Chapter 31
HART
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NOTHING COULD’VE PREPARED me for this moment.
I grimace down at the T-shirt my brother forced me to put on. A bright yellow T-shirt, emblazoned with the unmistakable words “Bucket List Brigade” arching over an image of a bucket.
I’d rather be naked.
Whose bright idea was this?
Jade balks every time she looks down, so I know she’s not behind the abysmal display of forced camaraderie.
When we arrive at our destination, I realize the T-shirt is the least of my worries.
Like I said, nothing could’ve prepared me for standing outside the theater, the marquee throbbing with ‘Male Revue’ in bold lights.
“You’re fucking joking,” I grind out.
Loud, high-pitched squeals rip through the air—middle-aged women, and then some, acting like they’ve just hit puberty.
I grind my teeth, biting back another curse.
“Oh, c’mon,” Wyatt says. “It can’t be all bad.”
I swing my gaze to him, my voice low so only he can hear. “Unless you’re admitting to Hannah that you’ve been smitten with her since second grade, I don’t think you’re in any position to give advice.”
Wyatt nods. “Point taken. However—”
“No, however.”
“I think it’s great that a stripper show is on the bucket list.”
Am I talking to Dean right now? Seriously, how are these guys so giddy about watching guys strip down to their birthday suits?
“Did you know about this?” My demand doesn’t even raise a response from him.
He shrugs. “I wasn’t unaware of it.”
I curse.
“I never pegged Jade as a stripper concierge.” Wyatt is grinning like this is the best day of his life. “This little bucket list just keeps surprising me.”
It continues to surprise me, too, but for a whole different reason. I damn well know a male dance show isn’t on the list.
I growl low in my throat, fingers running through my hair, bemoaning the loss of my Stetson.
Why did I agree, along with the rest of the guys, to leave the head covering back at the campground?
Like I said, I’d rather be naked.
“It’s alright, buddy.” Wyatt interrupts my mental tirade. “I’m sure there are some lovely single ladies here who would love to have some time with you after the show. When they’re all hyped up and their endorphins are spiralling through their bodies.”
“Go at it,” I say.
He claps my back and pushes me forward into the line as it’s moving into the theater.
I’m thankful I get an aisle seat. Wyatt plops next to me, and the guys continue down the row. Disappointed when Jade sits in the front row, a few seats down.
Wouldn’t have put it past Jade to assign these seats with her fancy little clipboard if we were still fighting.
But we’re not.
We’re on—I don’t know what the hell we’re on.
It’s good. I think. I’m not sure. I haven’t felt this awkward since I told her I liked her in the events storage room inside the kissing booth—her favorite hideout.
“Good seats, right?” Dean would think the second row is perfect.
Doesn’t he realize how personal this show is about to get?
Wait, how far are they going to strip?
Lord, why the hell did I agree to this?
I rake my hands down my face and catch Jade’s ponytail. It does something to me. Tied neatly, soft strands moving slightly. There’s something about the way it hangs, so simple, so perfect—the way it’s always hung.
I need a distraction, so I look everywhere else until the theater lights dim.
Dean claps his hands loudly.
“Showtime.” His rumble of excitement ripples into the air, thickened with anticipation from the crowd.
I’ll never not think my brother has a weird, demented little sense of everything.
A hush falls. Then, the first beats of an upbeat country mix slam through the speakers.
The spotlight hits the center of the stage, set like an old saloon, with wooden barrels, ropes, and hay bales scattered around.
I take a sip of my beer.
Not my scene, not my scene, not my scene.
In a cloud of dust and flashing lights, a tall, broad-shouldered guy steps into the spotlight. He’s got a cowboy hat pulled low, throwing some mysterious vibe, and wearing chaps with only a fucking thong underneath.
Real cowboys don’t wear assless chaps.
My grip on the glass tightens.
He struts toward the edge of the stage, his boots thumping with each step.
“Hey there, darlin’s.” This guy’s voice comes through the microphone low, smooth, and dangerous.
And he’s lookin’ at every damn woman like he’s ready to make ‘em all fall in love.
“I hope y’all are ready for a little fun tonight, ‘cause I’m gonna show y’all just how wild a cowboy can get.”
This Boot-Scootin’ Faker ain’t got nothing on a real cowboy.
A pair of lace panties hit the stage, landing near his feet. Doesn’t seem he’s got a shortage of legs opening for him.
He paces over to the panties, a wicked grin creeping across his face. He takes a moment, letting the cheers build, before bending down and scooping them up.
The audience loves every second of it, including our gals. They lean into each other, whispering and laughing, but it’s evident that their attention is fixed on the man on stage. It’s not just the show, it’s the way he wraps them around his finger with each flex, each move.
I don’t like it.
Why did I agree to this?
“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” The fake cowboy thrust his groin.
He holds up the panties, inspecting them like a prize.
Pervert.
“Well, well. Looks like someone’s eager.” He scans the front row and winks at the women.
Our women.
He stops in front of Josie. “I think I’m gonna have to keep these as a souvenir.” He slips them into his pocket, never breaking eye contact with her.
“Keep ‘em safe, cowboy. I’m not handing over anything I don’t plan on reclaiming.”
The women cling to each other, laughter and shouts blending into one pulsing chorus.
“Careful now, darlin’, I might just make you the star of the show.” His voice drips with flirtation. “Guess it’s only fair to show my appreciation, huh?”
He tosses a playful salute to her before turning back to the crowd. “Let me hear you, ladies!”
He makes an exaggerated, slow turn with his hips that makes half the room lose it, like this is the most fantastic show they’ve ever seen.
It’s a damn circus.
My eyes fix on Jade’s backside. I only catch glimpses of her enjoyment when she turns to Hannah. But she is enjoying this, hell, really enjoying it.
I’m not surprised. Kinky fetishes have always captured her interest. That’s how the bucket list got so out of control. Even though we hadn’t been intimate at that point, she’d been curious and drawn to what she wanted. I’d been all for it—with her.
Only her.
A crack snaps my attention to the stage.
Shit.
He’s tossing a lasso around, spinning it like he’s some expert, cracking it in the air.
I could do it better. And damned if I don’t want to strip down for Jade.
Fucking hell, I do. I want to do everything with her, but I can’t. And I hate that our lack of fighting has left room in my head for all these thoughts to flood me.
This poser with a lasso does another twirl, and more women scream. Then, he rips off his shirt, flexing his abs, moving slowly, giving them a show.
“Who wants a piece of this cowboy?” The cowboy costume king growls into the microphone, moving closer to the edge of the stage.
The women are eating it up, hands up in the air, yelling like they’re at a damn rock concert.
Dean slaps the back of Harper’s chair. “This is awesome! This guy is a hoot! He’s got the moves. The lasso? Dude, that’s next level.”
I stare at him, unable to suppress a growl.
“I don’t know what you’re seein’,” I mutter. “But this is a damn joke.”
He laughs, reaching over to clap my knee. “You’re just mad ‘cause you can’t do it.”
Damn right I can’t—wouldn’t want to.
“Real cowboys don’t strip. We work. We sweat. We don’t pretend to be something we ain’t.”
“I can teach you.”
“Yeah.” Wyatt nods, arching his eyebrows. “Dean can teach you how to rip off your clothes and thrust around like a dog in heat.”
I shake my head, remembering the gossip around town about my brother stripping at a seniors’ event.
Dimwit.
“Alright, ladies, this ain’t your average rodeo. We’re not here to ride the bulls, we’re here to ride your wildest fantasies.” Glitter cowboy does some kick, twisting, something or another.
From the shadows, more emerge, all strutting across the stage like they’re some kind of gods.
I snort under my breath, crossing my arms tighter over my chest, careful not to spill my beer as I slink deeper into the seat, wishing I could disappear.
“No cowboy would ever wear getups like that,” I mutter.
Wyatt chuckles. “Is it the boots?”
Damn, they’re nice boots. Leather in deep brown, solid heel, pointed toes, and stitching along the seams. But they’re polished and shiny. Not a scratch on them. Ain’t no real cowboy worth his salt wears boots that clean.
“They have never seen a day of dirt in their lives,” I grumble, but it’s more a half-shout over the noise.
“These guys are on fire!” Dean slaps Wyatt’s chest loud enough that I hear the echo.
Wyatt groans, rubbing his torso.
“That dude just spun mid-air.” Dean slaps his lap. “Did y’all see that?”
What really makes me cringe are the hats. Cowboy hats, sure, but not a damn one of them fits right. They’re too fancy, too polished. The brims are all wrong, not bent enough, and have no real character to them. Looks like they borrowed them from a mannequin in an apparel store.
But then, they move. And damn, I can’t lie—they got that part down.
Dean whistles between two fingers.
I’m not as thrilled, but it is like watching a well-oiled machine. Every step, every turn is synchronized like they’ve practiced it a thousand times.
One spins—boots digging into the stage—and I catch a glimpse of his face. He’s got a look, all cocky and sure of himself.
I roll my eyes.
He doesn’t know the first thing about riding a horse, let alone being a real cowboy.
They’re starting to shed layers now. First, the vests come off, then the shirts, revealing chiseled abs that look like they’re carved out of stone.