Page 26 of Saving Pookie

I whack off far too much.

I'm just generally a brat.

Fuckkkkk. I've got ninety-nine problems, but at least not being able to afford my electricity bill won't be a problem much longer. I just need Pookie to agree, but he seems pliable enough to agree to anything with enough pressure.

He grits his teeth, unsure of what I'm proposing. But really, if he has an issue with it, he should take it up with Talon. It's his idea. Pookie might not know it yet, but Talon gets what he wants. So, he can say no all he wants. If I can't break down his walls, Talon will finish the job with a wrecking ball.

"Why does this sound like a business arrangement?" he asks.

Poor, sweet, naive Pookie. "That's exactly what this is. You'll need someone in your corner when things get messy, and I promise you they'll get messy, and I need help paying my rent. It's a win-win for everyone. You get the best roomie in the world. I secure my financial freedom, and Talon gets his precious storyline."

"Fuck," he groans, bowing his head. He tightens his grip on the ledge and exhales sharply. "If you tell anyone this, I'll kill you."

I raise two fingers. "Scout's honor!"

But behind my back, I'm crossing the fingers of my other hand. I'm practically salivating waiting for the juicy scoop. The suspense is going to give my coked-out cardiovascular system a heart attack.

"I'm staying in a hotel," Pookie says softly, almost a whisper. His admission is bogged down with the weight of shame. "I don't have a home right now."

"You've been touched by an angel." I grab him by the shoulder and haul him back inside the penthouse and towards the front door. "We're going to have so much fun, Pookie. My bestie. My roomie."

"So much fun," he groans.

And yeah, it doesn't sound like he's the most enthusiastic guy in the world, but he's also monotone. And he's tired. I'm sure he'll be more excited in the morning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BRAXTON

When the production crew arrived, the first thing they did was shut off my air conditioning while I watched them slack-jawed. I turned it back on. They turned it back off. On, off, on, off, until Talon slapped my hand away from the thermostat. He insisted the inhumane conditions of summer in the city without air conditioning would add to the working-class vibe of the show. After all, we're supposed to be struggling bartenders trying to make it big in the big city. When I countered that nobody would believe there's a newer apartment in Hudson Yards without air conditioning, he just shook his head.

In response to being crammed into the sweltering sweatbox of my apartment, I stripped all my clothes off except for my blue plaid boxers. I'll give you working class, bitches.

That was about an hour and a half ago, and Pookie still hasn't shown up for filming.

Talon wasn't the happiest twunk in the world when he found out I asked Pookie to be my roommate afterthe crew left Maverick's the other night. Some things can't be forced, and the timing wasn't right until we stood on Maverick's balcony and ran out of things to talk about. What can be forced is a little something called a reshoot.

Talon sent a camera crew to Central Park the very next morning.

On any other day, I would've loved running through Central Park shirtless, catching some rays, catching stray attention from onlookers, and getting my cardio for the week. That morning was not any other day, though. Vodka seeped from my pores. Pookie barely broke a sweat. I suppose that's because he limited himself to water the night before.

Anyway, the scene was scripted: two friends exercising outdoors and stopping to converse at the cute little cafe nestled within the park. Seated across from Pookie, I asked him to be my roommate. And then we both went to our collective homes.

Well, I went to my apartment and Pookie went to his hotel.

He doesn't have a home. Not yet.

Not until today.

I check the clock on the wall, and Pookie's about an hour late. I'm sweating my ass off, and my boredom is inching towards irritation. Talon half-sits on the arm of the chair across from me. Sweat beads at his hairline, the weight of it pulling strands down over his face. Maybe if he gets hot enough, he'll agree to turn the damn air back on. I stuff my hand down my boxers and cup my balls, but I quickly realize all eyes are on me and rip my hand back out into view. I place it under my nose and smell it.

Not bad. A little musky and a little Old Spice.

Then again, I realize the cameras are fixed on me.

I swallow a dry lump in my throat. "You're not filming, are you?"

Nessa, the camerawoman, shakes her head, unable to hide the disgust in her curled lip. However, I'm not reassured because the light on the camera is now flashing red.