Once wasn’t enough. Hell, the three rounds we went weren’t enough.
Even though I don’t know Ripley well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that my presence would not be a welcome one this morning.
Which is why I’m sitting on a rocking chair at the end of my dock, casting into my trout pond at seven thirty in the morning, wearing the T-shirt I stripped off her last night with the spicy citrus scent of Ripley teasing my nose.
There was no point in going back to bed, because I’d reach for her and want more.
How the hell did I get myself into this mess?
Any of the women who threw their panties on the stage last night would have been hard-pressed not to handcuff me to the bed to keep me longer, but I had to set my sights on the one woman in the bar who not only didn’t wear panties, but also didn’t want anything to do with me. And there’s the fact that she probably wouldn’t have touched me sober.
Smart, Boone. Real smart.
Now I’m the chump who wants another shot with the chick who probably never wants to remember what happened last night.
I get a bite on my line and tug sharply before reeling it in. The fish fights for a few minutes and then the line goes slack. When I bring it up, there’s nothing there.
Probably about the same luck I’d have with Ripley if I tried ...
But as I cast again and let myself remember how good she felt when she was curled around me, I decide I’ve got nothing to lose by trying.
I get another bite and devise a plan of attack. What exactly would get that woman to bite?
As I reel in a nice-sized bluegill, an idea hits me. I turn it over in my head a few times, trying to figure out the best way to go about executing it, when my cell phone buzzes in my pocket and the fish spits out the hook.
Dammit.
The only person who ever calls me this early is Ma, but when I pull out my cell, it’s definitely not her.
Nick.
“I didn’t know you ever got up before nine a.m. What’s the occasion?”
“What did you do last night?”
His harsh tone has me stopping the rocking of the chair and planting my feet firmly on the dock.
“You want to try that again, Nick?” My response doesn’t leave any question as to how I feel about being spoken to like that.
“I’ve got an e-mail with a list of links to articles and pictures of you singing at the White Horse Saloon, and then there’s some asshole threatening to bring you up on assault charges. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Assault charges? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I stepped in between a guy pawing at a woman who didn’t want his attention. She kneed him in the balls, but I never touched him.”
“Well, apparently he’s saying you did.”
Now I wish I’d hit that douchebag. “He’s full of shit.”
“You got a witness who can make a statement to that effect?”
My jaw clenches tight, not just because I know Ripley wouldn’t want her name mixed up with mine, but also because the last thing I want is to drag her into a media circus. That would be the fastest way to scare her off for sure.
“If it’s necessary. Tell him to go fuck off, or the woman he was groping will press charges.”
“Fine. But if it gets ugly—”
“It won’t.” My answer is resolute, and I hope like hell I’m right.
“Good. Charity’s practically doing backflips over the other articles this morning. Public opinion is in your corner. They love the brokenhearted Boone Thrasher, coming out and saying that you gotta get back up and try again when it comes to love.”