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