Page 36 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“Nope. We’re going free the nip tonight.”

I groaned. The shirt was baggy enough that I didn’t need one, but if anything happened—or worse, someone spilled something on me . . .

Before I could argue further, she lifted her shirt, her tits fully on display.

“Harls,” I shouted, whipping around to avoid the sight.

She giggled, completely unbothered, as I stomped toward the bathroom.

I turned on the faucet and let the water run until it wasn’t too cold, but not too hot. Two pumps of soap onto my palm, and then I lathered. Starting with my palms, I scrubbed every inch of my hands, working the soap between my fingers, over the backs, and up to my wrists.

Happy birthday to me . . . Happy birthday to me . . . Happy birthday, dear me . . .

By the time I hit the final verse, I rinsed off the soap. Grabbing a clean towel, I patted my hands dry, careful to get between each finger. Only when they felt completely clean did I allow myself to relax.

I moved to the small vanity, grabbing my makeup brushes. A light dusting of bronzer, a pop of blush on my cheeks, and a quick swipe of gloss across my lips. I pressed them together, checking my reflection.

Good enough.

When I walked out of the bathroom, Harleigh was waiting, her smile soft and encouraging.

“I’m proud of you. I know how big this is.”

I frowned, shame tightening in my chest. The drive down to Texas had been rough—worse than I’d let on. Every gas station stop had been a battle against my own mind. My hands felt dirty before I even touched anything, and I couldn’t shake the urge to scrub them clean at every opportunity. It had gotten so bad that I made Harleigh stop with me, even though we were in separate cars. She never complained, never sighed or rolled her eyes. She waited with me, like she always did, while I worked through it.

It didn’t make me feel any less guilty. I hated that I’d dragged her into it, hated how helpless I felt against the relentless pull of my own compulsions. It wasn’t just the handwashing—it was the stares from strangers, the constant worry about whether they were judging me, wondering why I seemed so off.

“One step forward,” she murmured.

I nodded, swallowing hard, and managed a small smile.

“You made it one night last time we went out⁠—”

I didn’t want to tell her I’d made it because of him. He showed me what it looked like to live without fear or shame of being myself. I went out that day because I was living in some made-up fictional reality for the night.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harleigh insisted that she wasn’t going to drink much, so she drove us down to The Dive, which was the only bar in the town of Lindley.

The Dive sat at the edge of town. Winter had stripped the trees bare, their twisted branches reflected in the icy creek that ran alongside the main street. Harleigh slowed the truck as we passed the cluster of buildings that made up the town center.

“That’s the supermarket,” she said, pointing to a tiny, weathered shop with a flickering open sign in the window. “There’s the gas station. Only one pump, but it works.”

I nodded, taking it all in—the mechanic’s shop next door with a few rusty cars out front, and the creek running behind them, its edges crusted with frost.

Harleigh smiled as we pulled into the gravel lot outside The Dive. “This is the best bar in town.”

“It’s the only bar in town,” I muttered.

“Exactly,” she said.

Harleigh hopped out of the truck, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were bright enough to stand out in the dim winter light. She wore a black crop top paired with flared blue jeans that hugged her hips before flaring out dramatically over her boots. The outfit was understated, but on her, it was striking.

She glanced back at me with a teasing grin. “You coming or what?”

“Coming,” I grumbled as I stepped out of her truck, which was parked next to the other thousand trucks in the parking lot.

The sound of laughter and the faint twang of a country song drifted out of the bar whenever the door swung open, only to fade as it closed again. I stood outside, staring at the scuffed metal handle, my hands tingling with that pins-and-needles sensation that signaled the anxiety rising in my chest.