Chapter 5 – Braxton #2
"We need you to make friends with Pookie," he whispers. "We're still trying to figure out how to weave him into the narrative, but that's difficult when y'all are acting incredibly cliquish."
"We are cliquish," I say, laughing. "For example, I don't much like that cock-pierced psycho in there.
" I poke him in the chest. "Before you and Jules and the rest of your production company came around, I worked with Gunnar as little as possible.
I know you're behind constantly pairing me with him. "
"That's actually an example of not being cliquish, but that's beside the point," he huffs. "I need at least a few of you to pretend as if he's part of the group. Otherwise, it's going to be a bust."
I frown at him playfully, desperate to see how far I can push him before he snaps. "I thought you wanted to capture the real in reality."
He drags his palms over his reddening face, desperately trying to stifle a scream. When he's succeeded at the task, he sighs. "Befriend him, and we'll give you a bonus."
Money doesn't whisper. It fucking roars. The mention of it elicits the feeling of butterflies in my stomach and a thickening of my cock. "How much?"
"Ten thousand," he whispers.
Okay, clearly this was planned. Neither Talon nor Jules has that kind of power. They're not writing our checks. That's done by the powers that be who pull their strings.
I reach out and shake his hand. "Deal."
I'm too fucking easy.
I go back inside, take a seat beside my new best friend, and pull on my pink cowboy boots.
"So, uh..." Pookie bites down on a fingernail. "How does this work? Do we go around passing out drinks, or do we stand behind a bar? I didn't even know we had a rooftop bar until this morning."
"I could pinch your cheeks." I force a smile. "You're so cute."
"What?" He jerks in place, confusion swarming his dark eyes.
"This is your third shift?"
"Fourth," he corrects me.
"And you haven't figured it out yet that you're not slinging drinks. You're slinging dick and shaking ass. You're selling sex, a fantasy." I apply a thin layer of lip balm to my lips. "As you know, our tips are pooled. For you, that's a great thing. For the rest of us? Not so much."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
I laugh. "It means you're not making your fair share. It means I'm walking home with a little less money in my pocket when I leave every shift. It's just a little, but a little adds up over time. It becomes a lot."
He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "Maybe I could be lucky enough for you to bless me with some tips on earning my fair share," he says with a heavy hint of sarcasm.
This friendship is not off to a great start. Ten thousand dollars,I remind myself as I get up from one chair and go sit on a stool in the middle of the floor. I hook a finger at him. "Come here."
He rolls his eyes, but does as told. I pencil in a mental note that he obeys, which could come in handy down the road.
He slinks towards me with the confidence of a twink stumbling into a gay bar for the first time.
He's got the body for this job, albeit slimmer than most of us except for Dixon.
He's not quite a twink, though. He's a twunk—half twink, half hunk.
His muscles are defined and his abs are carved, but it all fits his frame instead of overpowering it.
I slap my bare thighs, the echo of flesh on skin singing on the walls. "Dance for me."
He steels himself. "Absolutely not."
"There are a hundred men up there waiting for their turn with you. The rooftop brunch parties are exclusive events, reserved for those who can pony up hundreds of dollars for a ticket. They'll be expecting something a little more than an angelic smile."
His cheeks flush a pale pink, which I'm assuming he doesn't realize. Otherwise, he'd probably be halfway out the door by now.
I point to the ceiling. "Those men up there want to touch and be touched."
He scoffs. "Unfortunately for them, prostitution wasn't in the contracts I signed."
"Do you even know what you signed?" I arch a brow.
God knows I don't have a fucking clue what was in that mountain of paperwork.
They tossed out a figure, and I was like, sold.
See? I'm far too fucking easy. "Or was Jules hovering over your shoulder with the threat that she could and would revoke the offer if it wasn't signed in a matter of minutes?
" I chuckle with an uncomfortable pit in my stomach because...
what the fuck did I actually sign? "You're right.
We're not prostitutes, but we're pretty damn close. Those men up there are hungry."
"Maybe it's none of my business, but as a straight man, how do you stomach this job?"
"That's a good fucking question, Pookster." I pucker my lips, contemplating how I can say this without coming off... wrong. "Because I'm hungrier than them. I like money as much as they like my body. It's an even trade, don't you think?"
He shakes his head gently. "I'm not so sure about that."
A quiet follows like he's second-guessing every decision he's ever made.
As for me, I'm lost in thought trying to figure out how I can kill two birds with one stone.
Bird numero uno is befriending this guy who clearly has no intention of befriending me back.
Bird numero dos is getting him to earn his fair share and send me home with a little more money in my pocket.
"Are you going to dance for me, Pookie?" I slap my thighs again, this time softer than before. "Or are you going to go up on that rooftop still pretending like that pretty smile of yours is enough?"
"I..." he stammers. "I know how to dance."
"That's funny. I haven't seen any evidence of that being true."
He stands motionless for a beat like he's ready to call my bluff.
I swallow a dry lump in my throat as I begin to get nervous that he's going to call my bluff.
He slinks forward, trying so damn hard to mask his lack of confidence. For a moment, I almost believe him until he shivers above me, standing between my parted thighs. His gaze meets mine and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, "There's an implication here."
"What implication is that?" I mean to bark back, but it comes out just as hoarse.
"The implication of what you're saying is that you want me to sit on your lap and prove I know how to give a lap dance.
" He swallows, his lip quivering just a little.
I have a bad habit of noticing the littlest things and missing the big things that so often sit right in front of my face.
"You want me to bump and grind all over you? "
"When you say it like that, it sounds a little—"
"Gay."
"That." I shake a finger at him, laughing through the discomfort.
"I'm just trying to help you help me, which helps you in the end too.
If I sucked your dick, that would make me gay.
If you sucked my dick..." My words trail off as I shake my head and laugh louder.
"Well, that still wouldn't make me gay. Teaching you how to shake what the good lord gave you isn't gay at all. It's chivalrous."
The skin of his bare legs brushes over my thighs, and I'm starting to regret taking the Viagra. It empowers my cock to do whatever the hell it wants, like thumping against the thin pink fabric of my Speedo.
His hand falls to my head, pushing curls of hair from my forehead.
What the fuck is he doing?
I reach to the side and strain to reach for my phone. I swipe through Spotify, play "Pony" by Ginuwine, and rest the phone back on the floor. "Show me what you got, and I'll show you how to do it better."
His eyes burn with hesitation, but I can't help but notice his boot tapping against the floor as the music picks up.
He lets out an audible groan and turns around, his Speedo-clad ass in my face.
I give him a playful smack—just getting him primed for what's about to ensue upstairs. Muscular ass, though.
He steps back, braces a hand on each of my parted thighs, and dips low enough that his ass grazes my crotch.
I pray he can't feel the girth of my half-erection.
God knows he'd think he's doing something right, and that's totally not the case.
I've had better lap dances by drunk fools on the A-train stumbling to take a seat beside me.
I grip my hands around the edges of the stool to stop me from intervening.
I'll let him show me his moves, and then I'll teach him what he's doing wrong.
My gaze falls to the muscles protruding from his biceps, firm and bigger than they first appeared.
I can't see him showing up to the gym, so I wonder if he's one of those freaks who are naturally muscular by doing the bare minimum.
I definitely can't see him doing squats, either, so where the hell did he get all that junk in that trunk?
Now, I've been caught with my pants down—figuratively and literally—more times than I personally care to count.
This feels like a new low, though. Tamra rips around the corner of the doorway, a camera crew hot on her tail.
Even from across the room, I swear I can hear the camera lens zooming in on this precarious position Pookie and I have found ourselves in.
Pookie freezes in place. His arms go limp and he collapses into my lap, the weight of his body bending my Viagra-fueled stiffy flat.
I let out a pained groan as Tamra belts out a whiny plea, "When you're done doing whatever the hell you're doing, I need to talk to you."
I clear my throat and tap on Pookie's back. "Go on, stallion, I'll meet you upstairs."