Page 183 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I don’t believe her.
31: BUCKET LIST BRIGADE
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.
