While interesting, her information isn’t helpful.
My gaze shifts to her husband, Earl. “Any idea?”
He sips his beer. “No, sir.”
From the corner of the bar, the bird says, “You’re fired.”
Brandy giggles from behind the bar. “He’s been saying that all day. Just like Uncle Frank.”
A sick, sinking feeling takes up residence in my gut.
This is my fault.
I’ve done nothing but bring shit into Ripley’s life that she didn’t ask for.
After backing up a few steps, I peel off another hundred and slap both bills on the bar.
“Where the hell is she?”
Brandy reaches out to snatch the cash from beneath my hand, but I keep it pressed tight against the wood.
Her expression twists into something ugly. “I don’t care where she is, as long as she’s gone. But for two hundred, I’ll tell ya that she probably ran to her friend Hope for help. She manages the White Horse.”
Brandy yanks at the money again, and I wait a beat before I let it go.
“Good luck keeping this place open without her.”
She sneers at me as I turn to head for the door. “I don’t need her. I just needed her out of the way.”
I spin on my heel, staring her down as I stalk back to the bar and lean over it, getting in her space. “What the fuck did you do?”
Brandy shrugs. “Nothing you can prove.”
I haul in a breath and force myself to walk away without saying another word. I want to rip that girl a new one, but it’s not gonna help me any.
I shove open the door so hard, it slams against the brick outside before swinging closed behind me.
At least I know where I’m going next.
36
Ripley
My ankle burnsenough to keep tears stinging behind my eyes with every step, but I keep moving anyway, because that’s what you do when you have no other option.
As I serve drinks, the only thing keeping my fake smile in place is the amount of tips I’m pulling in. Even though we split them, I’m going to make more tonight off tips alone than I’ve ever paid myself in a week at the Fishbowl.
Maybe I should have done this a long time ago.
Thankfully, I don’t have time to question my misplaced loyalty because a flurry of drink orders is hurled across the bar by customers.
When I slide two plastic cups under the taps, a guy leans forward and yells, “Are you the chick who fucked Boone Thrasher? Because you look just like the picture I saw online. You’re hot. I can totally see why he’d nail you.”
I’d been getting some intense looks for the last couple of hours, but I assumed they were in appreciation of my decent rack in this tight tank top.
Please tell me I wasn’t wrong.
“Sorry. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”