Page 24 of Saving Pookie

But this kiss... Well, it felt different. That's the only way I can explain it.

Different.

I chalk it up to the drugs running rampant in my bloodstream—the same drug that makes everything feel a little more exciting. Yeah, that's most definitely the reason why I'm filled with this odd sense of giddiness like I've just experienced my first kiss.

I tap Dixon on the shoulder and tilt my head towards the bathroom. He offers a silent nod in understanding, and as Avalon spins the bottle, we flee the scene of whatever crime is about to occur.

As soon as I close the door, Dixon folds his arms over each other and bats his eyes at me. "You've never kissed me like that."

A snort of amusement climbs the back of my throat. "Do you want me to kiss you, Dixon?"

His eyes roll sideways. "I don't want your sloppy seconds."

That's what I thought. "Make sure the door is locked this time."

He does as told, spinning the lock on the door as I empty a baggie of white powder in the familiar hollow on the back of my hand between my thumb and pointer finger.

"Did I look good?" I ask as I approach, holding my hand out to him.

"You mean when you were kissing him?" He leans forward, presses a thumb against one nostril and inhales with the other. He wriggles his nose and wipes away leftover white residue. "Why do you care?"

I flick him on the side of the head. "There's no way that kiss isn't making it to air. If my very lovely, but very conservative, parents are going to watch me kiss a dude on TV, then it better be worth it." I quickly pour another mound and sniff it into my system. "I better look like a fucking prince."

"Remind me again," he says. "What do your parents think you do for a living?"

"They think I work for an advertising firm."

His eyes bulge, but he needs to chill. We've had this conversation before. "You're filming a reality show, and you haven't told your parents the truth?"

"I'm working on it." I wave off his concern and take a seat on the edge of the sink. "They're not homophobic or anything. They just..." I snort, choking on the nasty—but strangely comforting—chemical taste stuck to the back of my throat like wet glue. "They have dreams for me, you know? Great job, big house. They want me to have kids and shit."

"But you're not gay," Dixon so helpfully points out.

"Right!" I wag my finger at him. "But I might appear gay. It's the implication, you know? It might spook them, and then they'll be like, I guess this means we're not getting grandchildren." I lean my head back against the mirror and turn just slightly, just enough to get a good look at myself staring back at me. "And it's like, look, you aren't getting grandchildren regardless. God bless all the parents in the world, but I have no interest in chasing after goblins. Cooking, cleaning, and driving screaming Cabbage Patch Kids to soccer practice." I jump off the counter and land right in front of Dixon with my arms held out to the side. "I mean, look at me. Do I look like the father type?"

"I think we should circle back to this conversation in five years." Dixon half snarls, half laughs as he smears a thumb under my nostril, wiping away the evidence of our bad decisions. He then puckers his lips, slips his thumb inside his mouth, and sucks it clean.

Fucking fiends, all of us.

See, this is what I meant about Tamra trying to turn my drug use into a storyline. She'd only be playing with fire because it's something we alldo. Before her Jezebel ways became widely known, she would have been sitting on the floor beside Dixon and me, inhaling lines all damn night. Kolter has dabbled in meth. Maverick and Avalon pop ecstasy tablets, hit the club, and take home both men and women. Boone isn't as bad as the rest of us because he's adamant he has to keep his vocal cords healthy for when he becomes the first out and proud Country star. And Gunnar? Send the fucking G.I. Hoe to rehab at this point. He's a little more secretive about what he does and does not partake in, but that man is wound tighter than a pornographic pinball machine.

I pencil in a mental note to find a pornographic pinball machine.

I stuff the baggie back into my pocket, tap on Dixon's shoulder, and turn around in a quick circle. "Okay, plug my mic back in."

It's strange. I can feel Dixon's hand moving along my back... But...

"Uhhh," he stammers. "I don't think we unplugged them."

"What?" I shriek, grab him by the shoulders, and spin him around. "That's not fucking good."

Four hours later, a quiet has settled upon the penthouse. Sure, in New York City, there's no such thing as silence. It's the city that never sleeps. Way down below, the city streets are a concrete jungle of a parking lot. The honking of horns is the constant drumbeat that serves as the backing track for the city's anthem. Sirens wail in the distance, muffling the performances of musicians on the street exchanging the strumming of their guitars for a dollar at a time.

So yeah, it's about as quiet as it can possibly be.

The city is always alive and never, ever fucking boring.

I can't say the same for the man standing beside me, arms braced high over the glass railing that's about four feet tall. I look at Pookie and wonder who the fuck it is that I'm looking at? He's apprehensive, closed off, shy. His defining personality trait seems to be constantly looking over his shoulder, like he's running from himself.