Page 5 of Real Dirty
Pearl twirls around on her stool, surprisingly nimble for her age, but what’s even more impressive is that her peach-tinted curls don’t move at all.
One night after several Miller Lites, she finally let me in on her secret. “Aquanet. Hold down the sprayer until your finger can’t take it anymore, and then go for another couple seconds. Your hair won’t move for days.”
I cringe inside, wondering what in the world she’s going to say to Boone Thrasher.
“Handsome boy like you should have a sweetheart keeping you home at night instead of out at the bars. Maybe if you didn’t have all those tattoos, you’d find a nice girl. Ripley here could use a date, but she won’t take up with no celebrity types. Never ever, not after Rhonda done—”
And ... that’s enough.
I spin around, bottle of Jack in hand, andaccidentallyuse it to knock Pearl’s Miller Lite over, splashing it across the bar and onto her powder-blue polyester pants.
“Oh my word! Watch what you’re doin’, girl.”
“So sorry, Miss Pearl. All my fault.”
Her faded green eyes study my face, not missing my pointed scowl. “Well, I never. What’s wrong with you, child? Now I gotta go dab myself off so this doesn’t set. They don’t make polyester like this anymore.” With a huff, she slides off the stool and toddles toward the restroom.
Earl doesn’t seem fazed a bit. He holds out his hand to Boone, not even watching his wife.
“Earl Simpkins. That’s my wife, Pearl. We’re what ya call regulars ’round here.”
Boone Thrasher shakes Earl’s hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.” When he releases it, he chooses the stool two over and Frisco sits down next to him.
No one says a word about the fact that I doused Pearl with beer to shut her up.
Boone Thrasher leans both forearms on the bar and studies me from beneath the low bill of his hat. “How about that Jack and Coke?”
4
Boone
Where the helldid Frisco bring me?That’s the question on my mind as I watch the dark-haired bartender pour a long stream of Jack over ice before topping it off with a shot of Coke from the soda gun.
Ripley?Is that what the old lady said the bartender’s name was? Frisco’s attention hasn’t left her since we walked into this place¸ and I can see why.
Her curves are poured into her jeans, and she’s all tits, ass, and thick, shiny hair. Basically, the opposite of Amber. My girl is rail thin, like so many women in the industry who feel the pressure to keep any extra pounds off because the cameras will just add them back on. No matter what I say, I can’t get her to eat a burger to save her life.
I can’t picture this bartender picking at a salad with no dressing or cutting a piece of ahi tuna into tiny bites. No, she looks like she’d just as soon dive into a steak and stab someone with a fork if they tried to take it from her.
The mystery isn’t why Frisco wanted to come here, but why she keeps turning him down.
When Ripley slides my drink in front of me wordlessly, she reaches for a pint glass and aims her gray eyes at Frisco. “You sure you want your regular? Last chance to try something different.” She holds the glass under the tap and waits.
“Who do you think I am? Give me that Bud, baby girl.”
Her fingers curl around the handle and squeeze tight. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”
In the bar mirror, I catch Frisco’s wink at her. “And yet I keep calling you that ... so who do you think is more stubborn?”
She drops a hand to her curvy hip and stares at him. “When I say no, I mean no, Frisco. I’m not playing hard to get. I’m just not interested.”
He slaps his hand against his chest. “Wounded. Nearly mortal. You’re lucky I got such a healthy ego or you’d give me a complex.”
Ripley rolls her eyes and pulls down the handle to start the glass filling with beer.
The stereo system kicks over to Willie Nelson and I take a drink, appreciating her heavy hand with the Jack as it slides down my throat. I soak up the music and old-school atmosphere as Frisco and Ripley talk. Pearl returns from the restroom and starts up a conversation with her husband about something that happened in 1967.
I let it all wash over me, and the bullshit weighing me down slips away.
