Brandy raises both hands in the air before adopting a breathy tone. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Why don’t you just come on home with me and I’ll make it all better? You don’t ever need to think about that cheating slut again.”
The atmosphere in the bar crackles with fury as Boone’s gaze shifts to Brandy.
“The fuck did you say?” The question comes out like a growl from between gritted teeth as his chest rises and falls.
Boone Thrasher is not a small man. My best guess, he’s six feet tall, two hundred twenty pounds, and when he straightens his shoulders, he looks like he’s about to rain the wrath of God down on my cousin for running her mouth.
What is she talking about?I dig through my brain for the celebrity gossip that I try to avoid but seem to absorb through osmosis anyway.
Thrasher has a girlfriend ... a skinny blonde whose sound is more pop than country.What is her name?
Ruby? Jade? Some kind of gemstone, I think.
When Brandy stands there stunned and mute, Thrasher repeats his question with menace. “The fuck did you say?”
Brandy’s mouth drops open as she slaps her hand against her push-up padded chest. “No. Way. You haven’t even heard, have you?”
Frisco pops off his stool, probably because he’s seeing what I’m seeing, which is Boone Thrasher two seconds away from losing his shit.
“Whoa there, Brandy. You might want to watch your mouth when you’re talking about Boone’s girl.”
Brandy, never one to be accused of having excessive IQ points, half laughs, half coughs. “Well, she sure as shit ain’t Boone’s girl anymore. Amber Fleet married some bajillionaire Hollywood producer tonight in Vegas and told TMZ, aka the whole world, she’s gonna be the biggest star on the planet.”
“Dirty whore,” Esteban crows right before the room goes silent.
6
Boone
I’ve never hita woman in my life, but it takes everything I have to keep myself from slapping the words back between this bitch’s tobacco-stained teeth.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rage vibrates through my every syllable. If she were smart, she’d back away.
The bartender must realize I’m a grenade with no pin, because she comes out from behind her station and grabs the skinny bitch’s arm to drag her two steps away from me.
The bitch cackles. “This is priceless. Oh my God, I wish I’d gotten it on camera. I could’ve made millions.”
“Brandy, shut your mouth. Go upstairs and sleep it off in the spare room.”
“Dirty whore.”
“Shut up, you stupid bird!” The bitch yanks her arm out of Ripley’s grip. “Don’t tell me what to do. I just came here for money ’cause I’m not done partying tonight. But if he’d just give me back my phone, I’ll have every paparazzi in this town here and get my payday that way.”
Desperate, money-hungry women are all the same in my book—parasites. I open my hand and her phone drops to the concrete floor.
“The hell is your problem!” she yells.
When I lift one boot and bring the heel down hard on it, her screech morphs into a banshee wail.
“You asshole!” She raises an arm to take a swing at me, but I catch her wrist in midair.
“How much?” I bark the words at her, my jaw clenched.
“What?”
“How much to keep your fucking mouth shut about seeing me here? Otherwise, I’ll call my security team, and they’ll make sure you don’t say a damn word.”
The color drains from beneath her overly-bronzed skin before her eyes narrow and turn calculating.