Page 27 of Real Dirty
“I’m taking you home before you end up raped and God knows what else.”
The harsh tone of his voice straightens my spine. “I was fine. I would’ve handled it.”
He reaches over me, his arm brushing my chest as he snags the seat belt and buckles it into place before taking care of his own.
“Sure you were. You were handling yourself right into being the meat in a tourist sandwich whether you wanted it or not.”
“You don’t know that—”
“You’re drunk and you’re female. That puts you at a disadvantage. You work in a bar. You should know firsthand what can happen when girls like you go out drinking by themselves. Why would you set yourself up to be a target for assholes like that?”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m sorry, but most of us don’t have an entourage to follow us everywhere we go, no matter the time of day. And I wasn’t alone. My best friend is the head bartender.”
He shakes his head and mumbles something I can’t make out.
“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch what you said, Mr. Country Superstar, who can walk into any bar and take the stage and have an entire Victoria’s Secret worth of panties get thrown at him.”
I know I’m babbling, but I’m too drunk to care. In my head, Boone Thrasher is tied up with everything I hate, and hauling me out of a bar and lecturing me just pisses me off even more, regardless of how amazing he looks shirtless.
Quit thinking about that, Ripley.
“I said you’re drunk, and you’re lucky I was there.” Boone’s tone comes out gruff and too much like a reprimand for my taste.
I hold up both hands. “Oh, I’mlucky, am I? You don’t know shit, jackass.”
“I know you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, well ... you’re the one with no shirt on.”
He turns the key and the engine roars to life as he shoots me a look that I don’t currently have the vocabulary to describe. “You’re really gonna bust my balls for giving you my shirt so you’re not walking around topless?”
Memories of theoh shitmoment when my shirt ripped down the center and plenty of people in the bar got a view of my sheer bra enter my foggy brain. If not for the wall of security around Boone coming to the rescue, my humiliation would burn a whole lot hotter.
“You didn’t have to give me your shirt,” I say, not coming up with any other kind of argument. “I would’ve been fine.” I glance down as he shakes his head.
Holy crap. I’m wearing Boone Thrasher’s shirt. I don’t know why it’s just occurring to me, but I lift the hem to my nose and sniff.
The scent of clean, woodsymanfills my nose. It smells too good for my peace of mind. But still, I take another deep breath.Yum.
“What the hell are you doing?”
My head jerks left and I find Boone staring at me.Oh my God, he just busted me sniffing his shirt. Jesus H. Christ. I’m such a creeper.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The words all come out in a single rush of breath. Desperate to change the subject, I watch as he puts the car in gear. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home, where you should’ve stayed if you were planning to get hammered. Now I just need you to tell me where that is.”
His tone, a mix of scolding and condescension, pushes me over the edge, and I decide that I’ve hadenough. I can get myself home. I go for the door handle, yank it open, and try to climb out, but the seat belt snaps me back in place.
“What are you doing? Close the damned door.”
I fumble to release the buckle but Boone is quicker, reaching across me and wrenching the door shut, then slamming his hand down on the lock.
“I was getting out.”
Boone shakes his head. “You’re nuts, you know that? You think I’m letting you out here when I wouldn’t leave you alone in a bar? Not a chance. If you gotta hurl, let me know. Because if you puke in this car, I’ll send you the bill for the cleanup.”
I’m gearing up to rip him a new one until he adds the last part about the bill. That threat steals my thunder and instead produces a cackle the likes of which has never left my lips before.
