Page 66 of Real Dirty
I shake my head before dropping it back against the seat. “No. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“You wanna tell me what went down with your dad?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to replay that memory anytime soon. “Nope.”
“You wanna tell me about the douchebag in the bar?”
I open my eyes a tad and check out Boone’s expression. “Law? Not really.”
“Law?”
I snort-chuckle at the way Boone says his name. “Yeah, short for Lawrence. He’s wanted to be a lawyer since he was a kid, so instead of going by his full name, he shortened it.”
“I was right. Total douchebag. And you dated him?”
Apparently, Boone didn’t catch mynot really. I could choose not to answer, but he would badger me anyway.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“A little over a year.”
“And?” Boone changes lanes before taking the next exit.
“And what? We dated. Then we were done.”
His pointed look tells me that there’s no way in hell he believes it was that simple. “There’s more to the story than that.”
Wanting to move on to a new subject, I give him the quick-and-dirty rundown. “He was in law school and I worked at the Fishbowl. Not only did our schedules not mesh, he wanted me to choose between him and the bar. So I did.”
Boone slows at a stoplight ahead. “Why didn’t you choose the bar this time?”
I look up at the red headliner because his question is a valid one. Every time I’ve been forced to choose between anything or anyone and the bar, I’ve chosen the Fishbowl. “I don’t know.” My tone is quiet and thoughtful.
We don’t speak for the rest of the drive. When we pull up in front of an eight-foot-tall black metal gate, Boone slows and it swings open.
“Sensor in the car,” he explains.
I nod like that makes perfect sense, but automatic gates have never been part of my life. I can see why he’d need one given what he puts up with, though. The house doesn’t come into view for a good two minutes as we cruise up the long driveway through a field and then woods. Tucked away in the middle of what must be a massive piece of property is a sprawling rock-and-wood structure that looks like it would merit an episode of CMT’sCribs.
“Damn. You couldn’t build something alittlebigger?”
Boone laughs. “You sound like my brother. He gives me shit every time he’s here. Like why didn’t I build an indoor pool? Or a tennis court? It’s not like a bowling lane is enough entertainment.”
“You have a bowling lane?”
I blink as a massive garage door opens and he drives the 442 inside to park next to a huge black truck that looks like it cost more than the building the Fishbowl is located in.
“I’ll show you tomorrow. Sit tight; I’m coming around to get you.”
But I don’t. I open the car door and climb out, hopping on one foot and using the truck for balance. I’d feel bad about leaving fingerprints on it, but the mud on the tires tells me Boone’s not going to care.
At least, not about the truck.
“I told you to wait, dammit.” Before I protest, I’m cradled in Boone’s arms again and he carries me into the house.
It’s dark, but when he flips on the lights, my mouth slackens. It’sgorgeous.
