Page 17 of Saving Pookie

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I laugh. "It means you're not making your fair share. It means I'm walking home with a little less money in my pocket when I leave every shift. It's just a little, but a little adds up over time. It becomes a lot."

He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "Maybe I could be lucky enough for you to bless me with some tips on earning my fair share," he says with a heavy hint of sarcasm.

This friendship is not off to a great start. Ten thousand dollars,I remind myself as I get up from one chair and go sit on a stool in the middle of the floor. I hook a finger at him. "Come here."

He rolls his eyes, but does as told. I pencil in a mental note that he obeys, which could come in handy down the road. He slinks towards me with the confidence of a twink stumbling into a gay bar for the first time. He's got the body for this job, albeit slimmer than most of us except for Dixon. He's not quite a twink, though. He's a twunk—half twink, half hunk. His muscles are defined and his abs are carved, but it all fits his frame instead of overpowering it.

I slap my bare thighs, the echo of flesh on skin singing on the walls. "Dance for me."

He steels himself. "Absolutely not."

"There are a hundred men up there waiting for their turn with you. The rooftop brunch parties are exclusive events, reserved for those who can pony up hundreds of dollars for a ticket. They'll be expecting something a little more than an angelic smile."

His cheeks flush a pale pink, which I'm assuming he doesn't realize. Otherwise, he'd probably be halfway out the door by now.

I point to the ceiling. "Those men up there want to touch and be touched."

He scoffs. "Unfortunately for them, prostitution wasn't in the contracts I signed."

"Do you even know what you signed?" I arch a brow. God knows I don't have a fucking clue what was in that mountain of paperwork. They tossed out a figure, and I was like, sold. See? I'm far too fucking easy. "Or was Jules hovering over your shoulder with the threat that she could and would revoke the offer if it wasn't signed in a matter of minutes?" I chuckle with an uncomfortable pit in my stomach because... what the fuck did I actually sign? "You're right. We're not prostitutes, but we're pretty damn close. Those men up there are hungry."

"Maybe it's none of my business, but as a straight man, how do you stomach this job?"

"That's a good fucking question, Pookster." I pucker my lips, contemplating how I can say this without coming off... wrong. "Because I'm hungrier than them. I like money as much as they like my body. It's an even trade, don't you think?"

He shakes his head gently. "I'm not so sure about that."

A quiet follows like he's second-guessing every decision he's ever made. As for me, I'm lost in thought trying to figure out how I can kill two birds with one stone. Bird numero uno is befriending this guy who clearly has no intention of befriending me back. Bird numero dos is getting him to earn his fair share and send me home with a little more money in my pocket.

"Are you going to dance for me, Pookie?" I slap my thighs again, this time softer than before. "Or are you going to go up on that rooftop still pretending like that pretty smile of yours is enough?"

"I..." he stammers. "I know how to dance."

"That's funny. I haven't seen any evidence of that being true."

He stands motionless for a beat like he's ready to call my bluff.

I swallow a dry lump in my throat as I begin to get nervous that he's going to call my bluff.

He slinks forward, trying so damn hard to mask his lack of confidence. For a moment, I almost believe him until he shivers above me, standing between my parted thighs. His gaze meets mine and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, "There's an implication here."

"What implication is that?" I mean to bark back, but it comes out just as hoarse.

"The implication of what you're saying is that you want me to sit on your lap and prove I know how to give a lap dance." He swallows, his lip quivering just a little. I have a bad habit of noticing the littlest things and missing the big things that so often sit right in front of my face. "You want me to bump and grind all over you?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds a little⁠—"

"Gay."

"That." I shake a finger at him, laughing through the discomfort. "I'm just trying to help you help me, which helps you in the end too. If I sucked your dick, that would make me gay. If you sucked my dick..." My words trail off as I shake my head and laugh louder. "Well, that still wouldn't make me gay. Teaching you how to shake what the good lord gave you isn't gay at all. It's chivalrous."

The skin of his bare legs brushes over my thighs, and I'm starting to regret taking the Viagra. It empowers my cock to do whatever the hell it wants, like thumping against the thin pink fabric of my Speedo.

His hand falls to my head, pushing curls of hair from my forehead.

What the fuck is he doing?