Chapter 5 – Braxton
CHAPTER FIVE
brAXTON
Millions of visitors flock to New York City for the winter holidays. The surge begins right around Thanksgiving and continues through the New Year. They're missing out. Summer in the city is where it's fucking at.
I wake up in the morning, stretching my hands over my head as I let out a loud yawn.
A fan purrs in the window because ever since I kicked Tamra's sorry ass out, I've had to cut back on air conditioning.
I kick the sheets from my clammy body and climb out of bed in my blue plaid boxers, my morning wood bouncing as I make my way to the en-suite bathroom.
I connect my phone to the Bluetooth shower speaker and play my good morning playlist, which is mostly Ariana Grande and Charli XCX with a little bit of Zach Brown Band thrown in to protect my masculinity.
When I turn the knobs, the showerhead rains icicles onto the top of my head.
Bad habit number seventy-nine—I always forget to turn off the showerhead when I'm done.
The apartment is newer, and still it takes the shower far too long to heat up.
I slip free from my boxers, letting them pool on the tile floor, and check myself out in the mirror while I wait for the water to heat up.
There isn't a single dot of ink on my body.
It's not because I don't want one, either.
Rather, it's because the thought of a needle jabbing at my skin a thousand miles per hour would send my body into shock.
Needles, snakes, and commitment—those are my only three phobias.
And balconies.
And being broke.
And...
Damn, my eyes are exceptionally blue today.
I lean over the sink, getting a closer look at my eyes that are more Gulf of Mexico than Pacific Ocean right now.
And then, I notice a slight bump on the bridge of my nose.
It's barely visible, just slightly raised, but it's enough to send me into a mild state of panic.
My throat clenches and my heart races as I lean in even closer, scrutinizing the blemish with squinted eyes.
"I always knew this day would come," I mumble under my breath, reflecting back on something my mom told me when I was younger.
See, I was one of the lucky ones. When I was a young lad, when hair sprung in unfamiliar places and my voice deepened, my skin remained smooth as glass.
Puberty was a friend to me while it terrorized my peers with acne.
My mom always warned that those who don't experience the joy of acne when they're teenagers will face its wrath later in life.
Here we fucking are.
The prophecy is nigh.
Steam billows behind me, cloaking my head in humid mist.
I hop into the shower, rip the curtain closed behind me, and scrub-a-dub-dub.
First my hair, then my armpits, left arm, right arm, chest, stomach—all in that order, every single time.
Then my balls—buttery smooth and always well-maintained.
Then my flaccid shaft that jumps with excitement at the slightest touch, growing thicker with every caress of my soapy hand.
Not right now!
I give myself the ol' reach behind, scrubbing between my cheeks with a flat hand and circling the rim with my fingers.
My cock jumps again, but the big guy should know how this works by now.
It's a workday, and it's best to leave him wanting so he can make an appearance later—for the tips, of course.
And as I'm lathering my legs, the sound of Ms. Grande's voice screeches towards a combustion of energy.
And when she erupts into the chorus, I scream with her, "Break free!
" Someday, I'll get lucky enough to beat the bots at securing a ticket for her sold-out shows.
She'll spot me in the crowd, pull me on stage, and that will begin the love story of the century.
Move over, Taytay and that dude who wears a McDonald's-colored uniform.
The next thing I know, I'm belting out the song with a shampoo bottle in hand as a makeshift microphone. I give the performance of a lifetime, my voice echoing off the walls of the shower. As the song comes to an end, I towel dry and step out of the shower, stuffing the towel around my waist.
I check the time on my phone and grimace when I notice I've wasted far too much time in the bathroom. I'm going to be late. I brush my teeth vigorously, scrubbing away the bad taste of the morning while my half-erect cock bounces between my legs.
I spritz a few sprays of salt water into my hair and give it a tussle. It doesn't take much fussing to get my hair just as I like it. My California curls are easy maintenance, especially because I'll be wearing a cowboy hat at work.
God, I love my fucking job.
In life, it's important to take the good with the bad.
There are always bad things lurking in the shadows.
In the summers, that's the unbearable stench of trash and piss-stained sidewalks.
An energizing morning run through Central Park can quickly spiral into an episode of SVUwhen stumbling upon a homeless man relieving himself on a park bench.
This very scene has played out before my eyes one too many times.
And I love my apartment in Hudson Yards, but when I first moved here, I expected something else.
The beaches back home in Laguna are beautiful, lord-drawn masterpieces where waves crash onto the shore with a euphoric melody.
The water is clean but cold, and the breeze carries with it a magical scent of salty sweetness.
The shores of Hudson Yards often reeks of rotten eggs and urban waste, which is not ideal.
And yet, I wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the city.
Unfortunately, that means I still need to find a new roommate, and fast.
My mom had to sign the lease as a guarantor because I'm about two hundred thousand dollars short on my income taxes to qualify to live here otherwise.
I grab the first pair of shorts in the drawer and step into them.
They're loose-fitting, three-inch grey shorts that hang low on my waist until I pull the drawstrings tight.
I'm a little more selective with my shirt, sorting through the hangers in the narrow closet.
I settle on a white crop top with the words 'Not Your Daddy...
Yet' printed on the front in black lettering.
On my way out the door, I pop half of a Viagra tablet. Just in case.
By the time I arrive at Mr. Pinks for the brunch shift, Gunnar is strutting around the dressing room wearing nothing but his pink cowboy boots. Nothing. His pierced dick greets me before he does, and does so in a much politer manner.
"It's about fucking time you showed up, asshole," he groans, tearing clothes from a duffel bag. "I had an inkling you were about to leave me high and dry with the new guy."
"Oh no," I say flatly, leaning against the wall with an amused smirk on my face. "I would never do that. Can't have you filling his head with bullshit."
He stands up straight and points a finger squarely at me. "Watch your tone, California." He places his hands on his hips and searches the room with his eyes. "Have you seen my speedo?"
"I just got here," I grumble and point behind him. "It's on your fucking chair."
"Fucking seriously?" He turns in a quick circle, grabs the pink garment from the chair, and hurries into them. The thick metal of his cock ring is noticeable through the fabric, not that he cares. "I don't think the new guy is going to make it."
"We were all new at some point," I remind him as I drop my backpack on the counter and begin undressing.
The six of us—seven now, because of Pookie—rotate for brunch. There are only ever three of us bartending and dancing. It's a smaller affair, and having all seven of us on the rooftop together would be overkill. Today, Gunnar and I have been tasked with showing Pookie the ropes.
I collect my speedo out of my backpack and push my boxers to the floor.
Pookie, sweet, sweet, quiet, mysterious, out-of-his-league Pookie, stumbles into the room, covering his speedo-clad crotch with his street clothes.
His gaze darts lower, eyes widening just a bit when he notices my still half-hard dick hanging between my legs.
I let out a chuckle as I bend over and pull my speedo up my legs.
He averts his gaze and approaches his station beside me, dropping his clothes on the counter. He takes a seat on the stool, hands clinging onto the sides.
I catch his eyes in the mirror. "You didn't play sports in school, did you?"
He raises a brow and smiles gently. "How did you know?"
"Because you're too shy to change in front of other guys," I point out. "I've seen more dicks than pussies in my life."
He punches his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "You say that like you're missing out on seeing me naked."
I purse my lips and cock my head. "That's obviously not what I meant."
An unwelcome guest clears his throat at the door.
It's Talon, swiping through his tablet as he blocks the entryway.
It's his polite way of telling us to hurry the hell up.
By my calculations, we still have about five more minutes before the guests start arriving, so he needs to pop a Xanny and relax.
With a shit-eating grin on my face, I make my way over to him to irritate him. I nudge him with my elbow, stealing his attention. "How's my cock look?"
He's hardly fazed. He gives me a quick glance and then his focus is back on the tablet. "Like we're going to have to blur your package on national television. Stop taking that shit before filming."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He drops his arm to the side. "I'm talking about the cock tablets you're buying online through a quack doctor."
"I have an image to maintain."
"And I need to have a conversation with you." He grabs me by the arm and tugs me out into the hall, closing the door behind us.
My stomach clenches, fearing the worst. "Are you firing me?"