Brooke the Barrel Racer/Cowgirl Versus HS Cheerleader Allison
Brooke Wilde, a beautiful 31-year-old blonde, was applying a syrup-colored gloss to her lips in the dressing room of Rodeo Cowgirls, a country bar, when Olivia Prescott walked in. They were just starting their shift. It was Saturday night and the parking lot was full. A line of guys and girls was wrapped around the building outside, anxiously awaiting entry into the bar.
“Looks like we’ve got a huge crowd tonight,” said Olivia. “Hope you’re ready to dance your ass off.”
Brooke glanced over at the blonde. Olivia was wearing jeans and a sleeveless white shirt. A white cowboy hat was perched atop her head.
“I was born ready, girl, and I’m going to definitely give everyone a show tonight.”
Olivia chuckled. She walked over to one of the sinks and checked her makeup in the mirror.
“Do you know if Cheryl is working tonight?” said Olivia, as she turned and glanced at her ass in the same mirror. She liked her jeans to fit like a glove.
Brooke looked over at her and smiled. She gave her a thumbs up on her figure. “I don’t know what’s Cheryl’s up to. She didn’t show up last night for the late shift. Jeff had to call Marcie in on her off day.”
“That’s kind of strange, isn’t it? Cheryl doesn’t seem like the type to miss work. She really likes working here from what I’ve gathered.”
“She does like dancing here, but she has other ambitions. She moved up here to find a marketing job.”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s still strange that she didn’t show up,” said Oliva. “I’m really worried about her.”
“She’s fine,” said Brooke, as she finished applying her lip gloss. “I told Jeff she probably got sick. The girl’s been sick two or three times since she’s been up here.”
“Where was she from again?”
“Nashville,” said Brooke. She ran her hands through her hair, then stood up. “We all went to college together in Knoxville ages ago.”
“That’s right. Cheryl was talking about that a couple days ago.”
Brooke slapped Olivia on the shoulder. “The music just started. You ready, cowgirl?”
“Let’s do it.”
Olivia and Brooke joined Brandy Corbett and two other women on top of the bar moments later, then started dancing to "Unbelievable." When the song ended, the girls started swaying to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" from Def Leppard.
Brooke pursed her lips as she gyrated her jeans-clad-hips before the crowd at the front of the bar top. Dozens of guys and girls cheered her on. Brooke then strutted away from Olivia, turned around and threw a front kick in the air. Olivia threw her arms up, closed her eyes and leaned back as if she’d been kicked. Brooke then strutted toward Olivia, grabbed her arms and pressed her chest against the woman. Both dancers pushed off one another, turned their backs toward the crowd and started shaking their asses.
The crowd got louder. Several guys held out five- and ten-dollar bills.
The girls finished their dance routine several minutes later, then hopped off the bar.
“Can I have your number, baby?” some husky guy asked Brooke. He had a mullet and bushy brown goatee.
“I don’t have a pen.”
“I’ll get one,” he said, as he looked over at the bar and nearly lost his balance. He was already half crocked with bloodshot eyes.
Brooke grabbed his shoulder and said, “How about a dance instead?”
“Yeah, sure. He staggered some more as he raised his bottle of Corona.
She shook her hips a couple times in front of him, turned around and gyrated her rear end. She then stuck her right ass cheek out and slapped the back of her snug Levi’s.
“Wooooo-weeee!” he shouted. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“Damn straight, it is.”
“Will you marry me?”
Brooke just smiled. “I’m not the marrying type.”
“Oh no,” the guy said. “You just broke my heart.”
She gave him a brief wave as she sashayed away.
“Yeah, baby!”
Brooke wiped some sweat off her brow back in the breakroom. She then walked to the fridge and pulled out a Dasani water. She had no sooner twisted the cap off when Brandy stormed into the room.
“Cheryl’s missing,” said the brunette, as she threw her arms and hands up.
“What?”
“Her sister Nancy hasn’t seen her since Thursday night.”
Brooke brushed a blonde bang strand out of her eye. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, her sister goes over to her apartment every day. Her roommate hasn’t seen her since the night she disappeared.”
“Maybe she met up with some guy,” said Brooke. “She and Bear haven’t been getting along that well lately.”
“Really, Brooke. This is serious. I think something happened to her when she made that drop.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe she was kidnapped by someone.”
“Like the f*cking Fiends?” said Brooke. “Come on.”
“Well, I’m going to go look for her.”
“You can’t. Jeff will fire you.”
“I don’t care,” said Brandy. She paced the floor, fixating her eyes on the tan and white tiles.
Brooke took a sip of water. She then set the bottle on one of the lounge tables and said, “I’ll have Jessica stand in for you for a while. And I saw that new girl Debbie earlier. She’s been dying to work more hours.”
Brandy’s eyes widened in eager anticipation. “Do we need to tell Jeff?”
“I’ll handle him later,” said Brooke. “Let’s go.”
Brooke and Brandy arrived at Kurt’s Bar & Grill at 10 p.m., decked out in their tight jeans, boots and white cowboy hats. The place was packed with guys and girls—some of whom looked about high school age. Several suspended televisions played a Cleveland Indians and New York Yankees game, but the volumes on both sets were low.
Brooke marched up to the far-right side of the main bar counter and approached a young barback. “Hey,” she said. “I’m looking for one of my friends.”
The guy smiled. “I’ll be your friend, honey.”
Brooke smirked. She then grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt and shoved him against the wall.
“Hey, come on,” he said, raising his hands above his head. “I was just kidding.”
The guy was young. About college age. Brooke released her grip on his T-shirt. “Listen, Bud, one of my friends showed up at this place Thursday night, and I haven’t seen her since. Did you see her that night? Her name is Cheryl.”
“I worked Thursday. What does she look like?”
“Long blonde hair like me. Thirty-one years old. Pretty. About five-five, one hundred fifteen pounds.”
“I see a number of pretty girls at night. But we also get a lot of teens during the week.”
“Teens?”
“Yeah. This is one of the only teen hangouts in Perryville. We don’t sell them alcohol, but this is a family place. We let people of all ages in.”
A cocktail waitress walked up to Brooke and asked her if she needed a drink.
“Not right now, thanks.”
Brooke looked back at the barback. “Is the manager here?”
“He’s in his office.”
“Go get him.”
The guy, whose name was Bobby, walked through a doorway a few feet away and disappeared around the corner. Three minutes later he strolled back into the bar area. “The manager’s coming,” he told Brooke. “His name is Wilson.”
Brooke nodded. A guy with long blonde hair appeared seconds later. He glanced at Brandy, then looked at Brooke.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” said Brooke, as a Katie Perry song started playing. “My friend came to your bar a couple nights ago. Her name is Cheryl. She was dressed a lot like me, with jeans and a western shirt. We’re dancers at Rodeo Cowgirls in Munroe.”
The guy glanced at the floor, then looked back at Brooke. “Okay. What can I do for you?”
“Did you see her on Thursday night?”
The guy eyed the main bar, then scanned the entrance area. “I see lots of girls in her every night. But I don’t recall anyone dressed exactly like that.”
Brooke gazed into the guy’s eyes, trying to discern whether he was lying. She couldn’t tell.
“The reason I asked is that she’s missing.”
“Oh,” said the guy. “I’m so sorry. But like I said, I don’t recall seeing anyone dressed like you on Thursday night. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
Brooke nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“What do we do now?” said Brandy, as the manager ambled through the back doorway.
“What are we supposed to do, start throwing tables and breaking mirrors?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Hey, I tried,” said Brooke, raising her voice above the crowd and music. Several people stared at her and frowned. She stepped toward Brandy. “Look, the guy said he hasn’t seen Cheryl. Sure, he was probably lying through his f*cking teeth, but what can we do?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
Brooke had just turned around and started walking toward the door, when she bumped shoulders with a dark-haired girl, knocking her cowboy hat askew. The girl, who was several inches taller than Brooke, built like a brick shithouse and 18 years old, glared at her. “Watch where you’re going, blondie.”
“You watch where you’re going.” Brooke repositioned her hat as she momentarily lost her balance from the collision.
The girl held her hands out and waved them toward herself, daring Brooke to make the first move. Brandy grabbed her friend’s arm.
“That’s what I thought,” said the girl. “Cowgirl's afraid to fight me.”
“I am not,” said Brooke. She took a step toward the girl and pointed at her. "I'm a barrel racer and not afraid of anyone."
The tall brunette chuckled. "Barrel racer. Is that even a real sport?"
"You better believe it is," said Brooke, "and I always have the bruises to prove it."
The girl stepped toward Brooke and looked down at her. "I'll put some bruises on you right now, barrel racer, including that tight little ass of yours, and I probably won't break a sweat doing it."
"That's what you think."
"That's what I know," said the girl. She took another step toward Brooke and glared at her. "Come on, barrel racer. Let's fight."
Brooke looked at her friend Brandy, who shook her head. She looked back at the girl who now had her hands on her hips.
"Not now. Maybe some other time."
"Like when, chicken shit?"
"The next time I show up here."
"Yeah, right, bitch," said the girl. "That'll probably be never because you're afraid of me."
"I am not."
“Then bring it, bitch. Come on. Let's fight.”
She waved Brooke toward her again, and Brooke started to charge the cocky girl, when Brandy grabbled her arm and yanked her back.
"What the f*ck are you doing? I was getting ready to fight that chick." Brandy shook her head.
“Let’s go, Brooke. We’re here to find Cheryl, not fight some high school girl.”
“High school?”
"That's right, you f*cking barrel racer cxnt. I'm a high school cheerleader who's gonna kick your ass."
Brooke glared at her."
"Come on, cxnt. Let's see what you got. I'll knock you clear across this floor." The girl raised her fists. "Come on, you little shit-kicking barrel racer. I'll f*ck you up right here with everyone watching."
"Come on, Allison, pound that little cowgirl cxnt," some girl said.
"She ain't nothing," said another friend of the cheerleader. "You can deck that slut with one punch."
Something held Brooke back. Perhaps it was the girl's muscular arms, her shameless confidence or her intimidating eyes, which made Brooke's entire body shiver with fear. Then maybe she was just stunned that the girl was a high school cheerleader -- and Brooke knew those girls were tough and athletic.
"Chicken shit, barrel racer," shouted the girl, as Brandy walked with Brooke toward the exit. Brooke didn't look back; her face reddened with embarrassment.
The two women stepped outside into the cool late-August night.
“That was Allison Parker," said Brandy. "She's the head cheerleader at Madison High School. She’s a pretty fierce chick from what I’ve heard. Rumor has it she's put a few chicks in the hospital, even some biker women.”
“Well, she was lucky you stepped in.” said Brooke. “I would’ve cleaned her clock.”
“Yeah, right..”
“I would have.”
"She was licking her chops to fight you, Brooke. And if you get beat up, you'll miss work. Just stay away from her. She's bad news."
"But she embarrassed me in there in front of that crowd."
"So what? You're still in one piece there, cowgirl."
"F*ck you, Brandy."
. . . And so the humiliated Brooke walks with her friend toward her car, leaving a potential fight for another day. Stay tuned for the next phase of the fight, which will appear in the 'Series" section in the next day or two. Consider this "Chapter 1", as it shall duly be named. The next chapter will be about a confrontation between the two at another local establishment. So much for making a public display of yourself -- or "showing your ass," as my late father used to say.
By the way, I'm not the best artist in the world, but like to depict my stories. I'm working on the craft, though. Until next time.
BMR
