“What are you drinking tonight, Frisco?”
“The usual. Plus, whatever he wants.” Frisco jerks his chin toward the direction of a man stepping out of the shadows near the back entrance.
Crap, I need to change that light bulb. When did it go out?As soon as the thought enters my head, it’s replaced by a flash of female appreciation.
Dayum.
Frisco is no slouch in the build department, but the way this guy’s broad shoulders, muscled chest, and thick biceps stretch out his faded black T-shirt has all the spit drying up in my mouth as he strides closer.
Wow.Thatis a man.
His battered baseball cap is pulled low, hiding his face, but I can make out the dark scruff of a beard on his chin. My gaze slides down to the ink on his arms, and the parts of me that haven’t seen any action in longer than I want to admit roar to life.
My survey drops lower to take in his worn jeans and black shit-kickers before dragging back up to his face just as he lifts his head to meet my eyes.
No way.
Zane Frisco did not bring Boone Thrasher, country music’s reigning bad-boy superstar, to my bar.
I’ve gone too many days without sleep. I’m seeing things.
But when those black motorcycle boots step closer, I know it’s not the lack of REM cycles screwing with me.
Boone Thrasher is in the Fishbowl.
“Jack and Coke. Heavy on the Jack.”
His deep voice is just as raspy as it sounds on the radio, and my nipples peak.
Nope. Not happening. Danger. Abort mission.
Frozen like a deer in the headlights under his intense blue gaze, I force myself to spin around and face the mirrored wall with glass shelves holding bottles of liquor.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath.Celebrities are only good for one thing, and that’s trouble.Except ... with one phone call, I could fill this place with enough women to put the Fishbowl back in the black for the month.
I let the vision play out in my brain.
Instead of gawkers coming to see the bathroom where former country legend Gil Green was murdered, people would be packing the bar, buying drinks, and trying to get close to the country music entertainer of the year.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles and my lids flutter open.
In the reflection, Boone Thrasher’s gaze slams into mine. My hand freezes in midair as I reach for the half-full bottle of Jack.
“You trust her?” His words come out as gruff as when he growls into the microphone at his concerts. Not that I’ve ever had extra cash to splurge on a ticket to one of the big stadium shows.
To the right in the mirror, my peripheral vision catches the blur of Frisco nodding his shaggy blond head, but my attention stays focused on the face beneath the shredded brim of the black hat.
“Ripley’s good people. She ain’t gonna say shit to anyone about us being here. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”
Those blue eyes bore holes in me as my tongue darts out to swipe over my lips while I gather my wits to respond.
I start to speak, but no sound comes out. Clearing my throat, I shake my head first instead. “No one is gonna find out you’re here from me.”
Thrasher nods at Earl and Pearl. “Can I buy that round for you, folks?”
Earl and Pearl aren’t slow, especially when someone is offering to make their Social Security fixed-income budget stretch a little further.
Earl’s reflection turns to the certified-platinum recording artist. “You buy ’em all night, and we got a deal. I can play deaf, blind, and dumb. Just ask the wife.”