Bree had countered, in that authoritative voice she got when determined to get her way, that if a group of Harley partyers roared into town, Val might get spooked and kick his way out of a certain superfancy van.
So, just as she’d won the T-shirt argument, she won this Val argument, too.
After they’d safely tied Val to a fence behind Neder-Brewsky’s, where the bull was nicely concealed, Kirk and Bree entered the bar.
It was mostly dark with some hanging lights positioned over several pool tables. More light was emitted by a variety of neon beer signs placed randomly around the room. A group of people, all wearing cowboy hats, sat at the end of the bar. Some guy with braids, wearing what Kirk had decided was the regulation Nederland tie-dyed T-shirt, was wiping glasses behind the bar.
“Be right back,” Bree whispered.
Kirk grabbed her forearm before she took off, images of her wildly ripping off her clothes tearing through his mind. “First, tell me exactly what you’re doing.” He closed his eyes, then reopened them. “Okay, okay, I know what you’re doing, but can we please discuss the plan?” Did this girl ever weigh options, prioritize her actions?
“Plan?” She sighed heavily and brushed his gripping hand off her forearm. “I’m gonna tell the bartender what I’m up to, offer him a kickback—”
“Kickback? Good God, we’re sounding like goons doing a shady deal.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “You are such a worrywart. Do you do that with your fossils, too?”
“Fossils are a lot different than stripping.”
“Don’t you dust them off, check them out, put them on display?” Observing Kirk’s openmouthed, silent response, Bree winked and whispered, “Be right back.”
He remained standing in place, his feet bolted to the floor, stunned by Bree’s comment…and her determination to play stripper. He’d had plenty of buddies crow about their trips to Vegas and how they threw wads of bills at strippers and lap dancers as though doing so earned them macho badges of honor. Kirk had always thought it ludicrous to pay a woman to expose herself…and told his buddies in so many words that only Neanderthals—or in this case, Nederthalls—paid for false love or lust. Real men never paid because they earned a lady’s gifts.
Yet here he was, damn near playing pimp for a sweet country girl!
He took a step forward, ready to tell Bree to can the plan, but she was already leaning way over the bar, her firm, blue-jeaned bottom seductively outlined in neon red from one of the beer signs, while she whispered something to the bartender.
The bartender looked over at Kirk, back to Bree, and nodded.
Good God. She’d just negotiated herself a gig as a ten-minute stripper. This woman could probably negotiate anything.
Bree waved Kirk over.
He strode toward her, a hundred thoughts crowding his mind. Okay, okay, she was doing it, but looking around, there were only a few cowboys at the bar, some drinking coffee, some beer—just as Bree had said. And this early in the morning, he seriously doubted anyone would be soused and do something stupid.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. But if they did, Kirk would deck the sorry sonofa—
Bree was grinning like a schoolgirl, twiddling her fingers at Kirk as though this were some kind of talent show tryout. She pointed to a stool, indicating he should sit there.
He straddled it, glaring at the backs of the cowboys sitting several feet away.
“You want somethin’ to drink?” the bartender asked.
“Yeah,” Kirk answered in a low, mean voice he didn’t even recognize. “Cola. With lots of ice in case I need to toss it at someone and cool them down.”
The bartender did a double take. “Whatever, dude.”
The bartender set the drink in front of Kirk, then put on some tearjerky country song with a guy crooning forlornly about the beautiful girl he’d left behind.
Kirk tried not to listen to the words—but they seeped through his brain and settled right on his heart. As the guy bemoaned losing the girl of his dreams, analytical, pragmatic—and since he’d walked into this place, badass macho—Kirk Dunmore realized he was getting a little choked up.
Because the words made him think of Bree.
Soon she’d be part of his past, just the memory of a naturally beautiful girl he left behind…and in his gut, he knew he’d always think of her, always wonder about her, always hope her life had turned out happy…
His thoughts ground to a halt when Bree jumped up on the bar and started doing what he could only describe as a hopping dance step.
Hopping?
He winced as she did a little turn in those boots, half clog, half bunny hop, while yanking and tugging her blue-and-white checkered shirt out of the waistband of her jeans.
Is this how she undressed at night? It looked more like a battle than an unveiling.
Someone laughed.
A vein throbbed in his temple. It was one thing for him to wince at Bree’s bunny hop, but no man was going to make fun of her!
Another laugh. But this one sounded more like a raspy giggle.
Kirk felt the hairs bristle on the back of his neck as he realized that raspy giggle was…female laughter.
He squinted at the group gathered at the end of the bar. When he’d first walked in, before his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he’d assumed the group to be cowboys.
But now that he could see better, he recognized them to be…
Five or six crusty old cowgirls.
One of them looked over her shoulder, her face tan and weathered. Wisps of white hair fluttered from underneath a Stetson that had a peacock feather stuck in the headband.
She smiled; one of her teeth was missing.
Being a polite sort of guy, he smiled back.
She winked. And nudged one of her cronies, who looked over at Kirk.
Bree, oblivious to the little drama taking place beneath her on the bar stools, was hopping her heart out on the bar, struggling to get her partially unbuttoned shirt over her head, though it seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere between her chin and her nose.
The only person watching her was the bartender, who was shaking his head as he wiped his glasses.
Meanwhile, the entire group of toughened cowgirls were eyeing Kirk as though he were a side of steak. The one who’d first eyed him reached deep into her well-worn jeans pocket and extracted something. Grinning that missing-tooth grin, she waved a bill at him.
Another pulled out a bill, tonguing a toothpick between her lips. “I’ll add a five to her five, sugar boy,” she said in a gravelly voice, “if you’ll get up there instead.”
Sugar boy?
Bree, who’d finally wrestled the shirt off and could see what was happening, stopped her hopping. “Get the hell up here!” she yelled at Kirk. “We’re up to ten dollars and counting!”
The group of cowgirls whistled and clapped, more of them waving bills at him.
Kirk looked at Bree, giving his head a shake. He was a scientist, not a stripper, and was about to say as much when Bree gave him the evil eye and mouthed “Princess Alicia.”
He stomach plummeted. He looked again at the senior-citizen cowgirls, who were waving so much money, he could almost feel the breeze.
Bree, in her jeans and pink T-shirt, with that blue-and-white checkered shirt tossed boldly over one shoulder, stood wide-legged on the bar and gestured broadly to Kirk. “Ladies,” she said loudly, “may