Chapter 4 – Pookie #3
It turns out Mr. Pink was not lying when he said his boys make bank.
I did jack shit all night other than watching and taking an order here and there, and I still walked away with four hundred dollars in tips.
In New York City, that's not an insane amount of money.
Anywhere else in the country, the tips alone would be a living wage.
Still, I feel like a king as the underground train rips along the rails, shuttling from one station to the next.
I check the monitor and realize I still have two more stops until I reach my destination where I'll find the cheapest hotel I can for the night.
To sleep in a bed of my own, without relying on selling my body for a pillow, is a luxury I didn't believe I'd have anytime soon, not until I stumbled into the best worst thing ever.
And it was all a happy accident. On the surface, I'm so fucking far out of my league, but my mom always said that determination was a more powerful force than talent.
It's why I was the first of my family to graduate high school.
It was why I was the first of my family to ever leave Cinder Row.
And still, somehow, I ran from one bad situation straight into the arms of another.
Maybe this is my chance to break the cycle.
Braxton approached me at the end of the night.
As he was divvying up my not-so-fair share of the tips—again, I didn't exactly do much to earn the same amount of money as the rest—he invited me to an after-party.
Every part of my body wanted to say yes, every part except the part that was convinced I'd die from exhaustion if I stayed out any later.
It was a little past two when we left the bar, leaving behind one hell of a mess for the janitorial staff to take care of.
Braxton made a point of letting me know that most other bar gigs require the staff to clean up the bar themselves.
It was one reason in a long list of reasons why he said he loved his job so much.
And Braxton is straight, but also comfortable enough in his sexuality to show his asshole to a gay man for twenty dollars.
He pocketed that money, by the way. Shoved it straight into his pocket, but honestly he shouldn't have to share.
I didn't see any of the other guys showing their holes out there.
But Braxton... is straight? It's such a stupid thing I can't shake from my head. I've seen porn. I've watched it when I'm alone before, so I know there's such a thing as gay for pay. I've just never been exposed to it in the real world before.
The other guys didn't really talk to me, not much. I don't know if it's because they're a well-oiled clique, if they were too busy to notice me, or simply because they don't want strangers intruding on their tip pool.
I lean my head against the wall as the train screams against the rails.
We come to an abrupt stop, and the doors sling open.
Two college girls disembark together, leaving only myself and one other man on the train.
I catch him watching out of the corner of my eye and think about getting off with the girls. Call it a trauma response.
Just before Cameron would do something awful, he'd always watch me first. Intently, as if he was studying me, as if he was battling the inner voices in his head that demanded he beat me.
My crimes were never that serious, and most of the time, I met his wrath simply for existing in a world where others dared exist too.
Jealousy flooded his veins like a disease no medicine or therapy could cure.
Every other man was a threat to the power he wielded over me, no matter how much I swore I only had eyes for him.
And I did. Only had eyes for him. Until I didn't. Until I started noticing other men.
Until I'd see strangers on the street and looked a little too long, wondering if he could love me in a way that didn't leave me with broken bones and a bruised heart every time I didn't love him right. In a way, Cameron ended up being right.
I'm a whore, now, because he loved me wrong.
If he could see me now, I have no doubt I'd be in the morgue.
The doors come to a close, and I realize I've missed my chance at escape. The stranger still watches me, his eyes unwavering. I wonder what it is he sees in me, but I don't dare to ask. I look away and think back to all the people I've met tonight.
Two stressed-out producers who could keep the benzo industry afloat.
Two women behind the bar. One of them tolerable, and the other one a rude, condescending placenta.
And five incredibly sexy cowboys that are absolutely off-limits.
Maverick, the slick pony.
Gunnar, the cocky, crotch-grabbing gremlin.
Boone, the swoony country boy, the only one that'd be a cowboy in the real world.
Dixon, the quiet one.
And Braxton, the straight one with an ass and a penchant to show his ass fit for a gay pornstar.
How the hell do I compete with all that? How do I fit in with all that?
That's a problem for another day.
When the doors part again, I haul ass off the train. As I ascend the stairs, the train departs behind me, and to my relief, the stranger stays on the train. I breathe a sigh of relief and exit the station, ready to crash in a dingy hotel room all by myself.