by Meghan March
The shaft of pain that stabs through me at that thought almost takes my breath away. He wouldn’t just never contact me again, right? No. Of course not. I tell myself to settle down, but one thing can’t be denied.
I’m not ready to be done with him.
That fact alone scares me because I’ve gotten more attached to Boone than I realized. He and I live in two different worlds, and just because we found some common ground doesn’t mean that it’s going anywhere.
Except . . . isn’t that what he said he wanted? To see where this goes?
When sunlight streams through the cracks in the drapes, the sounds of Hope waking up filter through the small apartment. I hear her curse in the kitchen before she shuffles into the living room, a hand covering her mouth as she yawns.
“I totally forgot to get more coffee yesterday, so we’re out. I’m gonna run down to the shop on the corner. You want some?”
After the sleepless night I had, I need an IV drip of caffeine. “That sounds amazing.”
“Caramel latte with an extra shot sound good?”
“Heavenly.”
“I’ll be right back. You can take the first shower while I’m gone, if you want.”
“Thank you for being so awesome.” I reach out and grab Hope’s hand.
“That’s what friends are for.” She squeezes my fingers and presses a kiss to my head.
After Hope shoves her feet into shoes and slips out of the apartment, I roll off the futon and check my phone for the fiftieth time, even though it hasn’t made a sound.
I head for the bathroom with it clutched in my hand. I have to get in touch with Anthony ASAP. If Boone is still in jail . . . It makes me sick to think about it. If I don’t hear from Anthony within the hour, I’ll go straight to the police myself to get Boone out.
Decision made, I let the stream of water soak my hair as my mind drifts to Brandy and how she looked last night. I knew there was something screwed up about her caked-on makeup. It’s not the first time I’ve seen Brandy use a load of concealer around her eye and cheekbone, but when I asked in the past, I’d get a lethal stare in return. I always assumed some shitty guy she hooked up with had smacked her around, and I couldn’t help but pity her. She knew she always had a place to stay with me, but she didn’t use it.
I think that’s why I waited so long to confront her about skimming from the till. Even though she’s a pain in my ass and can make my life hell, I’ve always felt bad for Brandy. Her dad was never in the picture, and from the little she told me about how things were in Memphis, my aunt wasn’t exactly mother of the year.
Brandy showed up back in Nashville when she was eighteen, saying she needed a place to stay because Aunt Laurelyn kicked her out and told her it was time to make her own way. What could we do but try to help her? She had no support other than Pop and me. She’d work at the bar for a few months until she lost interest, and then she would stop showing up and move in with some boyfriend and do something different for a while. Every damn time, she came back, and Pop always made me give her a job. When we knew he wasn’t moving back upstairs after his accident, he told me to let Brandy have the spare room. So I did. Whenever Brandy’s life went sideways, I came to the rescue.
And this is how she repays me.
It shouldn’t be such a shock. I was the only one expected to put family loyalty at the top of my priority list. But Brandy finally crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed, and I’m done.
I hurry through the rest of my shower, not wanting to use all the hot water, and I hear the door shut as Hope returns.
“Rip?”
“I’m almost done.” I shut off the water and grab the towel I tossed over the curtain rod.
“You’re gonna want to see this.”
Her wary tone alerts me to the fact that something is definitely wrong. With water still beaded on my skin and dripping from my hair, I wrap the towel around myself and open the bathroom door.
“What’s going on?”
She holds out her phone. The red banner across the top of the screen is the name of a gossip site that wants to be the next TMZ.
I squint and step closer to read the headline of an article posted only a half hour ago.
* * *
Boone Thrasher and Amber Fleet Reunited
* * *
Beneath it is a picture of Amber wrapped around Boone like a spider monkey as she kisses him.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
6
Boone
An hour earlier
The door to the Escalade slams shut before the vehicle pulls away with Amber and me inside.
Eyeing her like she’s a viper poised to strike, I try to figure out what angle she’s working. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Amber shifts in her seat to face me, and it stuns the crap out of me that I was planning to ask her to marry me nine days ago. What a dumbass. Now when I look at her, everything comes off as manufactured, from her rhinoplastied nose to her collagen-injected lips.
“Saving your ass. What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re trying to stage some kind of goddamned reconciliation, and you know that shit isn’t happening.”
She rolls her eyes. “You could be a little more grateful. I just dropped a pile of cash to bail you out of jail.”
“You’ll get your money back within the hour. Where the fuck did you come from, and where the hell is your husband?” I emphasize the word husband, hoping she realizes just how frigging ridiculous it is that she showed up here.
“I don’t have a husband. The marriage has already been dissolved. It was just a big misunderstanding.”
Remnants of the anger I felt when I first found out what Amber had done flare up. “A misunderstanding? You call getting married a fucking misunderstanding?”
She waves a hand. “You know I stayed in Vegas the day after my show for a meeting. Well, that meeting was with a big-shot Hollywood producer to talk about my acting career . . . and things got a little crazy.”
“Crazy? Yeah, that’s exactly what it was when I heard that my goddamned girlfriend was married.” My temper kicks up another notch.
“He made promises, Boone! He swore he was going to get me a starring role in the next Ryan Gosling movie he’s producing, and that’s where things get fuzzy.”
“I can’t fucking wait to hear this.”
To her credit, Amber’s cheeks turn pink.
“We went out, had some drinks, did some blow and some pills, and the next thing I know, we’re at a wedding chapel and he told me it was my big audition. All I had to do was walk down the aisle and I’d be Hollywood’s next big thing. So I did. Then I woke up the next morning with a ring on my finger, lying next to a guy I only vaguely remember—one I never would’ve touched without being seriously fucked up. I mean, God, you should’ve seen his receding hairline and tiny dick. The first thing I told him was I wanted the contract for my movie role, and that’s when he told me it was already taken and I’d have to build up to something that big. He lied to me!”
And what bothers her the most about this situation is that he lied to her . . . If I’d been carrying a single shred of regret for not trying to patch things up with Amber, it would have died right then. Luckily for me, I’ve already moved way the fuck on. Hell, I dodged a bullet.
“I would say you’ve gotta be joking, but that’s too sad not to be true. Sorry ’bout your luck and your big splashy Hollywood career that ain’t happenin’. Now, tell me what was the point of coming here and making a big scene? Anything between us is dead. Done. Over.”
The flush of embarrassment fades from her cheeks as her eyes take on a calculating gleam. She stretches an arm out and lays her hand on my thigh.
“Oh, Boone, we’re not even close to over. I need you now more than ever.”
* * *
The SUV drives away, leaving me at the corner near my agent’s building. No way was I going to let the press follow Amber’s SUV all the w
ay to my place, and that’s on top of the fact that I don’t want to spend thirty minutes letting her explain why she thinks what she did was no big deal, and how we can “save each other” by getting back together.
Call me old fashioned and a little bit country, but it’s a big fucking deal. I wouldn’t tie myself to Amber again if my balls were on fire and she was the only person who could put them out.
I scan the street, hoping the press isn’t on me already, and duck into the building. The security guard at the desk stands up when I walk in.
“Sir—” he starts.
I tip up the bill of my hat, and his eyes widen in recognition.
Yeah, man. I’m not the one you’re trying to keep out.
There was a time years ago when he might have thrown me out for trying to get a meeting with an agent, but those days are over.
I ride the elevator up to Nick’s office, hoping like hell he’s actually here. When the receptionist catches sight of me, she straightens in her seat.
“Mr. Thrasher, did you have an appointment? I don’t recall—”
I ignore her and push right through the door that leads into the inner sanctum, Nick’s slick corner office. She reaches for the phone, but I’m going to beat her there.
“Where the fuck were you?” I don’t bother with a greeting as I shove open his door.
Inside, a young, skinny blonde, who looks like she’s more likely to be another wannabe Britney Spears than a country girl, sits perched on the edge of the expensive leather chair. But then again, couldn’t someone say that about Amber? That she would fit in better climbing the pop charts in LA than she does in Nashville’s country scene?
Nick sighs. “I’m sorry, Jerrica, we’ll have to continue this later.”
She rises to her pink pumps with a smile aimed in my direction.
Another Barbie lookalike. Perfect. Just what this town needs.
Once she’s out of the office, I stride to the window and look out over the city I love. Music City. Where I belong.
When I spin around, I toss another question at Nick since he hasn’t answered my first. “Where were you? Did you know she was coming?”
Nick lowers himself back into his fancy leather chair after letting the blonde out and crosses his arms. “I’d be a little more concerned about the charges than your girlfriend picking you up.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” I growl through gritted teeth.
“Ex-girlfriend,” he says, correcting himself. “But you know, it’s worth pointing out that if you were still with Amber and had never gotten mixed up with this Ripley girl, none of this would have happened. I told you to stay away from her. Keep a low profile. But you didn’t listen. You gonna listen now? Because putting some distance between you two would be the best thing for you.”
“Are you shitting me? You want to put this all on Ripley?”
“Her cousin got you thrown in jail.”
“Because she’s a bitch with an ax to grind. I didn’t touch her!”
“I believe you, Boone. Trust me, I do. But . . . right now, Charity is fielding calls from dozens of people wanting details. You’re a role model for a lot of kids, and when word travels about this, your reputation is going to take a huge hit. The best thing is to find something to divert the attention while we sort this out.” He pauses before leaning forward on his desk. “Have you considered the possibility of reconciling with Amber? People loved seeing you together. It was a fairy tale they could get behind.”
I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Instead of the press thinking I’m a woman beater, you want them to think I’m a doormat who lets his girlfriend marry and fuck another guy before taking her back?”
“Look, I know it sounds bad, but—”
“No. Not fucking happening, and if you suggest it again, we’re done. Now I gotta get my financial manager on the phone and make sure he wires Amber’s account with whatever she laid out for my bond. Unless you’ve got something useful to say, I’m gonna go wait in another office for my ride.”
7
Ripley
I’ve trolled way more gossip sites in the last hour and a half than I’ll ever admit, torturing myself by reading articles about Amber and Boone being back together.
Of course this would happen to me. I should have known better.
Why did I think I was special? I’m such an idiot. He didn’t even need my help getting out of jail.
Yeah, so positive self-talk isn’t exactly my strong suit, but when you’re constantly getting smacked down by life, it makes you realize that some things are better left alone. I should have known that having any kind of relationship with someone like Boone was a joke from the beginning.
Why did I even let myself start to think . . .
Hope comes out of the bathroom, leaving a cloud of hair spray behind her. “Babe, I gotta get to the bar for a meeting and to train a couple new people. Are you sure you want to come in tonight? Is your ankle really feeling okay?”
I look up at her from my sprawled position on the futon where I’ve been throwing my pity party, and toss my phone on the coffee table.
One good thing in my life? I have an awesome friend.
“You know I love you, right?”
She tilts her head to the left, but her hair doesn’t move, courtesy of the hair spray. Which makes me think of Pearl and her Aquanet with a stab of nostalgia.
“Are you drunk? Because you can’t come to work if you’re already—”
“No, I’m not drunk. I’m just telling you how much I appreciate you, and how lucky I am to have you. Thank you for everything you’ve done. Even when I’m swirling down the drain in an avalanche of shit, you’re right there throwing me a lifeline.”
Hope crosses the room and leans down to hug me. “You weren’t swirling the drain, girl. You were staging a prison break.” She stands straight again and looks me in the eye. “You’ve been trapped for so damn long that you don’t have any idea what it’s like to be free to think about doing anything but working like a slave at the Fishbowl. Maybe you should take some time away from the tabloid shit and think about what you want. You could go to school, get a certificate of some kind, or just get a different job.”
Hope’s words kick-start my brain in a way that’s almost too overwhelming. Working at the Fishbowl, and now the White Horse, is all I’ve ever known, and thinking about anything else is a hair away from terrifying.
My best friend must read my fear all over my face. “Look, you don’t have to decide right now. The job at the White Horse is yours for as long as you need it, but I really think you should take this chance to figure out what you really want to do.”
“I’ll think about it.” I force a smile to my lips. “But, seriously, you said it—working behind a bar is all I know. I understand the rhythm and the flow. It’s easy and feels like home to me. Anything else . . . is really hard to imagine.”
“Take a couple hours. You don’t have to be in until six. Open-mic night starts at eight, so you might want to bring your earplugs because some of those poor bastards are terrible.” She glances up at the ceiling. “But thank God for Auto-Tune . . . because that means record labels don’t need artists to have a decent voice if they’re marketable. Anyhow, you good driving your car tonight too?”
My Javelin has been parked on the street near Hope’s place since the day I quit the Fishbowl.
“Yep. No problem. I can drive. Thank you for everything, Hope.”
“Love you, girl.”
“Love you more.”
As soon as the door shuts behind her, I lift my feet onto the futon and wrap my arms around my knees.
What do I want to do? Hell, what do I like to do? Who do I want to be? It’s sad I don’t have answers to any of those questions.
In a rare moment of solitude, I let my mind wander. It goes straight to Boone, and I want to kick my own ass.
I know tabloid pictures can skew the facts of what r
eally happened, and there’s a good chance that Boone didn’t do a damn thing wrong, but it still cuts deep to see Amber Fleet wrapped around him like she has every right to be there.
Why am I even surprised?
The moment one thing starts going right in my life, of course it’s bound to go down in flames in a morbidly spectacular fashion.
Ripley Fischer doesn’t get to have the fairy tale. I’m just a homeless girl with a dead mom, a lying bitch of a cousin, and a dad who’d just as soon slap me around as crack open a beer. My life is never going to be one of those inspiring stories. It’s just the same as it has always been—one step above shit.
I don’t know why I thought this thing with Boone would be any different.
It’s over. Now the only thing left to do is to clean up the mess that dragging my shit into his life caused.
But even if it’s over, I have to clear Boone of the charges Brandy brought. Maybe he didn’t need my help getting out of jail, but that doesn’t mean the security feed isn’t going to help him get free of this crap. Then I can walk away with a clean conscience and forget this whole thing ever happened. Or just remember it late at night while I’m wishing my life was different.
First things first. I need to spend more time going over the feed from the morning Boone and I went to the bar to see if there’s anything else that could possibly help get Brandy’s trumped-up charges thrown out. If Anthony doesn’t get back to me, I have to take it to the police for evidence and hope they take me seriously. More than anything, I’m worried it’ll get lost in the process and the right people won’t see it, and Boone won’t be exonerated.
Or you could put your big-girl panties on and just give it to Boone so he can get it to the right people. I know exactly what I’m trying to do. Avoiding facing him, knowing that he and Amber are back together and I have no right to touch him.
The thought burns, and I swallow back the lump in my throat before straightening my shoulders. That’s exactly what I need to do. Maybe it’ll kill any feelings I have for him, and I can move on with my life.
