Page 25 of Saving Pookie

He's gay, like most of the men I surround myself with. By choice. Gay guys are way cooler about way more shit. They don't judge me for choosing to watch Real Housewives instead of UFC Fighting—although I like that too. I wonder if Pookie likes Real Housewives.

"Do you like Real Housewives?" I ask him, the words still echoing in the back of my mind.

He stares at me wide-eyed but says nothing.

His second personality trait is that he's not much of a talker. He prefers to meander in silence. I wonder if his internal monologue is as crowded, or as chaotic, as mine.

I let out a sigh and lean my head back over the railing, staring up into the starless sky. The light pollution really makes me miss California sometimes. I miss sitting on the beach and stargazing in the late hours of the night.

A random memory pops into frame, playing out like a long-lost home videotape. My childhood friend and I lay on our backs in the sand. I pointed to the sky and asked why one star was flashing and red. She scoffed and slapped me in the chest. It wasn't a star. It was a space station, or a plane, or a drone. Fuck if I remember.

The memory makes me chuckle to myself, and yeah, I probably look like a crazy person. Thank the Lord the camera packed up hours ago. It's just Pookie and I on the balcony. Gunnar fell asleep on the pool table in the game room. Maverick and Avalon retired to his bedroom. Dixon went home to pound his boyfriend Mike into a deep slumber. Tamra went back to her rat's nest in the subway sewer.

I cradle my hand over my mouth as I crack up at the thought.

Tamra, queen of the sewer rats.

It's a struggle to contain my amusement, each laugh more difficult than the last to suppress until I'm choking on my own hilarity. Pookie pounds his palm against my back, which I suppose is his way of helping me. His way of saving my life.

I steady myself and turn to him with a wry grin. "You can stop performing, Pookster. The cameras are gone."

"What makes you think I'm performing?" he asks flatly.

I turn to face him fully, immediately taking notice of the way his eyes sag. Has this white slice of bread been sober all night? How in the hell is he still standing? Maybe I should offer him a line or two. I purse my lips, weighing the pros and cons of bringing him into the fold.

I settle on playing it safe and dance two fingers over his chest, tapping over the thin cotton of a white tee. "Who are you? I mean, really."

"Nobody important." He takes a measured step back and bats his gaze to the city below us. "I like it that way."

I scrub at the back of my head. "Then why sign up for all of this?"

He shrugs. "It's just a job."

I bring my finger to my mouth and nibble on the nail. Pookie is an enema... or is it an enigma? I drag my palms over my face and let out a yawn that even I know is obnoxious. I'm way too tired for this shit. I like to consider myself a suave guy. I like to think I have a magic way with words, of getting what I want when I need it. But, I'm also tired, and Talon isn't around to lecture me.

So...

I spill the beans. "Talon wants you to move in with me."

"What?" He stammers, taken aback. "Why would he say that? Does he know⁠—"

That last bit spurs my curiosity. I straighten up, my fingers tapping on the glass ledge. "Know what?"

"N-Nothing."

I bite off a fingernail and spit it over the ledge. "I'm going to be honest with you, friend."

He scoffs playfully with a furrowed brow. "We're friends?"

"I think you could use a friend, so yes, the offer of my unconditional friendship is on the table." I can't help but grin. I'm a happy person. I smile a lot. If that's my biggest flaw, then I think I'm doing pretty good.

Actually, scratch that.

I have so many flaws.

I never turn off the curling iron.

I don't recycle.