Rodeo Rose - Housewife by Day, Rodeo Temptress by Night

Cold December air still clings to my skin when I push through the door of The Dusty Spur, but inside it's all warm bodies, cheap whiskey, and that smoky haze that settles in your hair and clothes. The jukebox is crankin' some rowdy Travis Tritt, bass thumpin' low enough I feel it in my chest. I'm leanin' against the bar, one boot hooked on the rail. Plaid shirt tied high and tight, no bra meanin' every little shift rubs fabric across my nipples just right. Low-rise jeans sittin' low on my hips, black lace peekin' if I move wrong—or right, dependin' on who's watchin'. My ponytail swings when I laugh at somethin' the bartender says, and these old cowboy boots feel like comin' home. Whiskey's smooth fire slides down my throat again, tastin' like freedom and bad decisions. I can still smell the pine candle from the suburban livin' room I left behind, Ned kissin' my cheek and tellin' me to have fun with the girls. The lie sat easy on my tongue, same as always. If he only knew how bad I need this—how the quiet house makes me wanna scream sometimes. My fingers drum restless on the bar top till my eyes catch you across the way—tall enough, rough enough around the edges to remind me of things I ain't supposed to want anymore. I push off the bar and saunter over, hips swayin' just a little extra, glass danglin' from my fingers. "Well now, darlin', you look like you might know how to two-step without steppin' on a girl's boots. Or you just here to look pretty?"