“Did you kick him in the balls?” Hope asks as she slides another drink across the bar to me.

When was the last time I was on this side of the equation? Forever ago, is all I can come up with. Which explains why I’m already buzzed after three drinks.

“No. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of having any part of me touch any part of him.” I swirl the cocktail straw in the glass, mixing the booze and soda. “But I did tell him to go fuck himself.”

Hope throws back her head and laughs. “Nice. I bet that wasn’t what he was expecting. He comes in here at least once every other week and leaves with his arm around some girl barely old enough to drink.”

I jerk my gaze to hers. “Seriously?”

Hope, my best friend since bartending school over a decade ago, runs the bar at the White Horse Saloon, one of the most successful honky-tonks in town. It’s always packed with tourists hoping to get a glimpse of a few country stars, and the amount of money and alcohol that flows through here in any given week could probably pay off the mortgage I didn’t know Pop had taken out.

“Dead serious. A few months back, he spent all night flirting with one of my new waitresses, hanging around until she was done with her shift. Not more than fifteen minutes after she walked out with him, she comes storming back in, pissed as hell.”

I suck down a swig of my Crown and Coke, on the house or I wouldn’t be drinking it. “What happened?”

“His MO is to get them into his cherry-red ’Vette and tell them the party doesn’t start until his dick gets sucked. Normally, the girls he leaves with are blitzed, so I’m guessing they fall all over themselves to do it. But she was totally sober and told him he could suck his own dick to get the party started.”

“Burnnnn.” I tip back the glass for another sip. “Why’d she go with him to begin with if she wasn’t up for . . . that?”

Hope leans forward on the bar, her boobs threatening to spill from her low-cut shirt, but I avert my eyes.

“Apparently, he had blow and she wanted it. Just not bad enough to blow him.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Blow as in . . .”

“Yep. Coke. And not the kind you’re drinking.”

“But he’s an accountant. How does that make any sense?”

Hope straightens and laughs. “Honey, it doesn’t matter if he was a priest. Everyone’s got a vice.”

A tourist in one of those straw cowboy hats hollers from down the bar, while Hope’s three other bartenders are hustling drinks and putting on a show tossing bottles here and there. Just the thought of taking a chance of breaking one is enough to make me cringe.

“I gotta sling some more drinks. I’ll be back when I can.”

Wednesday night is the slowest night of the week for the Fishbowl, which makes it perfect for my one day off. Before my last boyfriend and I broke up, I’d usually stay at his place on Wednesdays, but that ended months ago. He was pissed I couldn’t make more time for him, and I thought he was playing a double standard since he was gone every weekend playing drums with different bands, trying to make it big.

Hope used to give me shit about Joey, saying I was bending my anti-celebrity rule, but I disagreed wholeheartedly. Sure, he’d get women hitting on him just like any band member did, but it wasn’t because of who he was. It was only because they saw him onstage. It’s not like anyone actually knew his name when they saw him play, and certainly no one would ever remember him five minutes after he stepped away from his drum kit.

I’ve never quite understood the allure of banging a guy in a band. So what if he’s in the spotlight for a few sets? Why does that make him any more attractive than a guy in the crowd buying you drinks and having a good time?

“Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. What with you being the anti-fun.”

Brandy’s smoke-roughened voice cuts into my semi-intoxicated contemplation.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Her cackle sets me on edge. I swear, my aunt must have done drugs or drank while she was pregnant with Brandy, because the girl just isn’t right. I want to say it’s not her fault, but the nastiness she displays isn’t an accident.

“Why do you think?”

She shoots me a look, and it doesn’t take a genius to fill in the blanks. I’m sure there are plenty of clueless tourists here to buy her drinks while she feeds them some bullshit story about trying to make it in Nashville. Cue eye roll. Then I remember I’m pissed at her for a specific reason instead of my normal general annoyance.

“Well, Pop’s not here to narc to, so clearly that’s not it.” I reach for my drink and tip the rest of it back.

Brandy glares at me. “He should know what’s happening. It isn’t my fault his daughter is a complete screwup, running the Fishbowl into the ground.”

Her insult stings when it lands, and I desperately want another drink. Thankfully, Hope spots my anxious look and comes down the bar toward us.

“Is there something I can get you, Brandy? Or are you just here to take up space while you wait for some poor bastard to buy you a drink like you do every other time you show up?”

Brandy rolls her eyes. “Give me a shot of 151.”

Hope’s nose wrinkles, and I have to believe mine does the same.

Brandy scoffs at both of us. “What? If I’m buying, I gotta make it count. It’s not like Ripley pays enough for me to buy the good stuff. Guess I should’ve gotten more money out of—”

My arm swings out and I knock my glass over with enough force that a remaining ice cube flies straight into her cleavage.

“What the hell!” Brandy screeches, attracting an audience to watch her fish the melting ice from between her mostly exposed boobs.

Hope shoots me a questioning look and raises her brows.

“I’ll tell you later.”

She nods. “Another?”

“Make it a double. And maybe a shot.”

An apologetic look settles over her features. Hope knows how much putting up with Brandy stretches my patience. Before she turns to make my drink, she ducks her head close to mine.

“Babe, you know that anytime you want to jump ship and let your pop figure out his own mess, I’ve got you covered. You could make more in one shift here than you pull down in a week.”

“And be homeless?” I don’t mention the part about losing my remaining connection to Ma, because in my current mood, I’ll end up being the sad sap at the bar with tears falling into my drink.

Hope’s answer comes quick, like it’s one she thought out in advance. “I’ve got a futon with your name on it.”

Before I can reply, she slides away and down the bar, grabbing bottles and making drinks. It gives me a minute to realize that I have no idea what I did to deserve such a good friend. Apparently, for once in my life, I got lucky. Hope is good people.

“Oh my God, is that really him?” a woman one stool down from me shouts over the music as she climbs onto the cushion, balancing on her knees.

While I’m busy worrying about whether she’s going to face-plant on the floor, the atmosphere in the bar changes in an instant. There’s only one reason for it—celebrity sighting.

The artist onstage pauses mid-song and yells into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen of the White Horse Saloon, please welcome Boone Thrasher to the stage!”