Chapter 7 – Braxton
CHAPTER SEVEN
brAXTON
The first time I ever played spin the bottle, I was only twelve years old.
My friends and I had a party on the beach as the sun went down.
Our parents were off somewhere, most likely drowning their rich-people problems in endless pours of the nastiest, driest wine possible.
Anyway, I kissed three girls and one dude that night.
See, there is no such thing as sexuality when it comes to spin the bottle. The bottle is like Cupid. It's all about fate, and I don't dare question the wisdom of Spinny Cupid.
Through high school and college, I continued to light up with a smile on my face when some drunken fool would empty a bottle of Corona and start spinning.
My girlfriends were never quite as thrilled.
One of them even broke up with me once over a rather raunchy game where her twin sister ended up in my lap.
She didn't trust fate.
So now, here I am at a crossroads. My lips and tongue have brushed the lips of a few men before, but never on camera.
This impending kiss feels a little different from the rest for that reason.
It's easier to reconcile who I know myself to be with who people think I am when I only have to deal with a few witnesses.
There could potentially be millions of witnesses.
Am I ready for that?
Pookie's lips tremble against mine, and I can't help but notice that his eyes are wide open, unwavering from my own gaze, as if he's waiting for me to rebuke him. As if he knows I'm going to rebuke him.
It dawns on me rather quickly that he's more nervous than I am.
I have to kiss him now. I wouldn't survive the rejection in those dark, puppy eyes.
I couldn't handle the criticism from the viewers at home, sitting on their comfortable couches while side-eying me for not being a big enough ally.
I steel myself with a gentle smile, letting Pookie know it's okay.
"Don't be boring," I whisper, the thin space between our lips filled with enough tension to snap the whole damn world like that crazy dude in that Marvel movie.
I think about watching Maverick crawl over Pookie and kiss him as I returned from the bathroom with Dixon.
"And don't tell a fucking soul if Maverick is a better kisser than me.
" And then I chuckle, just a bit, before straightening myself out and coaxing him with my words, "Are you ready to be a star? "
I palm the side of his cheek, brushing my fingers over a five o'clock shadow. His lips part, his smooth kissers unsticking like glue, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to say anything. His nervousness is written all over his face, cinched by the throbbing of his Adam's apple.
I seal the deal, pressing my lips fully against his as his eyes finally draw to a close, giving in to this stupid party game.
Fingers curl into the hair on the side of my head, a gentle tug at first, but then something more feral—something I didn't know Pookie had in him.
His tongue laps against mine, slow and restrained, and still there's a noticeable difference from kissing a woman.
Their mouths are smaller and more delicate.
His mouth is hungry for something I can't quite put my finger on, but his fingers dance on my chest, holding me still as he finally breaks away with a half-smile.
The first thought that passes through my head is a nervous one—I wonder if he tasted the coke on my tongue. In the stilted moments of quiet that follow, I wonder if he notices the way my nose twitches and sniffles as the drug drains down the back of my throat.
And then finally, I settle on an even more curious thought...
The idea that I kissed a dude, and yeah, I liked it. But I like kisses. I'm a touchy guy—being touched, touching others. Touching booties. Playing with hair. And hugs, don't get me started on hugs. I love a good hug, and bro hugs are responsible for serious spikes of serotonin in my brain.
But this kiss... Well, it felt different. That's the only way I can explain it.
Different.
I chalk it up to the drugs running rampant in my bloodstream—the same drug that makes everything feel a little more exciting. Yeah, that's most definitely the reason why I'm filled with this odd sense of giddiness like I've just experienced my first kiss.
I tap Dixon on the shoulder and tilt my head towards the bathroom. He offers a silent nod in understanding, and as Avalon spins the bottle, we flee the scene of whatever crime is about to occur.
As soon as I close the door, Dixon folds his arms over each other and bats his eyes at me. "You've never kissed me like that."
A snort of amusement climbs the back of my throat. "Do you want me to kiss you, Dixon?"
His eyes roll sideways. "I don't want your sloppy seconds."
That's what I thought. "Make sure the door is locked this time."
He does as told, spinning the lock on the door as I empty a baggie of white powder in the familiar hollow on the back of my hand between my thumb and pointer finger.
"Did I look good?" I ask as I approach, holding my hand out to him.
"You mean when you were kissing him?" He leans forward, presses a thumb against one nostril and inhales with the other. He wriggles his nose and wipes away leftover white residue. "Why do you care?"
I flick him on the side of the head. "There's no way that kiss isn't making it to air.
If my very lovely, but very conservative, parents are going to watch me kiss a dude on TV, then it better be worth it.
" I quickly pour another mound and sniff it into my system. "I better look like a fucking prince."
"Remind me again," he says. "What do your parents think you do for a living?"
"They think I work for an advertising firm."
His eyes bulge, but he needs to chill. We've had this conversation before. "You're filming a reality show, and you haven't told your parents the truth?"
"I'm working on it." I wave off his concern and take a seat on the edge of the sink.
"They're not homophobic or anything. They just...
" I snort, choking on the nasty—but strangely comforting—chemical taste stuck to the back of my throat like wet glue.
"They have dreams for me, you know? Great job, big house. They want me to have kids and shit."
"But you're not gay," Dixon so helpfully points out.
"Right!" I wag my finger at him. "But I might appear gay.
It's the implication, you know? It might spook them, and then they'll be like, I guess this means we're not getting grandchildren.
" I lean my head back against the mirror and turn just slightly, just enough to get a good look at myself staring back at me.
"And it's like, look, you aren't getting grandchildren regardless.
God bless all the parents in the world, but I have no interest in chasing after goblins.
Cooking, cleaning, and driving screaming Cabbage Patch Kids to soccer practice.
" I jump off the counter and land right in front of Dixon with my arms held out to the side.
"I mean, look at me. Do I look like the father type? "
"I think we should circle back to this conversation in five years." Dixon half snarls, half laughs as he smears a thumb under my nostril, wiping away the evidence of our bad decisions. He then puckers his lips, slips his thumb inside his mouth, and sucks it clean.
Fucking fiends, all of us.
See, this is what I meant about Tamra trying to turn my drug use into a storyline.
She'd only be playing with fire because it's something we alldo.
Before her Jezebel ways became widely known, she would have been sitting on the floor beside Dixon and me, inhaling lines all damn night.
Kolter has dabbled in meth. Maverick and Avalon pop ecstasy tablets, hit the club, and take home both men and women.
Boone isn't as bad as the rest of us because he's adamant he has to keep his vocal cords healthy for when he becomes the first out and proud Country star.
And Gunnar? Send the fucking G.I. Hoe to rehab at this point.
He's a little more secretive about what he does and does not partake in, but that man is wound tighter than a pornographic pinball machine.
I pencil in a mental note to find a pornographic pinball machine.
I stuff the baggie back into my pocket, tap on Dixon's shoulder, and turn around in a quick circle. "Okay, plug my mic back in."
It's strange. I can feel Dixon's hand moving along my back... But...
"Uhhh," he stammers. "I don't think we unplugged them."
"What?" I shriek, grab him by the shoulders, and spin him around. "That's not fucking good."
Four hours later, a quiet has settled upon the penthouse.
Sure, in New York City, there's no such thing as silence.
It's the city that never sleeps. Way down below, the city streets are a concrete jungle of a parking lot.
The honking of horns is the constant drumbeat that serves as the backing track for the city's anthem.
Sirens wail in the distance, muffling the performances of musicians on the street exchanging the strumming of their guitars for a dollar at a time.
So yeah, it's about as quiet as it can possibly be.
The city is always alive and never, ever fucking boring.
I can't say the same for the man standing beside me, arms braced high over the glass railing that's about four feet tall.
I look at Pookie and wonder who the fuck it is that I'm looking at?
He's apprehensive, closed off, shy. His defining personality trait seems to be constantly looking over his shoulder, like he's running from himself.
He's gay, like most of the men I surround myself with. By choice. Gay guys are way cooler about way more shit. They don't judge me for choosing to watch Real Housewives instead of UFC Fighting—although I like that too. I wonder if Pookie likes Real Housewives.
"Do you like Real Housewives?" I ask him, the words still echoing in the back of my mind.