Page 23 of Saving Pookie

My heart skips a beat, and I freeze in place. Of all the fucking men in this room, it had to land on the only straight one. Sure, Maverick has a girlfriend, but he's pansexual. He likes this and that, and theys and thems. I wait for Braxton to put a stop to this, to refuse to do it.

He doesn't.

Instead, he hooks a finger and gestures for me to approach.

He can't be fucking serious.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks quietly, breath raspy.

I look to my right, almost as if I'm asking for permission from Avalon. She gives me nothing other than pursed lips and folded arms, her eyes daring me not to chicken out. I glance to my left to find Tamra, and I'm definitely not asking her for permission. She holds in a long breath, and if she were a cartoon character, I'm pretty damn sure steam would billow out of her ears. It takes a lot of nerve to get so worked up about someone possibly kissing your ex-boyfriend when the reason he's your ex-boyfriend is because you cheated on him.

Avalon gives me a slight nudge, palming the small of my back.

Don't fucking run, I think to myself. But there's the other half of my brain that hasn't been contaminated with this need to perform. Not yet. It's screaming, yeah, this is one of those times where it's a pretty fucking good idea to run. The cameras are watching. My body betrays me, though, as my hands land on the marble floor, inching forward and into the open center of the circle.

I keep waiting for Braxton to break character—to laugh, to scoff, to scowl, to stand up and walk away. But he's steadfast, those fucking blue eyes practically begging me to approach. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the daggers in Tamra's eyes. Something about that look on her face grants me a little more strength.

Halfway across the circle, I'm scared what it's going to look like when I'm rebuffed. The whole world will see me, a gay man, being rejected a kiss by a straight man. Would I be the predator, or would he be the asshole? Either way, it wouldn't be boring.

I finally close the distance, my palms slack against the floor on either side of his hips. He swallows a noticeable gulp, the first hint of nerves on his end. Is he thinking the same thing as me? Is he waiting for me to put an end to this before it begins? Or is this whole thing a ploy to make Tamra jealous?

I angle forward, my lips trembling as I meet him where he sits. My mouth so fucking close to his. His straight fucking mouth. My not-at-all-straight fucking mouth. Gay mouth. Hungry mouth. Parched and deprived mouth.

"Don't be boring," Braxton whispers, hot air brushing over my lips. "And don't tell a fucking soul if Maverick is a better kisser than me." He chuckles lowly, his bottom lip rumbling against mine. "Are you ready to be a star?"

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRAXTON

The first time I ever played spin the bottle, I was only twelve years old. My friends and I had a party on the beach as the sun went down. Our parents were off somewhere, most likely drowning their rich-people problems in endless pours of the nastiest, driest wine possible. Anyway, I kissed three girls and one dude that night.

See, there is no such thing as sexuality when it comes to spin the bottle. The bottle is like Cupid. It's all about fate, and I don't dare question the wisdom of Spinny Cupid.

Through high school and college, I continued to light up with a smile on my face when some drunken fool would empty a bottle of Corona and start spinning. My girlfriends were never quite as thrilled. One of them even broke up with me once over a rather raunchy game where her twin sister ended up in my lap.

She didn't trust fate.

So now, here I am at a crossroads. My lips and tongue have brushed the lips of a few men before, but never on camera. This impending kiss feels a little different from the rest for that reason. It's easier to reconcile who I know myself to be with who people think I am when I only have to deal with a few witnesses. There could potentially be millions of witnesses.

Am I ready for that?

Pookie's lips tremble against mine, and I can't help but notice that his eyes are wide open, unwavering from my own gaze, as if he's waiting for me to rebuke him. As if he knows I'm going to rebuke him.

It dawns on me rather quickly that he's more nervous than I am. I have to kiss him now. I wouldn't survive the rejection in those dark, puppy eyes. I couldn't handle the criticism from the viewers at home, sitting on their comfortable couches while side-eying me for not being a big enough ally. I steel myself with a gentle smile, letting Pookie know it's okay.

"Don't be boring," I whisper, the thin space between our lips filled with enough tension to snap the whole damn world like that crazy dude in that Marvel movie. I think about watching Maverick crawl over Pookie and kiss him as I returned from the bathroom with Dixon. "And don't tell a fucking soul if Maverick is a better kisser than me." And then I chuckle, just a bit, before straightening myself out and coaxing him with my words, "Are you ready to be a star?"

I palm the side of his cheek, brushing my fingers over a five o'clock shadow. His lips part, his smooth kissers unsticking like glue, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to say anything. His nervousness is written all over his face, cinched by the throbbing of his Adam's apple.

I seal the deal, pressing my lips fully against his as his eyes finally draw to a close, giving in to this stupid party game.

Fingers curl into the hair on the side of my head, a gentle tug at first, but then something more feral—something I didn't know Pookie had in him. His tongue laps against mine, slow and restrained, and still there's a noticeable difference from kissing a woman. Their mouths are smaller and more delicate. His mouth is hungry for something I can't quite put my finger on, but his fingers dance on my chest, holding me still as he finally breaks away with a half-smile.

The first thought that passes through my head is a nervous one—I wonder if he tasted the coke on my tongue. In the stilted moments of quiet that follow, I wonder if he notices the way my nose twitches and sniffles as the drug drains down the back of my throat.

And then finally, I settle on an even more curious thought...

The idea that I kissed a dude, and yeah, I liked it. But I like kisses. I'm a touchy guy—being touched, touching others. Touching booties. Playing with hair. And hugs, don't get me started on hugs. I love a good hug, and bro hugs are responsible for serious spikes of serotonin in my brain.