“Please, don’t do that. Let’s go outside and talk about it.”
He glares at me with a dark scowl but follows me as I push through the crowd to get out the front door. Instead of the quiet street with scattered bar patrons I expect, it’s packed with cars and people.
“I’ll get them out. There won’t be any issues.”
“No, I’ve made my decision. It’s a matter of public safety now.” He pulls out his phone as people fight to get out the front door.
“Who are you calling?”
Before the fire marshal can respond, a crowd surrounds us from outside, cameras flashing and microphones waving.
“Are you Ripley Fischer? What do you say to the accusations that you were the real reason for Boone Thrasher and Amber Fleet’s breakup?”
“Ripley! Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps by becoming the mistress of a country star?”
“How long have you been sleeping with Boone Thrasher?”
Oh my God.
The questions jab into me like blades, each striking all the way to the bone. My stomach twists into knots as it hits my feet.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. My breathing picks up.I’m going to hyperventilate.Maybe I’ll pass out. Then I won’t have to face them—
“Ripley! Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
“How big is Boone Thrasher’s dick? My readers want to know! Spill, girl!”
The voices are overwhelming, the questions coming from all directions as I stand there, frozen like an idiot deer about to be creamed by a Mack truck.
How is this happening?
“Ma’am, you need to get these people out of here.”
I twist around to stare at the fire marshal again, but my ears are ringing from the questions being shouted.
“Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps?”
I keep my back turned, my shoulders hunched, needing to protect myself from the cameras any way I can.
The fire marshal apparently doesn’t care that this evening is tipping into nightmare territory. He has some sort of notebook out and is scribbling on the open page.
“I’m citing you for overcapacity, and as soon as I can get back in the building, I’m going through your fire-safety measures. If I find you’re missing a single fire extinguisher, you’re going to have serious problems.”
Reporters continue yelling at me, tossing out more demands to know about Boone and me and my mom, and I reach down and pinch my thigh to wake myself up.
This can’t be real. This is just a bad dream.
The sting from my fingernails tells me it’s not. My reality is actually this big of a disaster.
The security guys from inside herd dozens of people out the front door, and the reporters pounce on the fresh meat.
“Does anyone have pictures of Boone and Ripley Fischer together? We’ll pay!”
A guy wearing a Vandy shirt stumbles to a drunken halt in front of one reporter. “The bartender chick with the nice rack? I got a video of him dedicating a song to her. I’ll sell it to you.”
Oh my God.
I have to get out of here.