"Perfect?" I laugh. "Not even-"
Boone throws up a hand and interrupts. "You had your say, and now it's my turn to talk, sugar. So listen up. What we've got isn't over. Not even close. You can tell me all day long that you never get a break and nothing ever goes right for you, but I'm here to tell you that this is very right."
I shake my head. "You can feed me a line, Boone, but I'm not buying it. Girls like me don't get happily-ever-afters."
"I'm just gonna have to prove you wrong then."
I should tell him there's not a chance in hell, but instead I whisper, "I don't expect anything from you. No expectations is the only way I can put one foot in front of the other anymore. Anything else just leads to more disappointment than I can handle."
Boone reaches out and grasps my hips, hauling me close to his body. His lips ghost alongside my temple, and I swear he's breathing me in.
"What if I want you to expect things from me? What if I promise I'm not going to disappoint you?" He pulls back and those blue eyes lock onto mine.
Self-preservation is screaming tell him you can't take the chance. But another voice, a stupid one, is yelling don't you dare tell him no.
Anthony bursts into the room, talking a mile a minute.
"Boone, I just talked to my buddy. He said we gotta get this shit down to the station ASA-fucking-P. They need to log it into evidence and get it in front of the judge. He says the charges could be dropped before the end of the day. There's a good chance that Brandy could be charged with filing a false police report too. Cops don't like it when they fuck up big in this kind of case, so they'll need to cover their asses. And once they see this, they'll probably be picking up the old man and asking if she wants to press charges against him." He stops when he finally reaches us. "Shit. That's your dad. I didn't mean any disrespect."
I step back and look away from Boone's intense stare, thankful for the reprieve. I was on the edge of doing something too stupid for consideration. I need to get out of here.
"It's okay. I have to go. I need to get back to Hope's to change for work and head in for my shift."
Boone's gaze drops to my feet. My ankle, actually. "You shouldn't be standing for an eight-hour shift." His expression turns rueful when he meets my eyes again. "But you know that already."
My posture stiffens and I cross my arms. "I need this job, and I'm not going to make Hope look bad by bailing again right after she hired me."
"You're not bailing-"
I hold up a hand, and shockingly, Boone goes silent. "I need to find another place to live and sort out my life. And both of those cost money, which requires a job."
His blue eyes blaze even hotter now than they did moments ago. I can tell he wants to argue with me, but he doesn't.
What Hope asked me earlier comes back. What do I want to do? Who do I want to be?
I still don't have an answer, but I know that couch-surfing on her futon isn't it. I want to be able to take care of myself and weather storms as they come. I don't want to be dependent on anyone for a handout. My pride has taken a beating lately, and I'd like to keep a few shreds of it intact.
"Just . . . take it easy tonight, sugar. I got a vested interest in making sure you're whole and healthy."
Boone's words wrap around me, and a warm feeling glows in my chest. Don't get used to it, I order myself.
"I'll be fine." I turn away, glancing at Esteban as an excuse. He's watching us both silently, which isn't normal for him.
"Crackerhead," he squawks before lifting one wing.
"I'll be back for him as soon as I can."
A smooth smile slides across Boone's face. "You think I won't hold the bird hostage? You don't know me very well then, sugar. No matter what you think, we're just getting started."
10
Ripley
"We need someone to test the sound system," Hope says as I slide behind the bar, ready to work. "Want to go put it through its paces?"
I glance around the mostly empty bar. Only a few people are drinking this early, and most of the staff are still getting ready for the place to open.
"You mean like, 'Testing, one, two'?" I ask her.
Hope grins. "I sure as hell don't. You know exactly what I mean. It's open-mic night. We need to make sure someone with surprising pipes doesn't blow out our eardrums if there's feedback."
Bartenders who can sing are a dime a dozen in this town, so I know I'm nothing special, but even so, I never do it in public. When Gil Green gave me that pink kid's guitar twenty years ago, I would stand onstage at the Fishbowl when Pop wasn't around and belt out my favorite Patsy Cline and Reba songs. Mama would clap and yell for an encore, but once we heard any sound that indicated Pop was coming back, the guitar would get hidden away until it was safe again.