The incessant ringing coming from somewhere in my apartment wakes me before I’m ready. With one arm, I reach out to smack my nightstand where my cell usually spends the night, but it’s MIA.

I roll over, and the bright light streaming in through my craptastic blackout curtains nearly blinds me. My head pounds, my stomach rolls, and I remember why I rarely drink.

Hangovers blow.

Ugh.

The band of my bra digs into my side as I roll again. Why did I wear my bra to bed anyway? Carefully, I lever myself off the mattress and take baby steps toward the door to my room, which is wide open.

Since I live alone, it doesn’t matter, but on the rare occasion Brandy crashes here, I usually close it. A peek through the doorway of the spare bedroom shows that it’s empty, but she obviously hasn’t learned how to make a bed yet.

Not surprising.

My purse is on the floor near the inside of the door that leads down to the bar, which I’m thankful I apparently had the presence of mind to lock.

The ringing coming from my purse stops right before I pull my phone out, but starts again a second later.

Hope.

Seeing her name on my screen starts jogging my memory.

White Horse Saloon.

Last night.

Lots of booze.

“Hey, sorry, I was still asleep,” I say.

“I was five minutes from having the cops to come break into your place. You scared the hell out of me. I’ve been calling on and off all freaking night.”

Squinting at the clock on the microwave in my tiny galley kitchen, I see it’s not even seven thirty.

“It’s still early. What’s going on?” I head for the cupboard where I keep the Advil, because I doubt the drum line in my head is going to succumb to much else.

“Early? It’s late! I didn’t want to go to bed until I got an answer from you. I’ve been up all night. The bar was insane last night after Boone Thrasher left. Zane Frisco stayed and played two more sets of his own shit.”

Boone Thrasher.

At his name, the bottle of Advil falls from my hands, the top pops off, and the small brown pills fly everywhere.

“Hey! You okay?”

“Uh. Yeah, sorry. Dropped the Advil.”

“You’re gonna have to fill me in because when I finally made it back to your end of the bar, you were gone. Joanie said security hustled you out the back door with Boone Thrasher, and you just disappeared. I didn’t get a call or text or anything. What happened?”

My memories of last night are as scattered as the pills on my floor.

“Nothing,” I tell her, even though I know it’s a lie.

“So you just walked out the back and went your separate ways? I figured you would’ve read him the riot act for getting you caught up in his shit. I know how you are with those guys.”

By those guys, she means the celebrity types. Have I always been such a bitch about it? After picking three pills up off the floor, I shove them in my mouth and swallow them dry.

“It wasn’t a big deal. It was time for me to go anyway.” I make my way through the kitchen around the mess, vowing I’ll clean it up when bending over doesn’t make me want to hurl, and head back to the bedroom.

What exactly did happen?

The fractured dreams floating around in my head starring Boone are all just dreams, aren’t they? I would never . . .

“You sure? I was worried about you, girl.”

That’s when I see the condom wrappers scattered on my bedroom floor.

Oh. Shit. What did I do?

“Rip?”

I drag my attention back to the phone call, knowing I need to get Hope off the line ASAP or she’s going to see through my bullshit in record time.

“Thanks for worrying about me, babe. I don’t feel so great. I gotta go.”

“Did you get roofied? Because if you did—”

“No, of course not. Just hung over. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?”

I don’t wait for a response before lowering my phone and ending the call. I drop to my knees and grab the condom wrappers like they’re crumpled dollar bills tossed across the bar.

Maybe it was someone else. Maybe it wasn’t Boone Thrasher I spent last night with. Maybe my mind overlaid Boone’s face on top of some random one-night stand who was too ugly to remember.

Which would mean I’m apparently now into taking stupid risks with my safety.

One word on the condom wrapper gives my memory a jump-start. Magnum.

Boone’s voice drawls in my head. “Don’t know if I should be worried or impressed that you’ve got a box of magnums in there.”

Holy. Freaking. Hell.

I didn’t.

I wouldn’t.

But the condom wrappers in my hand are irrefutable proof.

I did.

Unbalanced from the realization, I fall backward onto my ass on my bedroom floor and immediately start rationalizing what happened.

It didn’t mean anything. It was a mistake. It was a one-time thing. I was drunk. Shit happens.

This doesn’t make me like my mama.

I’ve held on to my no-celebrity rule for so long, the fact that I broke it is too much to grasp in my hung-over state. Then righteous indignation fills me.

I can sleep with whoever I want. I don’t have to apologize for it or feel bad about it. It’s not like I was cheating on someone—and neither was he.

But what did I do?

Everything’s okay. Everything’s fine.

Seriously, I’m never drinking again.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

It was the alcohol. I was just a stupid, horny drunk girl. Acting my damn age for once instead of twenty years older.

All rationalizations aside, it doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again anyway. It’s not like I’m getting involved.