Real Sexy: Book 2 of The Real Dirty Duet Read online

  Real Sexy

  Book 2 of The Real Dirty Duet

  Meghan March

  Contents

  Real Sexy

  Copyright

  Notice

  About This Book

  1. Ripley

  2. Ripley

  3. Ripley

  4. Boone

  5. Ripley

  6. Boone

  7. Ripley

  8. Boone

  9. Ripley

  10. Ripley

  11. Ripley

  12. Ripley

  13. Ripley

  14. Boone

  15. Ripley

  16. Boone

  17. Ripley

  18. Boone

  19. Ripley

  20. Ripley

  21. Boone

  22. Ripley

  23. Boone

  24. Ripley

  25. Boone

  26. Ripley

  27. Boone

  28. Ripley

  29. Boone

  30. Ripley

  31. Boone

  32. Ripley

  33. Boone

  34. Ripley

  35. Ripley

  36. Boone

  37. Ripley

  38. Boone

  39. Ripley

  40. Ripley

  41. Boone

  42. Ripley

  43. Boone

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Exclusive Preview of Mount

  Also by Meghan March

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Real Sexy

  Book 2 of the Real Dirty Duet

  * * *

  Meghan March

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Meghan March LLC

  Kindle Edition

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Editor: Pam Berehulke

  Bulletproof Editing

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  * * *

  Cover design: @ Hang Le

  www.byhangle.com

  * * *

  Cover photo: @ Sara Eirew

  Sara Eirew Photography

  www.saraeirew.com

  * * *

  Interior Design: Stacey Blake

  Champagne Formats

  www.champagneformats.com

  Notice

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  * * *

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  About This Book

  In Nashville, country stars are a dime a dozen.

  I swore I’d never get caught up with one, but Boone Thrasher made a liar out of me.

  I said I’d never put my heart on the line, but he didn’t ask before he stole it.

  Now I’m facing my worst fears, and we’ll see if this country boy is tough enough to see it through.

  Girls like me don’t get happily-ever-afters . . . but maybe he’ll prove that wrong too.

  1

  Ripley

  Twenty years earlier

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you.” My father shouted the slurred words at the officer who walked into the Fishbowl only hours after Mama’s body had been taken away.

  I sat huddled in a corner, a pink wood-and-plastic guitar clutched in my arms. I didn’t play it because Mama told me not to when Pop was around. It made him mad.

  But he was already mad, and Mama was gone.

  A few hours ago, I needed to pee. I wasn’t supposed to be down in the bar while people were there unless Pop had me doing chores, but the bathroom upstairs wasn’t working right. I tiptoed down the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t catch me before I slipped into one of the stalls behind the door marked Cowgirls and Mermaids.

  Except I never made it to one of the stalls. The dingy gray tile floor that I was in charge of mopping was stained dark red with a puddle around Mama.

  “Mama?” I whispered, even though I knew she wouldn’t answer. She was so quiet, so still.

  A man lay facedown beside her in another dark puddle—the man who gave me the guitar—and he didn’t move either.

  I didn’t know where the hysterical screaming was coming from until Pearl, one of the bar regulars I liked to pretend was my gran, burst into the bathroom, nearly plowing me over.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus. Rip, get out of here. You shouldn’t see this.” She gagged before shoving me out the door.

  But I’d already seen it, and I might have been only nine but I wasn’t an idiot.

  Mama was dead.

  The man was dead.

  And now the police thought Pop had something to do with it.

  The bar cleared out as soon as word got around why there was a kid screaming in the bathroom, or maybe it was the way I’d run out yelling, “Mama’s dead!” Either way, all the people pushed each other to get out of the bar, even as Pop hollered that they hadn’t paid their tabs.

  Now Pop’s face was red as he argued with the policeman.

  “You don’t have a choice, Mr. Fischer. We’re taking you in for questioning. Don’t worry, your sister-in-law will stay with your daughter.”

  Like an afterthought, Pop glanced over at me in the corner, as if just remembering I existed. Aunt Laurelyn stood a dozen feet away with my cousin, Brandy, wrapped around her waist. She was only six, but she was as mean as any eleven-year-old I’d ever met. I didn’t have any Barbies left because of her. She’d popped their heads off, or cut their hair and drawn on them with markers. When I complained to Mama, she’d told me I had to share because Brandy didn’t have it as good as I did.

  Her clothes were my worn-out hand-me-downs and her Keds were gray instead of the original white, so I guessed Mama was right. I still thought she was mean, though.

  “Go on, Frank. I’ll stay with the girls. I’ll take them to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal while the police . . . do what they need to do here.” Aunt Laurelyn choked on the last few words.

  “Don’t care where you go, but make sure that bathroom gets cleaned up before I get back.”

  My stomach twisted at the thought of mopping up those puddles of blood.

  “Nine isn’t too young to learn what hard work is. It’ll be good for her.” That’s what Pop told Mama when she said I shouldn’t be cleaning the bar, only the apartment upstairs. Just like every other time, Pop won, and while I pushed the mop over pee and puke, I’d wondered why adults were so gross. Even grosser than kids.

  I didn’t dare complain, though, because Pop’s temper scared me, especially when his words were slurring like they were now. That meant I’d end up getting smacked.

  “Let’s go, Mr. Fischer. The faster you leave, the faster we get this taken care of,” the police officer with the freshly starched uniform said.

  “Right, like I really believe that.”

  But instead of arguing more, Pop actually went with them. I didn’t understand why they were taking him, but I gues
sed they had to have a reason or they wouldn’t do it.

  When the door closed behind them, leaving me, Aunt Laurelyn, and Brandy alone, my aunt walked behind the bar, grabbed a bottle from the shelf, and poured herself a big glass. From the color, I assumed it was whiskey, because that’s what Mama liked to drink.

  Mama’s dead.

  My chest clenched and tears landed on my guitar.

  Who could do that to her? Pop made her lip and nose bleed the week before last, but he couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . . Right?

  Aunt Laurelyn downed the glass of liquor before pouring some more. When she lifted it to her lips the second time, she paused.

  “She shoulda known better.” She whispered the words as tears welled in her eyes.

  “What?”

  Aunt Laurelyn drained the glass and lowered it to the bar.

  “She shoulda known better than to get mixed up with Gil. I warned her.” Aunt Laurelyn huffed out a harsh sound. “I knew messin’ around with that man wasn’t gonna get her anywhere good. And see what it got her?” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  For the first time since I came out of the bathroom screaming, Esteban, my mama’s parrot, piped up.

  “Dirty whore. Dirty whore.”

  Aunt Laurelyn sagged against the bar. “The whole world’s gonna say worse, so I guess we better prepare for it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Two hours later, we came back from McDonald’s and I stared at the bathroom door. The police were gone, and Mama was too.

  Aunt Laurelyn took the bottle of whiskey and disappeared upstairs. I swallowed back the bile as I remembered what Pop had said about making sure the mess was cleaned up. Aunt Laurelyn sure wasn’t gonna do it.

  When I closed my eyes and saw Mama in that pool of blood, my Happy Meal twisted in my stomach, threatening to land on the floor.

  They can’t make me do it. I won’t.

  But when Pop came back a few hours later and found it wasn’t done, he started yelling. Aunt Laurelyn didn’t wake up, and Brandy hid.

  My tears landed like raindrops as I dunked the mop in the water, turning it red.

  Good-bye, Mama.

  2

  Ripley

  Present day

  Alone in Boone’s empty house, I listen to Esteban squawk in his cage.

  “Shoulda known better.”

  The bird has the most uncanny knack for saying the exact wrong thing at the wrong time.

  “Shut up!”

  “Crackerhead,” he says before rustling his wings and preening.

  When Anthony came out to the pond on his ATV to let Boone know the cops were here, he didn’t say why. Boone hustled down the dock and they talked. From where I sat, I could hear Boone curse before coming back to get me.

  All the questions were on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I held them back. I figured he would tell me when we got back to the house, but once we got there, everything was a whirlwind.

  Boone strode to the front door and stepped outside with Anthony on his heels. When they returned, it was for Boone to grab his wallet and press a hard kiss against my lips.

  “Sit tight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I couldn’t hold my questions in any longer. “What the hell is going on, Boone? How could they have a warrant for your arrest? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I’ll take care of it. It’s bullshit and an inconvenience, but it’ll all be over soon.”

  That’s when the thought struck me. “Oh shit. It’s because of Esteban, isn’t it? Did Brandy—”

  “It’ll be all right. Stay in the house, because guaranteed there are paps out front waiting to get a pic. Keep off that ankle.”

  Then he was gone, and I was left wondering if Boone is straight-up crazy.

  Stay in the house. Don’t worry about it. If that’s what he really expects me to do, he’s insane. He’s been gone five minutes, and there’s no way I’m going to sit here and wait.

  This has to be because of Esteban, which means it’s all my damn fault. If I didn’t love that stupid parrot too much to let him starve under Pop and Brandy’s care, none of this would have happened.

  He’s basically mine in every way that matters. You know, except legally.

  Esteban belonged to Mama, and now Pop, but the only reason he’s still alive to talk shit to me is because I’ve taken care of him for the last twenty years. Pop hasn’t done anything but swear at him for as long as I can remember.

  And I dragged Boone into this mess because I just had to rescue the bird.

  Shit.

  Is there anything I can’t screw up? I shouldn’t have asked for his help. I should have asked Hope for her truck and handled it myself.

  I hobble over to my purse and pick up the phone to call my best friend. Hope has tonight off, and we were supposed to go out to dinner if I was back from Boone’s in time.

  I hate that I’ve only called her when I need a favor lately, but she knows I’d do anything for her, so that lessens the guilt somewhat.

  She answers on the second ring, a smile in her voice. “Hey, girl. What’s happening? I keep seeing pictures of you and that sexy country boy online. I swear, the photographers are having a field day trying to outdo each other. You look so freaking cute together, though.”

  “Do you think you could come get me?”

  A moment of silence hangs on the line before she replies. “Oh shit, did it already go south? I’m so sorry, honey. What did that jackass do?”

  I laugh at the quick change in her attitude. That’s what you call a true friend.

  “Not in the way you think, but I need a ride, and my car is at your place.”

  “Of course. What’s the address?”

  I walk over to the counter where there are a few pieces of mail waiting to be dealt with, and pick one up to rattle off the address.

  “I have no clue where that is, but I’ll google. I’ll be there as soon as I can. But tell Boone I’m going to castrate him if he hurt you.”

  We hang up before I tell her he’s not here.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, I head to the end of the driveway as I see headlights pull up to the gate. I’m in my jeans from the night before, and a stolen T-shirt of Boone’s tied in a knot at the bottom to keep it from hanging down to my knees.

  From my quick scan of the area, I don’t see any sign of cars other than Hope’s big truck, but that doesn’t mean the paps aren’t hiding somewhere. Boone taught me that.

  “How do I open this gate?” I mumble. I know Boone has a sensor in his car, but there’s no obvious mechanism for opening it from the inside. Am I going to have to climb it?

  I can just imagine the tabloid pictures and headline.

  * * *

  Boone Thrasher’s Girlfriend so Desperate to Get Away, She Climbs Gate in Stolen Shirt

  * * *

  But nothing I do will make the thing budge. Out of options, I grab the metal bar and haul myself up.

  Hope pops out of the truck as I throw a leg over the top. My ankle is throbbing, but thankfully the pain is bearable.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hope hurries over to the gate and bear-hugs my legs so I can slide down her body.

  Please let there be a merciful God and no pictures of this. Otherwise, the headlines are now going to read:

  * * *

  Boone Thrasher’s Girlfriend Escapes Compound into the Arms of Her Lesbian Lover

  * * *

  “I didn’t have a choice. I had to get out, and I don’t know how to work the damn thing. Do you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. But let’s get the hell out of here before someone thinks we’re trying to break in and not out.”

  Crap, I hadn’t even thought about that. I round the hood to the passenger side of the truck and climb inside.

  “How’s the ankle?” Hope asks as I shut the door.

  “Still aches, but I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse sprains and kept working. Boone overreacted.” T
o myself I add, And maybe I’m downplaying it a tiny bit.

  Hope shifts the truck into reverse and backs out of the driveway. “Maybe so, but it was still super hot to see him go all alpha-protective mode and carry you out of the White Horse. Have you seen the pictures? I think everyone with a cell phone managed to snap a different angle. Some people are calling him the Gentleman Bad Boy now.”

  I roll my eyes. “What else did I miss?”

  “One site said you fainted because you’re pregnant with his love child.” Hope glances at my giant shirt. “If they see you in that, they’ll be on baby-bump watch.”

  This time when I roll my eyes, my vision blurs for a second, and I’m a little concerned I might strain an eye muscle. If that’s even possible. “Good God.”

  “I mean, you did go to the hospital right after, and they didn’t miss that information.” When I release a low groan, Hope continues. “Did you really think dating him would be easy?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that we’re not dating, but I hold back the protest because actually, I have no idea what we’re doing now.

  Before today, I would have said it’s nothing but a rebound fling for Boone, but things have . . . shifted. I don’t have an answer for her, so I say nothing.

  Hope takes a left and heads for the highway, keeping the conversation going without waiting for me to reply. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on that necessitates a midnight escape plan?”

  “It’s not midnight, and I’m not escaping.”

  Hope glances over at me. “You scaled a fence.”

  “I told you I don’t know how to open it. Boone and Anthony had to leave in a hurry.” I hesitate for only a second before I fill her in on the arrest.