With a practiced snap of my wrist, I flip the tap and drop a hand to my hip as Zane Frisco approaches the bar with his trademark cocky grin. If he asks me out this time, what will that make? Five times? Obviously, it’s flattering, but that doesn’t mean my answer is going to be any different than it was the last four. I have to give the guy props for being persistent, I suppose.

“Shouldn’t you be fighting off groupies backstage right about now?” With a raised eyebrow, I set a pint glass of Miller Lite on the bar napkin in front of Earl before grabbing a second one for his wife, Pearl.

The older couple has been coming to the Fishbowl for as long as I can remember, even back before everything changed. They’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly in this bar, and if I were ever to take Miller Lite off tap, I’m pretty sure one or both of them would die of a heart attack and haunt this bar for the rest of its days. However few days that may be.

Snatching up the towel in front of me, I wipe away any stray drops of beer and attempt to shove down the negative thought. The Fishbowl may be a dying tradition, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be spotless.

Frisco leans forward, his elbows on the bar, and his grin shifts into what I’m sure would count as a panty-dropping smile—if I were the kind of girl to wear panties, that is.

“What would I want with a groupie when I can come here and see your beautiful face?”

He’s not short on the charm, but I’m immune.

I drop the rag in front of me and cross my arms under my breasts, not worrying about whether it pushes them up higher under my George Jones Rockin’ with the Possum V-neck. “Put it in a song, Frisco. It’ll get you a lot more play than you’re gonna get in this bar tonight.”

He shakes his head, keeping that smile intact. “Someday you’re gonna say yes to going out with me, and I’ll let you apologize for all those times you shot me down.”

I don’t hold back, dropping my arms and letting my laughter go free. “Points for eternal optimism, but it ain’t happenin’. You know my rule. Better men than you have tried and failed to get me to break it.”

His cocky grin tilts. “Such bullshit, Rip. You and your rule are about the only things that make me wish I was still playing in bars and crashing on couches, broke as hell. If I’d only known . . .”

Frisco winks at me, and I know he’s not taking my rejection any harder than normal. He’s not stupid and he doesn’t lack for options. He’ll probably leave here, stop at a bar with customers who are under the age of seventy-five, and pick up a girl to take home.

And I’ll be going upstairs alone again to take care of business myself. That’s if I don’t fall asleep as soon as I climb into bed because I’m running on five hours of sleep total in the past two days. I shut down the momentary flash of fatigue and pin my smile into place.

“What are you drinking tonight, Frisco?”

“The usual. Plus, whatever he wants.” Frisco jerks his chin toward the direction of a man stepping out of the shadows near the back entrance.

Crap, I need to change that light bulb. When did it go out? As soon as the thought enters my head, it’s replaced by a flash of female appreciation.

Dayum.

Frisco is no slouch in the build department, but the way this guy’s broad shoulders, muscled chest, and thick biceps stretch out his faded black T-shirt has all the spit drying up in my mouth as he strides closer.

Wow. That is a man.

His battered baseball cap is pulled low, hiding his face, but I can make out the dark scruff of a beard on his chin. My gaze slides down to the ink on his arms, and the parts of me that haven’t seen any action in longer than I want to admit roar to life.

My survey drops lower to take in his worn jeans and black shit-kickers before dragging back up to his face just as he lifts his head to meet my eyes.

No way.

Zane Frisco did not bring Boone Thrasher, country music’s reigning bad-boy superstar, to my bar.

I’ve gone too many days without sleep. I’m seeing things.

But when those black motorcycle boots step closer, I know it’s not the lack of REM cycles screwing with me.

Boone Thrasher is in the Fishbowl.

“Jack and Coke. Heavy on the Jack.”

His deep voice is just as raspy as it sounds on the radio, and my nipples peak.

Nope. Not happening. Danger. Abort mission.

Frozen like a deer in the headlights under his intense blue gaze, I force myself to spin around and face the mirrored wall with glass shelves holding bottles of liquor.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath. Celebrities are only good for one thing, and that’s trouble. Except . . . with one phone call, I could fill this place with enough women to put the Fishbowl back in the black for the month.

I let the vision play out in my brain.

Instead of gawkers coming to see the bathroom where former country legend Gil Green was murdered, people would be packing the bar, buying drinks, and trying to get close to the country music entertainer of the year.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles and my lids flutter open.

In the reflection, Boone Thrasher’s gaze slams into mine. My hand freezes in midair as I reach for the half-full bottle of Jack.

“You trust her?” His words come out as gruff as when he growls into the microphone at his concerts. Not that I’ve ever had extra cash to splurge on a ticket to one of the big stadium shows.

To the right in the mirror, my peripheral vision catches the blur of Frisco nodding his shaggy blond head, but my attention stays focused on the face beneath the shredded brim of the black hat.

“Ripley’s good people. She ain’t gonna say shit to anyone about us being here. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Those blue eyes bore holes in me as my tongue darts out to swipe over my lips while I gather my wits to respond.

I start to speak, but no sound comes out. Clearing my throat, I shake my head first instead. “No one is gonna find out you’re here from me.”

Thrasher nods at Earl and Pearl. “Can I buy that round for you, folks?”

Earl and Pearl aren’t slow, especially when someone is offering to make their Social Security fixed-income budget stretch a little further.

Earl’s reflection turns to the certified-platinum recording artist. “You buy ’em all night, and we got a deal. I can play deaf, blind, and dumb. Just ask the wife.”

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, and accidentally use 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?”