Chapter 13
Dakota
Kerosene was the best bar when you’re searching for an easy distraction.
Emphasis on the easy. Because what kind of woman wouldn’t allow herself to be manhandled and swept away by an endless sea of perfectly cut abs and oversized belt buckles?
Single or not, the Cowboys of Kerosene were the mecca of adult entertainment on Broadway, and Tiffany’s pick of poison for the night.
I’ve never been to a show, so I didn’t question her last-minute change of mind, but it did make me curious about why she was so adamant about coming here instead of The Yard.
From the outside, the building looked like a wild west saloon, with batwing doors installed over traditional glass, distressed ‘wanted’ signs affixed to the blacked-out windows, and mugshots promoting the various dancers on their roster.
My sister yanked open the front doors to Kerosene, revealing a rustic bar already near capacity, women’s asses backed against the far wall, fighting for whatever space was left.
Tiffany grabbed my hand as we forced our way through a sea of daisy dukes, Ariats, and white lace tank tops. Everyone dressed to save a horse for the night—an act of community service.
“What’re we drinking?” Tiffany shouted from over my shoulder, the entire venue thrumming with popular country music and overly rowdy women making it difficult to hear each other speak.
I mouthed ‘vodka cranberry’ in response, taking in the atmosphere while my sister ordered our first round.
“Your tab is on the house tonight.” I overheard a male voice call to my sister as she received our drinks, and I didn’t think to question the gesture. Free is free.
We managed to snag a spot right up against the main bar, and I couldn’t help but notice that it appeared wider than usual; the bartender had to physically lean across the counter to serve drinks, and there was a drop shelf installed along the front edge where everyone could place them.
I couldn’t imagine why they would need to keep the entire bar top clear, but as my eyes drifted upward, I found my answer dangling from the rafters: several aerialist wrist ropes.
Well, I’ll be damned, this bar was specifically designed and built for dancing—
The two of us nearly flew out of our skin as the entire room suddenly went dark; nothing but a bright neon-orange light illuminated the ceiling trim.
Tiffany and I looked at each other in confusion as the women surrounding us started clapping and stomping to the beat of “Fire Never Lies” by The Soulful Gentlemen.
By the time the first verse started, the crowd erupted with lustful screams as several men sporting Lucchese boots, branded with the name Kerosene along the outer edge, lined the bar, and the smell of freshly tanned leather enveloped my senses.
Eight incredibly hot-as-fuck cowboys were on full display, with their deep brown hats, matching belts, bright white tank tops, and dark wash jeans.
They captured and held everyone’s attention.
Their large, polished bronze buckles bearing the Kerosene emblem only enhance their appeal to a specific group of ladies.
Our late-night eye candy danced in time with the music, their routine choreographed and rehearsed to total perfection. Not a single performer out of sync.
It was a pretty impressive and satisfying sight. I never imagined witnessing something so flawless from a group of men whose reputations rested solely on their bodies, rather than talent. But my god, did they have it in spades.
Repositioned in a staggered formation, four of the cowboys reached up and secured their wrists in the aerial straps dangling overhead. They then kicked off from the bar like flying on a rope swing and, using the momentum, spun themselves like tornadoes on the return. A Cowboy hurricane.
The dancers who weren’t strapped to the ceiling hopped down from the bar and made their way through the pit of estrogen while the aerialists continued to entertain from above, performing various provocative movements; body rolls, hip thrusts, you name it, they did it.
They were a sinful distraction from every delectable angle.
When those working the room returned to the bar, all eight posed like sexy Renaissance sculptures, and the music faded as a spotlight drew our attention to the far right of the bar, where a new Cowboy stood, a microphone pressed to his lips.
“Yee-fuckin-haw, which one of you cowgirls is ready to spill some kerosene and play with fire tonight?” He looked older than the others, but just as drop-dead gorgeous, with a touch of gray accenting his dark locks.
Shit, even Tiffany and I had started catcalling at the sight of that tall drink of water.
Excuse me, sir, your girl’s getting a little dehydrated over here.
“For those who are new to Kerosene, my name’s Trent, and I’ll be your personal Wrangler for the evening, rounding up the finest cowboys Nashville has to offer, and delivering them straight between your thighs.
” Trent lifted a pointed finger toward the ceiling, and my gaze followed the motion, landing on the rafter directly above the bar.
There, names had been burned into the wood; etched autographs of every Cowboy, past and present.
“And speaking of offers, have I got one for you.” With a wink in our direction, I could swear the proposition was aimed at me—or Tiffany.
“Stick around, ladies, this evening is only going to get hotter from here. So, how about the boys and I kick up a little dust and give you cowgirls exactly what you came to see?”
Wild didn’t even come close to describing the energy from the women in this room tonight, unanimously chanting ‘yee-fucking-haw’. Trent dropped his mic to one of the bartenders before joining the Cowboys in tearing their shirts straight down the middle, tossing them into the swarm.
And for a brief moment, time slowed as if I were watching a scene from a movie; steel-cut abs for fucking days.
“You’re drooling, D!” Tiffany exclaimed— more than once. But I couldn’t help it. I was a grown-ass woman in a candy shop tailored to southern sexual fantasies. Grinding on every cowboy that passed, just to get a sample of their sweet, succulent heat.
I was having the time of my fucking life, up until Trent returned to his spot on the bar and brought the crowd’s undivided attention right back to him.
“Is there a lady in here tonight who enjoys playing games? Perhaps participating in a little friendly competition?” He arched a brow as his eyes scanned the room before stopping where my sister and I were located, closer to the rear corner, away from the mob.
Oh god… “Let’s reignite a favorite pastime of the Cowboys with a single round of blowtorches. ”
Blow… what?
“Ohh! I’ve heard of this!” Tiffany giggled beside me as she finished her cocktail and set the glass down on the nearest table, while another woman chimed in with, “They haven’t played it in years.
This used to be a staple every night. I wonder why the sudden desire to bring it back…
” She hummed before rejoining her group, leaving me to start overthinking—
The sudden change in plans.
The free bar tab.
The intentional look the MC had been giving us—me—all night.
The feeling of everything being too much of a coincidence, and now, this?
“What?” I glared daggers at Tiffany as she met my gaze, confused by my sudden change in demeanor.
“Something you want to tell me, Tiff?” I growled the accusation, deep and low through my teeth.
“Okay, hold up. Before you go all Charlie’s Angels on my ass, I have cause—” Her forehead creased, brows knitting together as she recoiled with unequivocal guilt.
“And?”
“And, it is because you said you’d give Mister Vortex a chance… and I just so happened to find out that he also works… here…” Pressing her lips together, I watched as Tiffany’s eyes darted between mine and the bar, where several half-naked Cowboys were lining up, single file. God help me…
There, standing at the far end, was an all too familiar set of abs, accented by the largest buckle of them all, luring my attention straight to him. Rhylan.
“Don’t hate me, please.” Tiffany pleaded as my eyes centered on his. All the surrounding voices turned into nothing more than white noise. Static. And he stared right back at me, as if I were the only face worth noticing in this overcrowded room.
What was that saying my sister was constantly preaching when she was either drunk or about to do something incredibly stupid? You only live once?
“YOLO, Bitch!”
Yeah… that one…
Aggravation aside, I downed the last of my drink, shoving the empty glass into Tiffany’s hand before charging toward the bar with purpose; to claim the Cowboy every woman had already begun drooling over. Mine.
“First-come, first-served, buckle bunnies.” Trent chuckled as he stood by, effectively unleashing a frenzy of starved piranhas, begging to be chosen.
God… I can’t believe I’m about to subject myself to pick-me territory. But I would, because even though I had reservations about Rhylan, I also refused to stand by and watch as another woman put her hands on him. Shit, was I already becoming territorial?
As I pushed closer to the front, vivid memories of our first encounter flooded my mind, heightening my senses; my eyes locked on his, like a bird of prey ready to strike.
Choose the thing that scares you…
With a final step forward, I let go of fearing the unknown and threw my right hand up, along with the rest, reaching for my heart’s desire and my mind’s red flag. Please.
Please don’t make me regret this…
I froze like a deer in headlights as Rhylan crouched on the bar, and a rough palm wrapped around mine. There was an odd sensation from the touch. Calm. Comfort. And before I could process what I was feeling, I found myself being pulled upward with little to no effort.
An arm curled around my waist, pressing me tightly against his hard body, a warm breath caressing my cheek as he lowered his lips to the shell of my ear.
The deep, sensual growl in his tone fractured my breath, and every reason I had to refuse him evaporated into thin air.
“Hey, Wildcat.”