Colleen Collins - Let It Bree - Let It Bree / Can't Buy Me Louie

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 I introduce Doctor ‘Feelgood’ Kirk, whose moves can cure your ills for just a few bills.”

If Bree hadn’t stunned him before, she did now. At what point did she evolve from good ol’ country girl to stripper-carnival-barker?

The cowgirls started whooping even louder. “I wanna feel real good, Dr. Feelgood!” one yelled.

Another stood and did an up-and-down shoulder-shimmy, exposing a flash of massive cleavage that put the fear of God into Kirk.

Over the din of hollering cowgirls, Bree yelled at the bartender, “Put on some music! This man’s gonna get down!”

Get down?

Next thing he knew, the frenzied mass of senior citizens had half pushed, half lifted him onto the bar. Damn, who would have thought women that age were so strong?

Soothing, soulful music began playing. A Beatles tune about times of trouble.

Oh, Kirk could relate to the words of “Let It Be.” Odd the tie-dyed bartender hadn’t put on “Truckin”’ or some other Grateful Dead song. Maybe there were rival factions in Nederland between lovers of the Dead and of the Beatles.

“Hell, no!” yelled a wizened cowgirl. “Put on some hot Wynonna!”

The bartender, looking bored, ambled over to the CD player while Paul crooned, “Let it be, let it be.”

Let it Bree, thought Kirk, wondering how in the hell she’d gotten him into this mess. New music started playing. A woman’s husky, sultry voice oozing heat and sin. Had to be Wynonna, whoever she was. But if he didn’t know, these old gals certainly did. They began thumping the bar in time to the music, whistling and whooping at him to strut his stuff.

He glanced at Bree. She had to put a stop to this nonsense.

But no, she was now straddling the same bar stool he’d just been at, thumping and whistling and whooping just like the rest of the tribe.

Traitor.

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