First things first. I need to spend more time going over the feed from the morning Boone and I went to the bar to see if there's anything else that could possibly help get Brandy's trumped-up charges thrown out. If Anthony doesn't get back to me, I have to take it to the police for evidence and hope they take me seriously. More than anything, I'm worried it'll get lost in the process and the right people won't see it, and Boone won't be exonerated.
Or you could put your big-girl panties on and just give it to Boone so he can get it to the right people. I know exactly what I'm trying to do. Avoiding facing him, knowing that he and Amber are back together and I have no right to touch him.
The thought burns, and I swallow back the lump in my throat before straightening my shoulders. That's exactly what I need to do. Maybe it'll kill any feelings I have for him, and I can move on with my life.
I can do this. Who cares if it's going to be awkward as shit, especially if Amber Fleet is still trying to surgically attach herself to him.
I hate the jealousy that eats through my veins like acid.
He's not mine. I have no claim on him and I never will, so stop it. Focus on things that matter. Like who hit Brandy?
My best guess is that she really was hiding a bruise under that makeup, because I have a hard time believing the cops would have hauled someone like Boone off to jail like that without serious proof.
I flip open the laptop and decide that while I'm considering what to do with my sad story of a life, I'll watch more video footage.
I'm twenty minutes in, watching the camera feeds at five times the normal speed. Brandy has been in the office for almost ten minutes searching high and low, and I'll give you one guess what she's looking for-that ring of Boone's I've been meaning to give back. She'll never find it, though.
Finally, someone else steps into the bar. Brandy bolts from the little back room so fast, you'd have thought her ass was on fire.
Oh God. Please, no. I can't watch this.
My stomach twists and cramps with each passing second as the feed plays on, and sinks to my feet as I watch a hand fling out and catch Brandy's face high on her cheekbone.
Oh. Shit. I can feel the smack like it landed on my own face.
Brandy shrinks back again like she's expecting another blow, but it doesn't come. Finally, she's alone, leaning on the bar, her head bowed and shoulders shaking.
I flip the laptop lid closed, the sick feeling twisting in my gut even stronger.
How am I going to turn this in?
I don't have a choice. I have to.
If there was any chance at salvaging what Boone and I were building, it's gone. Brandy made sure of it.
It was never going to last, especially not with the odds stacked against us.
My eyes burn with tears that I refuse to let fall.
Stop it, Ripley. You could never have him anyway. It's not like you can lose something that wasn't yours to begin with.
And he wasn't. Won't be. Ever.
Now more than ever, I want to go straight to the cops so I don't have to face Boone and admit why he was arrested, but I talk myself out of it. I might be the unluckiest girl in Nashville, but I still have a backbone. I'm a coward if I don't face him and give him the evidence he needs to be vindicated. Then the world will have its proof that Boone didn't do what Brandy said he did.
And in doing so, I'm doing the unthinkable.
I stand and straighten my shoulders, tight from being hunched over while watching the tape.
I don't have another choice. This is the only one I can make and still live with myself.
Boone doesn't deserve to suffer for my family's problems. No, he deserves the best life has to offer-and we all know that isn't Ripley Fischer.
8
Boone
Anthony and I are turning down the driveway at my place, trying to come up with a strategy based on all the shit the lawyers have told me, when he slams on the brakes to avoid running into a rusted Javelin parked in front of the gate.
"What the hell?" Anthony says.
"It's Ripley. Let her in."
"No shit."
Anthony hits a remote hooked to the visor and the gate swings open. He gives the horn a double tap, indicating that she should go first, and Ripley's car lurches forward in a way that makes me think her transmission is about to die.
Logan Brantley could make that car purr like a kitten and growl like a bitch, just like he did for my 442.
We follow Ripley up the drive, and she parks off to the side of the garage when Anthony pulls inside. I'm out of the SUV in less than two seconds.
After the pictures of Amber and me hit the Internet, I knew there was a chance Ripley might bail. Most people don't stop to ask questions with that shit; they just jump to conclusions and assume the worst.