Ripley’s drunk.

Not even drunk. She’s blitzed. Hammered. Shit-faced. And she’s the cutest frigging drunk I’ve ever seen, even if she’s a little on the crazy side.

Her words about dying stop my thoughts cold.

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“You. Good thing you didn’t go to the bathroom or you could be another dot on the tourist map showing where you died.”

That’s when it hits me.

I have heard of the Fishbowl before. Everyone has. How did I not remember?

Rumor has it that the owner’s wife was Gil Green’s mistress, and they were screwing in the bathroom when they were both murdered while there was a bar full of people just outside the door. No one heard their cries for help, but the gossips couldn’t decide if it was because of the performance going on right then or if they didn’t have a chance to scream.

The owner was cleared because he was serving drinks during the murder, and there was no evidence he hired a hit man to kill his cheating wife and her lover. No other suspects were ever seriously questioned because no alternative motive could be identified.

According to gossip, business tanked practically overnight, except for the gawkers. All the little things that Ripley had said the first night I met her, and the next morning when I picked up my car, finally come together to complete the puzzle.

Ripley’s mother was murdered in the bar she’s fighting to keep afloat. Jesus fucking Christ.

Instead of the hundred different thoughts rushing through my brain, I ask, “Do you live above the bar or somewhere else?”

“Above the bar, but I can walk. It’s not far.”

I ignore her and pull out into traffic. There’s no way I’m letting her walk.

“Not happening.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Boone Thrasher. Let me out of this car!”

She can yell all she wants, but I’m not letting her out until she’s somewhere safe. I didn’t get her away from those two assholes inside the White Horse to leave her to the predators that could be walking the streets.

It’s clear she doesn’t think much of me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to help her anyway. At least now her rule about celebrities makes sense. I wonder why Frisco never put it together? Or maybe he did and never mentioned it to me?

She grabs for the door handle again.

“Hey, settle down. I’ll have you there in a minute.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

I glance over. In the glow of the streetlights, her dark hair is wild around the stubborn set of her features. I’ve been out of a relationship for four days, but my dick doesn’t care about that as it goes half-hard at her headstrong declaration. I’ll tell you what to do and you’ll like it is my instinctive reaction.

Her contrary nature should piss me off, but instead it’s doing the opposite—which ends up pissing me off anyway.

Before Amber, I went through women like I went through towns on my early low-budget tours—one blurry night of fun and forgotten the next morning. But all that changed when I stood in the hospital as my brother walked out of the delivery room holding a little blue bundle up in the air as he called out, “It’s a boy.”

All those mornings of waking up next to a woman whose name I didn’t remember might have fit the stereotype Ripley has pegged me with, but in all other respects, I’ve never fit that mold. I don’t wear a cowboy hat and boots onstage. I don’t sing with a heavy twang. I break the rules and forge new ground. I refuse to be a stereotype.

I thought with Amber I’d rid myself of that last remaining trace, but we all know how that worked out.

“Watch out!”

I’m halfway through the intersection when Ripley yells and I look to the right. My foot slams down on the gas and the 442 surges forward, just missing being T-boned by a truck running a red light.

Ripley slaps her hand over her chest. “Oh my God. We could’ve died. Right here. Right now.”

My heart is hammering from the near miss, and my hands tighten on the wheel before turning us down the side street leading to the Fishbowl. I don’t speak until I park behind the building next to Ripley’s Javelin. I hope to fuck she didn’t walk to the bar, but it’s a moot point now.

“Asshole was probably drunk, running a red light like that.”

Ripley’s eyes are wide, an expression on her face I can’t identify. “I almost died.”

I reach out and drop a hand on her knee. “You didn’t. You’re fine.”

“It would’ve all been that asshole Stan’s fault.”

Now she’s talking drunken gibberish because that doesn’t make a bit of sense.

“Who the hell is Stan? Was he driving that truck?” I make a mental note to track the guy down and beat his ass if he was.

She shakes her head, bringing a hand up to her temple, and I assume her world is spinning right now.

“No, but it’s still his fault. And Brandy and Pop. All of them. I should just walk away from it all. Why do I put myself through this?” Ripley drops her head forward and her dark mane of hair obscures her face. “Why can’t I just let go?”

That’s when I realize she’s not talking about the truck. She’s talking about her life. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize that things are bad at the Fishbowl. If it was that empty on a Saturday night when Frisco took me there, I can’t imagine how dead it must be every other night of the week.

In fact, it looks completely dark inside. The neon light next to the back door is off too.

“You supposed to be open tonight?” I ask.

“No. I mean, we used to be, but Wednesdays are bingo night and Earl and Pearl don’t even come in, so it seemed like a waste to just stay open for a random passerby.”

The fact that they’re not open because the old couple is playing bingo might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, but I’m not about to tell Ripley that.

She tugs at the door handle again and struggles to pull it open.

“Hold on, sugar. I’ll get you out.”

I turn off the engine and slide out of the car, planning to come around and get her door. She’s still fumbling with the old-school buckle when I open the door.

“Here, let me.” I brush away her hands and unhook the latch. For the first time since we left the White Horse, I take a second to appreciate her curvy legs tucked into red tooled-leather boots, and the short black skirt peeking out from beneath the hem of my T-shirt.

I try to picture what she was wearing at the bar before her shirt was torn. It was red with a deep vee cut down the front. With that skirt and boots and her curves . . . damn.

I don’t mean to say the words out loud, but they come anyway. “I can see why you attracted so much attention tonight.”