Chapter 1 – Pookie
CHAPTER ONE
POOKIE
I never thought myself naive—quite the opposite, in fact. I was the guy who'd point and laugh at the morons confused about how they ended up in a cult. I became one of those idiots—fell hook, line, and sinker. Instead of a hook in my mouth, it was a cock.
Beautiful, forbidden cock.
Older cock.
Magical cock.
Cock that hit the spot until it stopped hitting.
Until he started hitting me in the face.
Breaking my nose.
Ripping my hair.
He stopped fucking me, and he started hurting me.
Then I woke up, pointed at myself in the mirror, and I fucking laughed.
Fucking idiot.
And then I ran as far as I could, which wasn't very far.
In New York City, it's easy for someone to hide when they don't want to be found.
It's a little more difficult to find somewhere to lay your head at night when you haven't worked a job since high school and have nothing to your name but the backpack you carry on your shoulders, gripping it as tight as humanly fucking possible because it's the only thing you own.
I survive one meal at a time, finding temporary homes with strangers down to fuck. They think we're entering a mutual agreement to get off, but their end of the bargain is far greater. They give me a place to lay my head. Most of them, anyway.
I've been kicked out right after the deed is done once or twice and forced to stay on the streets.
Jim, Jack, Jose—whatever the fuck his name is—snores loudly, his face crushed into a satin pillow. He's a financier. A big shot capable of affording an apartment on the Upper East Side without needing a roommate.
I gently pull open the top drawer of his rustic dresser. It's long and deep and stuffed full of neatly organized and folded underwear: boxers, briefs, thongs, and jockstraps. The collection is sorted by color, so it makes snatching a pink pair of briefs easier than I thought it'd be.
The only showers I consistently get these days are the ones I take after the deed is done. Sometimes they let me shower first, which is optimal, especially for the ones who enjoy tonguing my ass.
I grab my backpack and sneak into the adjoining bathroom. I gently close the door behind me, all the while reflecting on the lies I'm forced to tell the men I meet.
I'm on my way out of town, but sure, I could change my flight to tomorrow morning.
I'm allergic to nuts, and it's easier to carry a bookbag than it is to stuff an Epipen in my pocket.
And when I catch a glimpse of my black eye in the mirror, I think about all the people I've told that it was my fault, that I'm clumsy, that I tripped.
The bruising has faded now, softer. Black and blues have washed into painted yellow and brown hues.
Two weeks free from the chains that tied me to him, but his hands are still all I see.
A gold necklace with a diamond heart hangs around my neck, a gift from my mother and the last vestige of my life back home in the California desert. If today doesn't go well, if I don't get the job, I'm going to be forced to sell it.
My mother is back home in Cinder Row, none the wiser about the hole I've dug myself into this time.
We grew up in a trailer, and she still lives in that trailer, but if push comes to shove, I know she'd find a way to get me back home, even if that meant throwing my ass on a Greyhound bus.
It'd be so easy to call and beg for her to help me out of this predicament I've found myself in.
She's the kind of woman who keeps score, though.
The last thing I want is to be indebted to her.
Again. Besides, there are so many lies to unravel that I'm not quite sure where to begin.
Would I start by telling her I dropped out of college? That I haven't been seen on campus for the past three years? That the graduation she is so excited about watching on a live stream next spring isn't happening?
Would I start by telling her that I met a charming man?
Or would I start with letting her know her son turned out to be just like his father?
Her life has already been flipped upside down once by the throwing open of a closet door.
I'm not sure how she'd react a second time.
Would I tell her this man invited me into the upper echelons of New York Society?
That he promised me the world, provided it, and then wielded that power to control me for years? That he beat me?
Or that I'm pretty sure he's in a fucking cult?
Jesus Christ, how the fuck did I end up here?
I climb into the shower first, and then twist the knobs.
Freezing cold water shoots against my chest, feeling like razors dragging over my skin.
The temperature quickly adjusts, steam billowing around me as the hot water paints my skin red.
I make quick work cleaning every nook and cranny of my body, paying special attention to my bum by slipping a soapy finger inside and massaging.
When I'm done, I turn off the water, rip open the curtain, and hang my hands over the chrome bar.
I stare into the steam that's overtaken the bathroom like the fog on a spring morning, contemplating my existence.
I towel dry my hair and body and climb into the pink briefs, tucking my cock away.
They're a little loose on me, but they'll do.
After I'm dressed, I tiptoe out of the bathroom to find the kind man has turned onto his side, his arms draped around a pillow. Dark hair crawls between his furry ass cheeks.
I grab my weathered leather wallet off the greasy nightstand that's coated in lube from a leaking bottle left on its side overnight.
Jim, Jose, whatever the fuck his name is, was a good fuck.
Took his time, first with his tongue and then his fingers.
Careful, loving tops are a dime a dozen.
He made sure I got off, not once but twice, before he unloaded, painting my ass cheeks with his seed.
It's a shame I'm leaving him like this, without saying goodbye, without whispering thanks into his ear—for the hot showers, for the pillow to rest my head, for the good fuck, for the pink underwear.
On my way out of his apartment, I grab a box of protein bars and a couple of cans of beer and stuff them into my backpack.
The hustle and bustle of the city never stops. The city that never sleeps. The city that never stops moving. The city of the corrupt and the city of thieves. I get off the subway at Penn Station. It's a quick walk to Hell's Kitchen from there.
My journey takes me past a homeless man huddled against a wall beside a damp puddle of piss, a tall man in a business suit with a thick mustache screaming into his phone, and a flock of tourists running late, dragging their suitcases behind them as they whiz past me.
When I arrive at my destination, the building is inconspicuous.
If it weren't for the unlit sign above the front doors, I wouldn't know I was in the right spot.
Mr. Pink's is the hottest gay bar in Hell's Kitchen, according to the flyer that says the place is in desperate need of a new bartender.
The windows on the doors are pitch black, hiding whatever lies beyond the industrial facade.
Even when I press my face against the glass, hooding my hand over my eyes, I can't see inside.
I step back and knock gently on the door.
It springs to life in an instant, an older man holding the door.
He's... there's no other way to say this than to say he's pink.
Pink cowboy boots fitted underneath straight-legged jeans with a buttoned-up pink shirt and a pink cowboy hat.
He wears a thick, dark mustache with the slightest curl at the ends. He's older, not by years but decades.
"You're—" I'm cut off before I can finish asking my question, "You're the manager?"
"I'm Mr. Pink, and you must be Paul." He squints his eyes and holds the door open, gesturing for me to come inside. "Please take your time; I love the sight of the harsh sun after an all-night bender."
I scurry inside, hearing the door close behind me.
He shuffles past, and I follow him through a short, narrow hallway and an empty security checkpoint.
Inside, the place is dark, with only necessary lighting.
Tables are scattered about with pink chairs parked around them.
The backside of the joint is a long bar that runs the perimeter of the outer wall.
It's probably the longest bar I've ever seen.
Scattered proportionally along the bar are six stripper poles towering about twenty feet above, where the tops line up with the second-floor overlook.
Mr. Pink cocks his head over his shoulder. "What do you know about my bar?"
The interview has begun. I make an educated guess based on my surroundings. "It's a restaurant during the day and a bar at night."
"So, you've never been here? That's a first." He rips a chair out from a table, spins it in a quick circle, and takes a seat, crossing his legs over each other. "Do you have bartending experience?"
"I don't, but—"
"An elaboration is not required."
"I know how to make the basics," I say, prepping my next lie in a long string of them. "Back in college, my roommates and I hosted the biggest parties on campus. I learned to shake and stir like a madman."
His gaze drifts to my own and lingers a little too long.
I can only assume he's taking in the sight of my bruised eye.
I cock my head to the side, hiding the bruise in the shadows of the bar.
And then his eyes shift lower, taking a quick peek at my nether regions that are hidden behind a thin layer of gray sweatpants.
He meets my gaze again. "You have a big dick. "
I scoff, uncomfortably. "You definitely can't ask that in a job interview."
"Not a question." He shakes his head. "It's an observation."
I grit my teeth, trying to bite my tongue. I'm not a tongue-biter, though. Not anymore. "I think that's even more inappropriate."
"You wear it well, kid." He motions with his finger. "Can you turn in a full circle?"
I don't know why I do it, but I do. Holding my arms out to the side as I put my body on display for the inappropriate pink man.
"What are you wearing underneath those pants?" He thumbs over his lip, contemplating. "Drop them."
I laugh nervously, shaking my head. "You can't be serious."
"You're not cut out for this job." He purses his lips and rises to his feet. "You got the body for it, but you don't have the mind. The confidence. The swag."
"Fuck off." I bite my tongue and hook my hands beneath the waistband of my sweats. He watches intently as I push them to my knees, exposing the pink briefs I stole from my one-night stand.
He smiles, appeased and probably fucking horny.
Instinct kicks in, and I lower both hands over my cock, shielding the goods from his ogling eyes.
He taps one boot on the hard floor. "Are you aware that this is more than just a bartending job?"
That sounds like we're heading in the right direction. I pull my sweats back up over my thighs. "Yeah, the flyer said something about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
"We're filming a reality television show here," he says. "Are you ready and willing to be a star?"
This is an insanely bad idea, being on the run and all. But money is money, and from what I know about television, most shows never make it to air. If it does, I can take my money and fucking run. For real this time. "How much does it pay?"
He waves off my question with his hand. "When you come in tomorrow, the producers will go over all that boring shit with you. The unfortunate part of the deal is that you won't get paid your fees until the show is airing."
"I have bills to pay."
"My boys make six hundred dollars on a slow night," he says with a wink, tilting his pink cowboy hat forward. "That's on top of whatever the production company is paying."
I smile for the first time since arriving, a weight off my shoulders. "Sounds like I'll see you tomorrow."
"Production will need you here by five. Plan on a long night." He waves me off with his hand. "Now, go get some rest. You're going to need it."
I came. I saw. I conquered, but my feet are glued to the floor. "I know I should go, but I'm just thinking out loud here. Why the last-minute search for a bartender if you're starting filming tomorrow?"
He chuckles as he slides the chair back underneath the lip of the table. "We've been filming for a month. Most of the footage is being scrapped. I had to let go of two of my boys."
"What the hell did they do?"
"They committed the ultimate sin."
"They killed someone?"
"Worse." He scratches at his mustache as his lips hitch into a grin. "They were boring."
Off the top of my head, I can think of about a hundred things worse than being boring. "Unforgivable," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Don't be boring, Pookie."
"It's Paul," I remind him.
"Not anymore," he says flatly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Pookie."
On my way out the door, I'm filled with a sense of hope.
It's a feeling that is quickly overshadowed by a new sense of fear.
What the fuck did I just sign up for? And then I think about Jim, Jack, Jose, whatever the fuck his name is, and wonder if he'll ever think about me, or think about what I took from him.
But honestly, people have done much worse things to earn a dollar than stealing a pink pair of undies from a one-night stand.