Chapter 6 – Pookie
CHAPTER SIX
POOKIE
The last place I literally wanted to be on a Sunday night was at work. It's not work in the usual sense; I'm not shaking ass and slinging drinks. Instead, I'm partaking in a filmed party for the show at Maverick's penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side.
Fancy place and only about three blocks from where I used to live.
As for actual work, brunch at Mr. Pink's was mostly uneventful.
Gunnar paraded around the pool deck, serving drinks to the wealthy patrons while Braxton and I schmoozed with the older men seated at tables around the stage.
There was only one drag performer who went by the stage name Goldie Yawn.
As it turned out, Goldie Yawn is Mr. Pink's alter ego—a big-breasted blonde that gives off more Dolly Parton vibes than Goldie Hawn.
Gunnar and I bonded for a brief moment, the length of our bonding session lasting from the time he poured us two shots of tequila to the time it filtered down our throats and into our stomachs.
Then, as he left the bar, he looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Stop being so boring, noob."
Braxton immediately approached with a frown, upset he'd been left out of the shots.
So, he poured two more: one for him and one for me.
Now look, I don't have experience in the service industry, but I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to drink on the job.
The second shot burned more than the first, and my stomach tilted into a blurred rush of heat.
Cameron would never let me drink the hard shit.
He wouldn't even let me drink beer, saying it was a man's drink and I wasn't a man.
To him, I was his bottom, and that meant I could never be a man.
He only ever let me drink wine, and I learned to despise the taste of it.
I flirted with the men as instructed and even sat on two of their laps. One man ran a soft hand over the inner side of my thigh, his knuckles grazing near my balls that were protected only by the thin fabric of my Speedo.
When we were splitting tips for the afternoon, the amount was much higher than normal.
At first, I chalked the increased earnings up to taking Braxton's advice to heart.
That was not the case. Instead, I found out that during Sunday Brunch, Mr. Pink donates all of his tips to the staff tip pool. He doesn't need the money.
As I was climbing back into my street clothes in the dressing room, Braxton approached, insisting I hang out with the rest of the boys.
I initially declined but was accosted on my way out the door by Jules, who demanded that I show up for the after-party.
Unfortunately, I'm someone who takes great pleasure in being asked to do things because it gives me permission to say no.
When someone tells me to do something, I do it, because being obedient has been ingrained into my head.
There's a power imbalance here that is becoming increasingly clear. The Pink Stallions can't say no. We are nothing more than show ponies, no matter what Jules or Talon say.
And that's how I ended up at Maverick's penthouse just before four in the afternoon, and the party was already popping.
All the lights were off, the silhouettes of people painted against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Beyond the glass was an unobstructed view of Central Park, which is a view I'm familiar with.
All of the stallions are here except Kolter, who I'm starting to believe isn't real.
When I was a young kid, my dad took me deep into the desert and took me on a snipe hunt.
The only way to catch a snipe is with a plastic grocery bag, but snipes aren't real.
It's apparently a traditional prank that goes back generations.
That's what this mysterious and elusive Kolter feels like.
A fucking snipe. Everyone swears he exists, but until he shows up for work or an event, I'm going to choose to believe he's faker than true love.
The cameras are here too, four of them to be exact. Four cameramen behind the lenses, and then both Talon and Jules, so they must be expecting something especially juicy.
I make my way to stand beside the windows, drink in hand.
A glass of water. Guess I'm living up to my reputation of being boring, but I don't know these people well enough to get shitfaced, especially with a camera aimed squarely at me.
I hear shuffling behind me and cock my head over my shoulder to find a cameraman capturing some B-roll.
All of this terminology is new to me, but I'm picking up on it rather quickly.
B-roll is what production uses for establishing shots or for cutaways when they begin editing the footage together.
What do I look like?
Do I come across as mysterious sipping on my water?
Do I look antisocial, avoiding everyone at the party?
Maybe I look angry. Who knows how it'll be edited?
Right now, I can't be bothered to care. I've come to learn that my brain chemistry is formulated differently from most people, whether that's because I was born this way or because it's a product of the environments I've found myself in.
I'm not the type of guy who can walk up to someone I barely know and start a conversation. Talking is hard.
But talking is not hard for Maverick. He approaches me from behind, meeting me to stand beside the window. "When I was a kid, my only friend was my own reflection."
I twist my gaze to meet his, confused as to his intentions. He slings one arm around my neck and drags me away from the safety of the windows. We're buddies now, apparently. He's only a foot taller, but still towers over me like I'm nothing.
"Eventually," he continues, "my mom made me go outside and make new friends, which I did. He was about fifty-one, and he showed me his willy in the park down by the remnants of the castle."
"Jesus Christ," I snarl, immediately collecting myself with a shake of my head. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
To be fair, it's not exactly the kind of story a normal person shares casually. Nobody here is exactly normal, though.
Maverick laughs and tightens his grip on me. "She made me stop going outside after that."
"Is there a point to this incredibly depressing story you're telling me?"
"Of course there is." He turns to face me, placing a hand on each of my shoulders.
"Making friends with the person looking back at you is great and all.
I'm all for loving yourself. God knows I love myself enough for everyone around me, but this world you're living in now can get pretty lonely.
If you're not careful, you'll find the only friend you have is yourself, and that's just a miserable experience, especially in a city with this many people.
Especially in a line of work where we are always surrounded by people. "
He nods at me, but I get the feeling he's more so nodding at himself, proud of his words of wisdom. Meanwhile, I'm trying to parse through the bullshit. Nothing he said was earth-shattering.
But I thank him anyway, forcing a smile. "Thank you for those incredibly deep words."
He places a hand on his heart in gratitude. "Now, stop being an emo brat and come party with your new friends."
I watch as Maverick takes a seat on the floor with his friends.
Back home in Cinder Row, the floors were always filthy.
We didn't bother taking our shoes off when we walked in the door because there was no point.
Sand and dirt bled through the windows. And in the penthouse I shared with Cameron, the floors were spotless.
Sheila, our housekeeper, took care of everything for us.
She was a bitter woman in her thirties from the other side of the river.
I made damn sure to be as polite to her as possible, but it was never enough to earn a smile in return.
She despised the both of us, and it used to bother me until it didn't—until I understood how awful her job must have been, dealing with Cameron for far longer than I did.
I barely escaped with my life. I wish I could go back and save her too.
But here I am, living on the other side of that horrible life, standing in a penthouse with a bunch of faces whose names I know, but not much else.
Braxton and Gunnar are the two I've said the most words to.
Gunnar is easy to figure out. He's a human slab of meat, poking and prodding anything he can with his apparently big dick and bad attitude.
Braxton, though? I can't quite get a grasp on him.
He's the most flirtatious man I've ever met, and I'm not entirely sure he knows how he comes off.
I've been gawking long enough to catch Maverick's attention again. He cocks his head over his shoulder, eyes pulling like dark ocean tides. "Stop being so damn boring."
I can't help but roll my eyes. When I catch a glimpse of the camera fixated on me, I correct myself and take an apprehensive seat in the circle of friends, finding an opening between Tamra and Avalon.
Braxton sits across from me, flanked by Dixon on one side and Boone on the other.
"Are we ready to begin?" He questions the group, but it feels like the words are directed straight at me.
It doesn't help that his eyes—oceans just the same as Maverick's, but brighter and blue—look right at me, and then right on fucking through.
"I'm tired of waiting," Gunnar huffs and raises both hands, wriggling his fingers. "Hands up, everyone."
"I... I'm sorry," I stammer. "What exactly are we doing?"
Gunnar squints, his gaze darting my way. "Do they not play 'Never Have I Ever' in whatever hole you crawled out of?"
The prick sure knows how to make a guy feel welcome, but... "I don't know what that is."
Sneers and chuckles fill the room. Everyone partakes in the quiet ritual of laughing except Braxton, who instead looks slightly amused with a wry grin on his face.