Page 186 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“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.
Not a lick of dirt on ‘em. Not a bit of grit or sweat on those bodies, just shine.
The tempo spikes. Feet pound. Bass rattles the room. Dancers leap, twisting mid-air.
No one’s sitting—except me.
I’m not standing the fuck up. And I swear, more than a few women are about to throw themselves on stage, and the dancers feed off it. They move faster, push the intensity higher, and build toward a climax I can’t wait to end.
By the time they’re down to nothing but assless chaps and sweat, I look for the nearest exit. Before I can escape, a handful of dancers jump off the stage like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. They start pulling people—and it ain’t all women—from the audience to use as props on the stage.
I sink further in my seat.
Squeals at various pitches are starting to give me a headache.
