Chapter 5 – Braxton #3
He doesn't hesitate climbing off me and storming away, cheeks now a cherry shade of red.
For his sake and mine, I'm praying they don't use this footage in the show.
That's a problem for another day because right now I have to deal with an on-camera confrontation with my ex-girlfriend while I'm sporting a visible penis line.
I rise to my feet and do my best to angle my crotch away from the camera. "Time is money, and I need money now more than ever, so that's going to be a resounding no."
"I can fix this," she pleads, closing in on my personal space. "I can fix us."
"How are you going to do that?" I grab my cowboy hat off the counter and angle it over my crotch. "Unless you have a magic lamp you can rub and wish for what's done to be undone, we can't be fixed."
She caresses my cheek with a soft hand—feminine and reeking of betrayal. "Just give me five minutes."
"That's five minutes of not being tipped, and do you know how stupid I'd look at the beginning of next month if I'm five minutes short on income to pay the rent that you should be paying?"
"You're an idiot," she scowls, reaching forward and stuffing a twenty-dollar bill in the front of my speedo. "Five fucking minutes."
Goddammit. Too fucking easy. "You're on the clock."
She lets out a sigh of relief and takes a seat on the stool. "Look, you know I'm not good with apologies, but..." She almost chokes on the next words that come out of her mouth, "I'm sorry."
I cock my head sideways. "What are you sorry for?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"I think I need to hear you say it." And look, I know I'm being a dick, but if anyone deserves it, it's her.
She seethes, hot air slipping between her lips.
"I'm sorry for getting too wasted in Las Vegas and accidentally cheating on you.
I'm sorry you had to find out from someone else.
" She bows her head in shame. Whether it's real shame or simply acting for the cameras, I can't say for certain either way.
Not that I think she's remorseful. Quite the opposite.
I just think she despises the concept of appearing to be the villain in the story she wrote herself.
"I should have been honest with you, and that's the part I regret the most."
I play the part in return, brushing a hand over her cheek that's coated in far too much pink blush. She looks ridiculous. "Thank you for saying it."
She bows her head against my bare chest, and I can hear her sniffling, but her nose is drier than the fucking Sahara desert. Faker. "So, does this mean you forgive me?"
"No," I say flatly.
"Braxton," she shouts, slapping her hand against my chest.
"Things aren't working out in Brooklyn, are they?
" I question with a restrained chuckle. She's been staying with Avalon in a flat on the other side of the river.
"I know the best and the worst bits about you.
You're impatient. It must be killing you to spend thirty minutes on the subway getting to work every day. "
She pouts her lips. "It's really awful."
"I hope you get bit by a rat on your way home.
And then I hope you get turned into a superhero with a useless power, like being able to eat infinite cheese pizza.
And then I hope you find another rat, settle down, get married, and have children.
And you'll spend the rest of your days in the subways and the sewers thinking about the cowboy that got away. "
Her mouth drops agape, stunned. And then her face contorts in a familiar way. I was with the girl for two years. I know when she's about to spiral sideways with some bullshit. She sputters her lips, forcing a slight quiver. "Are you fucking high?"
I take a quick glance at the camera and then back to her. "Of course not."
"What you just said was crazy shit. Are you sure you're not—"
I grit my teeth and pull her in close enough to whisper in her ear, "I know what you're doing.
You're not going to turn this into a storyline.
Do you understand me? I'll burn us all to the ground before I take the fall.
"When I pull back, I force a smile as she retreats with a scowl.
"I'll see you upstairs, princess of the rats. "
"Fuck you," she barks, turning and shoving her way past the cameraman.
He himself lingers in the doorway for a moment longer, capturing the cinematic shot of me watching my former girlfriend run away. When he's gone, I'm left with my thoughts, chewing on my tongue.
The truth is, we all party. Sometimes, way too hard.
Sometimes, it's just alcohol and weed.
Other times, it's cocaine and molly, Addies and Xannies.
We're all twenty-somethings in the service industry. It's not a big secret, but it's one that doesn't need to be exposed on national television.
I wonder if Pookie parties? I shake my head. There's no way. He's too restrained, too guarded to let loose. And what else do I think about Pookie? He's a handsome lad. No homo.
Now, it's time to go do some very gay things in the name of sweet, sexy, cold, hard cash.
On my way out of the dressing room, I chuckle at the thought of Tamra eating leftover pizza out of a torn box in an alleyway.