I think you can guess what inspired this. Enjoy it lovies.

Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

You have to understand, I don't usually spend my Friday evenings in strip joints.

I'm not really a voyeur; I'm not really some perv pretending to be a voyeur. But it was Bella's hen night and she wouldn't go if I didn't, and if she didn't go then Rosalie, Angela, Jessica and Esme would be stuck sitting at Hooligan's without the bride-to-be, and then it would be my fault they looked like giant pervs, Esme especially – I mean, God, the woman has a husband (and Rosalie has a boyfriend and so does Angela and Jessica's been kinda seeing Mike Newton who we went to high school with, but anyway). If I didn't go, I'd be in some serious shit.

But I will not take responsibility for the theme – that was all Rosalie. And what, you might ask, was my best's friend brilliant idea? Fantasies. We had to dress up as the counterpart to our fantasy lover, which was ridiculously simple for everyone except me. Bella was a nurse (her fiancé Edward is a doctor), Rosalie was Jane (I suppose Emmett is kinda Tarzan shaped), Angela was a schoolgirl (someone has issues), Jessica was a cheerleader (Mike's an ex-quarterback), and Esme was a dominatrix (what the hell do she and Carlisle get up to in their spare time? I don't think I want to know).

And me…I like cowboys.

Which of course meant I turned up in a checked shirt tied under the bust à la Britney, Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots. With spurs, I might add. The one flaw is that I couldn't find a Stetson that wasn't either pink or fluffy. I got some very interested looks on my way to the bar, though.

Bella fell about laughing when she saw me. She was in tight white and red PVC, plus her honoree's sash, so I don't see exactly how she had the moral high ground.

"What," she gasped, tears streaming down her face and threatening her mascara. "In the name of God are you?"

I rolled my eyes and grabbed her arm, pushing the door open with my derriere. "You know exactly what I am, Nurse Feelgood." She was still giggling relentlessly as I pulled her through a second pair of dark red double doors and into the hot, smoky interior. The girls were lined up at the bar, and they appeared to be trying to inhale a line of flaming shots.

"The hell –" I began, but Bella got there first.

"It's called a Gas Attack. They light the vodka, top it off with the shot glass, wait for a minute and then take the glass off. You have to suck up the fumes really quickly and then drink the shot. Esme said the last time she had one she took off her shirt and danced on a table!" Oh Carlisle, I thought. You really had no idea what you were getting into when you married her, did you?

"Alice!" Jessica leapt up from her stool and teetered over, holding her arms out wide. I noted with disapproval that she'd got yet another boob job. There's only so far you can go before people start making basketball comparisons.

"Jess!" I did a little run towards her and got a face full of silicone as we hugged.

"Oh my God!" Jessica gushed. "I haven't seen you since Thanksgiving!" She shoved me away from her, and I was mercifully able to breathe as she held me at arm's length and scrutinized me with beady brown eyes. "D'you know, I almost bought one of your dresses the other day! There I was in Neiman Marcus, and there you were on the rack! You must be so happy!" She squeezed me again, and I got another mouthful of Dr. Boardman's best.

"Ecstatic," I mumbled, and I was suddenly released as Jessica was elbowed out of the way by a black patent catsuited Esme.

The evening progressed as I had guessed it would. Rosalie was in charge of the lucky dip, and her garbage bag yielded things that even I didn't know the function of. Angela shyly announced that she was pregnant, and everyone screamed at the top of their lungs. Esme announced that she and Carlisle were going to adopt, and we all banged our fists on the table. The conversation kept rolling and the drinks kept coming, and then suddenly the lights flickered and went out.

Esme whispered to us not to worry, that this was how the show always began (always?), and we all tried hard to stem our giggles and quiet our hiccups as we waited. Bella's fingers found mine under the table and she squeezed, her deep crimson blush standing out even in the semi-darkness.

And then Redman announced that it was dirty, filthy and nasty in here, and Christina heartily agreed. The lights pulsed red and blue, and the show began.

~#~

20 Minutes Later

There is something seriously wrong with me. Seriously. I just saw men in costumes. I just saw men in tighty whities. I just saw men sans tighty whities and even the bride-to-be was looking flushed, but me? Not even a tickle down below. I am officially a retard, a freak of nature, and a crazy cat lady in waiting – waiting quite literally, as everyone else had decamped to the bathroom to freshen their makeup and (in Esme's case) re-lubricate their costumes.

"Penny for your thoughts," offered a warm, masculine voice.

I shook my head, keeping my eyes fixed on the faux wood grain of the bar top. "I wouldn't waste your money."

He laughed, and I could hear the Texan cadence beneath the sound. Like I said, I'm a sucker for a cowboy, and his voice made me think of magnolias and creaking old rocking chairs and the warm, buttery tang of sunshine.

"For a girl as pretty as you, I could spare it."

I bit my lip to try and hold in my smile but failed, raising my head to meet a pair of teasing hazel eyes in a broad, attractive face. He had a strong square jaw and high cheekbones, with straight dark blond brows over those mesmerizing eyes. His hair was golden and more cherubically curled than a seraph's, and his grin was a mile wide.

"Alice," I said, offering a hand. "Alice Brandon." He took it, and an unexpected jolt shot up my arm, making the hairs on the back of my neck sizzle.

"Jasper Whitlock, ma'am." He cocked his head on one side, examining me intently. "Say…you wouldn't be the same Alice Brandon who designs women's clothing, would you?"

I blushed even darker than Bella. "I might."

"Really?" He had let go of my hand but now he once again grasped it in both of his own, and I willed my palm not to sweat – don't sweat, palm, please – pretty please? "Miss Brandon, my mom's just about your biggest fan. She used to design clothes herself, and when you were featured as one of New York Magazine's 'Designers to Watch', she just about had kittens." Jasper lowered his golden-green eyes, looking up at me from beneath his lashes. My heart made a valiant attempt to stay within the confines of my ribs. "Is there any chance I could get an autograph?"

"Really? I mean, sure!" I pulled a napkin toward me, grabbing a pen that sat next to a pile of competition flyers. "What's her name?"

"Madeleine Whitlock."

"No shit," I breathed. The pen fell from my hand and clattered to the bar top. "Madeleine Whitlock? She's the reason I got into designing!" His eyes went wide, but I continued, "I bought one of her dresses in an outlet mall when I was twelve, and I wore it until it fell apart! Your mom is my idol!" Picking up the pen, I quickly scrawled my signature on the napkin, underlining it with my name and number. "Could you get her to call me? Please?"

Jasper chuckled, folding up the square and putting it into his jacket pocket. "You go to the bar for a jack and coke and end up with the number of the loveliest lady in the house. Not bad."

I gave him a teasing shove. "It's for your mom…though I guess if she had a male sounding voice and asked me out for coffee sometime, that wouldn't be too bad either."

He shook my hand one more time and then rose, stretching (and damn, the man could stretch). "I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you now, Miss Brandon. It's been a pleasure speaking with you."

I waited until he disappeared through an unmarked gray door before running over to the table of curious, open mouthed and now fully greased up girls, and I gushed about my red hot redneck until the lights when down.

The song was 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy', and I got about three pairs of elbows in my ribs. I was still wincing when the door opened, and…out came Jasper. In a checked shirt. And tight blue jeans. And cowboy boots. And a Stetson. Looking good enough to eat. And then he slid down to the end of the bar…and with an elaborate bow, handed me his hat.

I tried very hard not to hyperventilate.

It turned out that I didn't only get his Stetson that evening. I got his shirt, his belt, his jeans, but unfortunately not his briefs. He kept those on with a wink to me, and I joined in the enthusiastic cheering as he made his exit.

Bella gripped my arm with fingers of steel. "That was –"

"Uh-huh."

"And he just –"

"Uh-huh."

"And are you –"

"Oh hell yes."

Esme came up on my other side, wrapping a squeaky leather arm around my shoulders. "What are you waiting for?" She cried, pointing to the door through which Jasper had just exited. "Go in there and get your freak on!"

"Do it," Rosalie agreed, nodding violently enough to make part of her messy up-do collapse and trail down her neck. "For the love of all things sacred, Alice, get in there and administer the man his last rights."

"I'm the DD," Angela added. "And I say do it."

"And I'm the honoree," Bella completed. "And I command you to make him proud to be a redneck."

I didn't need to know Jessica's opinion. The look on her boobs said it all.

So, as with many yelled good wishes and goodbyes the girls exited the bar, I went over to the gray door and knocked three times. Achilles (the Brad Pitt one, not the dead Greek one) opened it, raising an eyebrow. When he saw me, he smiled.

"Small, dark, wearing a white Stetson?" He smiled. "You must here for Jasper."

My mouth was suddenly dry. "Yeah," I croaked.

Brad Pitt/Achilles opened the door wider, gesturing me through and into a corridor lined with wooden doors. Each bore the owner's name inscribed on a brass plaque.

"Last door on the right," Achilles instructed. "And I know you're tiny, but…go easy on him?"

I grinned. "You wish."

He groaned. "I'll leave the fire door open."

I thanked him and walked slowly down the corridor, running my hand over the bare brick wall and feeling its gritty texture beneath the pads of my fingers. Finally, I reached Jasper's door. I knocked. It opened.

"Freddie, can you just tell me when –" He didn't have time to say anything more because I had grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, executed a small leap into the air and crushed my lips to his with all the force I could muster. Jasper (like the pro he was) caught me under the thighs as I jumped, and I wrapped my legs around him as we cannonballed back into his dressing room, the door swinging shut behind us.

"I don't…normally…do…this sort of thing," Jasper gasped as I began to tear the buttons off his shirt in an attempt to get the damn thing off. In the end it slipped off his shoulders and to the floor, taking his jacket with it.

"That's…okay," I panted, moaning as he began to place soft, sucky little kisses along my collarbone. "Just…take me out to dinner or something."

"Or something," he agreed, and we toppled backwards onto the couch that stood against the far wall. However, there was one thing still left to do. Loosening my hands from their chokehold around his neck, I lifted the Stetson from my head…and place it ceremoniously on his.

"What the –"

"Shhh." I ground my hips into him, which seemed to do the trick. He released me with one hand…and then with a good deal of wiggling and arm waving, the jeans came off, and so did my Dukes and shirt, and so (thank you, Jesus!) did his whities.

"Howdy, cowboy," I purred, and that was the last thing either of us said for a very long time. And did I save a horse that night, you ask?

Work that one out for yourself.

The Gas Attack is a real shot which they have at my local bar, and it really is a killer. Reviews are love, and love comes in the form of Jasper performing your very own personal cowboy striptease. Hose me down, ladies. Hose. Me. Down.