologized to Ma, that was the end of it. My parents never spoke of it again. Never took me to task. Somehow, they knew that the ass-ripping I was giving myself was worse than any they could deliver. They were right, as my folks usually are.

  As I lean up against the cool concrete wall of this cell, my hat pulled down low, all I can think about is how deep this is gonna cut Ma when she hears it. She’ll know it’s not true because I’d never hit a woman, but some people in our small town won’t be so kind about it.

  She’s been a target more than once because of my antics, and that’s part of the reason I’ve tried to clean up my act.

  I can imagine those catty women whispering about it behind her back. She’ll say she doesn’t care, but I still hate that I put her in this position, especially over something I clearly didn’t do.

  This is so insane, I’m still reeling from the charges.

  It isn’t the first time someone has accused me of something, thinking I would be an easy target more likely to pay them off than create a big stink that could affect my reputation, but those people don’t know me.

  I’ve shown up at more than one person’s house or apartment, asking them to explain how some of the stuff they’ve accused me of could have happened. I always make sure it’s recorded too, just so I have something to show the cops. Turns out that a lot of people who think they’re going to get rich quick off me don’t have the balls to lie to my face. I’m hoping like hell this is going to be the same kind of situation.

  The media is going to crucify me if I can’t get Brandy to drop the charges and issue a public statement pretty fucking quick. Even then, it might already be too late. Regardless, I’ll be vindicated. I’d never put my hands on a woman in anger, and that lying bitch knows it’s true.

  I don’t care that she’s Ripley’s cousin; she’s going down for filing a false police report at the very least. I have a hard time believing Ripley will argue with that, because from what I’ve seen, Brandy sure doesn’t treat her like any kind of family I’ve ever had.

  And fuck, Ripley. She’s stuck at my place, not sure what the hell is going on. I feel like shit that I couldn’t take the time to explain, but I wasn’t about to drag her outside with the cops and let some asshole with a long lens get a picture of her caught up in this mess. Those frigging paparazzi are like some unholy combination of cockroach and vulture lately. Scuttling out of nowhere and picking at the bones until there’s nothing left.

  Like I told Ripley, my privacy is what I miss the most, and I miss it even more now that she’s in my life.

  If she’s in my life much longer.

  No, there’s no way she’ll believe Brandy’s accusation.

  But it’s Brandy’s word against mine, and she’s the one with the wicked shiner, according to the pictures the cops shoved in my face.

  They didn’t care that I said I didn’t touch her, just told me to tell it to the judge. They were the second type of cop you run into in Nashville. Type one being the kind who will usually let things slide if you’re a celebrity. Type two is the hard-ass who wants to make sure you’re not getting any special treatment at all due to your status. I don’t usually care either way, but this time, it’s bullshit.

  “Thrasher, you’re sprung,” a guard’s voice calls out as he walks down the hall to slide the cell door open.

  Thank fuck.

  I don’t know what strings my agent and my lawyer had to pull, and I don’t care how much it cost me, but I’m glad to be walking out of here.

  At least I am until I hit the lobby and see the cameras flashing in the direction of the woman waiting for me. As I step through the door, she runs and throws herself into my arms.

  “I came as fast as I could, baby. Everything’s going to be just fine now.”

  I’m stunned and motionless as Amber plants her lips on mine.

  5

  Ripley

  No. Way. In. Hell.

  That’s what I told Law when he said that Boone has been charged with assault and battery by my own damned cousin.

  When I whispered, “I’m going to kill her,” Law stopped me and said I better not say things like that because he’d be ethically bound to report it if he thought I was serious.

  I hung up on him.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Hope asks as she pulls into a parking space near her building.

  “I don’t know, but it sounds like a whole lot of crap to me.”

  I fill her in on everything Law just told me. I’m of half a mind to go right back to the Fishbowl and confront Brandy, but after her outright lying to the cops and then lying to me only fifteen minutes ago, I know it’s not going to do me any good. Worst-case scenario, I end up in jail too because I actually beat the crap out of her.

  I know, in my heart of hearts, that Boone didn’t touch her.

  And I have a way to prove it.

  “I need my laptop.”

  “Why?”

  “I hooked up a DIY security-camera system in the bar a while ago because I wanted to figure out who was skimming from the till. I’m hoping the camera angles are going to be able to prove that Boone didn’t touch Brandy.”

  “That’s freaking brilliant.”

  I shrug. “It would’ve been even more brilliant if I’d updated my phone to download the app so I could watch the feed anywhere, but I never bothered after I saw it was obviously Brandy.”

  Hope turns to me, an eyebrow raised. “Why didn’t you fire her ass or tell your dad?”

  “I knew it wouldn’t matter. For some reason, she can do no wrong in his eyes.”

  “While you can do no right,” she finishes for me.

  It’s the sad truth, so I reach for the door handle instead of responding.

  As soon as we’re in the apartment, I pull my laptop out of my stuff in the living room and log on to the website where my camera feeds run. They only back up for a few days at a time because I didn’t have the cash to spring for a bajillion bytes of extra storage, but we were only there yesterday, so I should be able to see everything.

  I type the approximate time we got to the Fishbowl into the search bar and wait for the video to populate.

  After I skip forward a little bit, the video shows the door swinging open and Boone walking inside. Hope leans over my shoulder to watch.

  “I know this isn’t the appropriate time or place for this observation, but he is one fine-as-hell man.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say and you haven’t even seen him naked, when I realize I haven’t seen him fully naked either. Not important, Ripley. First, you get his ass out of the jail cell your lying bitch of a cousin put him in, and then you get to see that ass naked.

  We both watch as the recording plays on the screen without sound. It’s clear that
Boone and Brandy have words, and I wish we could hear them.

  “He looks pissed,” Hope whispers, the concern in her voice coming through loud and clear.

  “He would never hit her.” To myself, I add, Unless I’ve completely and totally misjudged him.

  No. I don’t believe that. Not for a second.

  “If you say so, I trust you.”

  But she doesn’t have to take my word for it because we watch the rest of the recording, and it ends with Boone walking out of the bar without laying a finger on her. Hell, he even gave her money, which means we could argue that he bought and paid for Esteban. Not that she deserves another dime.

  “That lying skank!” Hope shoots up from her crouch behind me and paces. “What are we going to do?”

  I glance at my friend, with her hands balled into fists like she’d like to beat the crap out of Brandy herself. “I need to tell Anthony. They have to get the recording to the police.”

  “Who is Anthony again?”

  “Boone’s head of security.”

  “Okay. Makes sense. Then what?”

  “Then Boone gets out of jail, and I figure out what I’m going to do about Brandy.”

  “She should be the one arrested.”

  I’m not about to disagree with Hope on that one.

  * * *

  It’s a long, sleepless night, because even though I tried to contact Anthony, his phone went straight to voice mail and he never returned my messages. Same with Boone’s, although that doesn’t surprise me. It’s not like they let you have cell phones in lockup.

  I toss and turn on the futon, wondering if the fancy partner Law works for has managed to get Boone out yet, or whether he’s going to be in there all night. He hasn’t called me, so I’m assuming that means nothing good has happened.

  Unless he decided he’s done with me because my crazy-ass cousin got him arrested.