I thought with Amber I’d rid myself of that last remaining trace, but we all know how that worked out.
“Watch out!”
I’m halfway through the intersection when Ripley yells and I look to the right. My foot slams down on the gas and the 442 surges forward, just missing being T-boned by a truck running a red light.
Ripley slaps her hand over her chest. “Oh my God. We could’ve died. Right here. Right now.”
My heart is hammering from the near miss, and my hands tighten on the wheel before turning us down the side street leading to the Fishbowl. I don’t speak until I park behind the building next to Ripley’s Javelin. I hope to fuck she didn’t walk to the bar, but it’s a moot point now.
“Asshole was probably drunk, running a red light like that.”
Ripley’s eyes are wide, an expression on her face I can’t identify. “I almost died.”
I reach out and drop a hand on her knee. “You didn’t. You’re fine.”
“It would’ve all been that asshole Stan’s fault.”
Now she’s talking drunken gibberish because that doesn’t make a bit of sense.
“Who the hell is Stan? Was he driving that truck?” I make a mental note to track the guy down and beat his ass if he was.
She shakes her head, bringing a hand up to her temple, and I assume her world is spinning right now.
“No, but it’s still his fault. And Brandy and Pop. All of them. I should just walk away from it all. Why do I put myself through this?” Ripley drops her head forward and her dark mane of hair obscures her face. “Why can’t I just let go?”
That’s when I realize she’s not talking about the truck. She’s talking about her life. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize that things are bad at the Fishbowl. If it was that empty on a Saturday night when Frisco took me there, I can’t imagine how dead it must be every other night of the week.
In fact, it looks completely dark inside. The neon light next to the back door is off too.
“You supposed to be open tonight?” I ask.
“No. I mean, we used to be, but Wednesdays are bingo night and Earl and Pearl don’t even come in, so it seemed like a waste to just stay open for a random passerby.”
The fact that they’re not open because the old couple is playing bingo might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, but I’m not about to tell Ripley that.
She tugs at the door handle again and struggles to pull it open.
“Hold on, sugar. I’ll get you out.”
I turn off the engine and slide out of the car, planning to come around and get her door. She’s still fumbling with the old-school buckle when I open the door.
“Here, let me.” I brush away her hands and unhook the latch. For the first time since we left the White Horse, I take a second to appreciate her curvy legs tucked into red tooled-leather boots, and the short black skirt peeking out from beneath the hem of my T-shirt.
I try to picture what she was wearing at the bar before her shirt was torn. It was red with a deep vee cut down the front. With that skirt and boots and her curves ... damn.
I don’t mean to say the words out loud, but they come anyway. “I can see why you attracted so much attention tonight.”
20
Ripley
“Ican seewhy you attracted so much attention tonight.”
Such a man thing to say, and one that puts me on guard immediately.
“I can wear whatever I want. It doesn’t mean it’s some sort of invitation to be pawed at.”
Boone’s big tattooed hands—hands that made incredible sounds tonight with a guitar—pull the seat belt away and I bolt out of the car, stumbling into his naked chest, nearly sending both of us sprawling. His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his blazing-hot body, keeping us both steady and upright.