Page 70 of Saving Pookie

"Literally right as she walked in the door." He laughs and kisses me on the cheek. "You thought I was trying to fuck you when she was standing there, but I was actually in my post-orgasm daze."

"We have to deal with the rat," I groan into his chest. "I don't think we're going to be able to keep this a secret much longer."

"Don't worry about that." He brushes my sweaty curls from my forehead. "Tamra is a lot of things, but like Gunnar said, we're all family. Besides, I'm sure we can find something to blackmail her with if need be."

"We have about eight minutes till she comes back." I take his fingers in mine and study them. "What do you want to do?"

He passes me an amused smirk, pushes me onto my back, and nestles himself right on my chest. Right on his home, a pillow where he's always safe. Truth to God, bottoming was an experience I'll never forget, but if I'm being honest, I'm not entirely sold. There's just something about sticking my dick in hot, warm holes I'm not ready to give up.

"How was it for you?" I ask.

He does a little dance with his fingers on my chest and shrugs. "It was good."

"Better? Worse? About the same?"

"Seven minutes now," he whispers and quickly straddles me. He reaches behind and grabs my cock with his greasy hand. It comes back to life in an instant, ready for round two. "Does this answer your question?"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

POOKIE

It's funny how much life can change in less than a year. Nine months ago, I was a nobody on the run from an abusive ex. Now, I'm about to film my first reunion for the biggest reality TV show in years.

Prior to today, I brushed up on the long history of reunions. For research, Braxton and I watched countless hours of Real Housewives reunions, and I'm praying things go better than those did because in that world, nothing gets resolved. Reunions aren't about making peace; they're about throwing bombs. From my understanding, those shows are taped months in advance of airing. For some dumb reason, production decided to have a live reunion. The millions of viewers who have watched our every move for the past nine months will now tune in live. There's an uneasy feeling rocking back and forth in my gut. Filming in front of a camera crew is one thing, but filming in front of a studio audience and the whole damn world? That's something else entirely.

The budget for the show has increased tenfold since it hit the air. Instead of Jules applying makeup to my face, there's an actual makeup artist. She's cute, bubbly, and dressed in an unconventional, glittery emo outfit. She packs a cloud of concealer over the hickey on my shoulder and blends it in, erasing the evidence of Braxton's furtive love—as elusive as it is obvious. He says so much with so little, and yet those three magical words I long to hear have increasingly become a burden weighing me down.

I love you. Those same three words that sometimes tremble from my lips as I watch Braxton sleep, all the while knowing he can't hear them. Three words that chain me to a prison I can't quite escape.

Braxton steps into view, his devilish body reflecting off the mirror of the dressing room. He's dressed as if it's just another day at work. Originally, Mr. Pink wanted us all to dress up in fancy clothes for the special occasion, but production vetoed the idea, stating this was a sexy reality show, and the audience wanted half-naked cowboys.

And the audience gets what it wants.

Which is why Marina, the makeup artist, has just covered up my hickey. The sight of it would almost certainly become a topic of conversation around a subject Braxton and I both would very much like to avoid.

Braxton approaches from behind and smiles as he places a hand on each of my shoulders, giving them a gentle massage. It's about all the touching he can get away with in public. When he pulls his hands back, one of them is covered in concealer.

"What the hell?" he chuckles and cleans his hand on a towel. "Looks like my man Pookie was out late with some lucky gentleman last night."

I choke back a sigh that desperately wants to air out my grievance of listening to Braxton overcompensate.

Gunnar and Maverick enter the dressing room together, wearing matching pink thongs and nothing else. Maverick quickly climbs into his jeans while Gunnar approaches, taking a seat on the ledge of the counter.

He looks straight ahead, pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and smiles. "The audience is going to want us to fight today, so this is my warning." He twists his gaze to me first and then Braxton, and raises his fists to playfully punch the air. "I hope you two shitbirds came prepared."

Braxton readies his fists and squares up to Gunnar. Straight-boy shit, though neither of them qualify. I guess the more apt descriptor would be macho-boy shit. They playfully bounce back and forth, lobbing punches they know won't connect.

Until one does.

Until Braxton lands a blow on the side of Gunnar's head.

"Shit." Braxton winces. "I'm sorry."

Gunnar recovers from the blow, his cheek reddening. He aims a finger at Braxton and screams, "You're fucking finished."

And as Gunnar is prone to do, he loses control. He leaps at Braxton, tackling him to the floor. There's a scuffle behind me that I can't see, but in my mind, I imagine it looks like one of those violent cartoons where literal dust is kicked up, obfuscating the combatants.

"I'm not getting involved," Maverick says as he and I share an irritated look. He leans forward, checking himself out in the mirror. "I look way too good to walk out there with a bloody nose."