Chapter 8 – Braxton
CHAPTER EIGHT
brAXTON
When the production crew arrived, the first thing they did was shut off my air conditioning while I watched them slack-jawed.
I turned it back on. They turned it back off.
On, off, on, off, until Talon slapped my hand away from the thermostat.
He insisted the inhumane conditions of summer in the city without air conditioning would add to the working-class vibe of the show.
After all, we're supposed to be struggling bartenders trying to make it big in the big city.
When I countered that nobody would believe there's a newer apartment in Hudson Yards without air conditioning, he just shook his head.
In response to being crammed into the sweltering sweatbox of my apartment, I stripped all my clothes off except for my blue plaid boxers. I'll give you working class, bitches.
That was about an hour and a half ago, and Pookie still hasn't shown up for filming.
Talon wasn't the happiest twunk in the world when he found out I asked Pookie to be my roommate afterthe crew left Maverick's the other night.
Some things can't be forced, and the timing wasn't right until we stood on Maverick's balcony and ran out of things to talk about.
What can be forced is a little something called a reshoot.
Talon sent a camera crew to Central Park the very next morning.
On any other day, I would've loved running through Central Park shirtless, catching some rays, catching stray attention from onlookers, and getting my cardio for the week.
That morning was not any other day, though.
Vodka seeped from my pores. Pookie barely broke a sweat.
I suppose that's because he limited himself to water the night before.
Anyway, the scene was scripted: two friends exercising outdoors and stopping to converse at the cute little cafe nestled within the park. Seated across from Pookie, I asked him to be my roommate. And then we both went to our collective homes.
Well, I went to my apartment and Pookie went to his hotel.
He doesn't have a home. Not yet.
Not until today.
I check the clock on the wall, and Pookie's about an hour late.
I'm sweating my ass off, and my boredom is inching towards irritation.
Talon half-sits on the arm of the chair across from me.
Sweat beads at his hairline, the weight of it pulling strands down over his face.
Maybe if he gets hot enough, he'll agree to turn the damn air back on.
I stuff my hand down my boxers and cup my balls, but I quickly realize all eyes are on me and rip my hand back out into view. I place it under my nose and smell it.
Not bad. A little musky and a little Old Spice.
Then again, I realize the cameras are fixed on me.
I swallow a dry lump in my throat. "You're not filming, are you?"
Nessa, the camerawoman, shakes her head, unable to hide the disgust in her curled lip. However, I'm not reassured because the light on the camera is now flashing red.
I'm not the type of guy to experience embarrassment, not often at least. This is one of those moments. Nessa is a pretty lady: tall, slim, dirty blonde hair, and a pierced lip. She wears a flat expression that doesn't change much from one moment to the next. She's rather serious all the time.
A knock on the door sends me scrambling from my feet and away from the so-not-embarrassing ball-sniffing incident. I cover my crotch with my hand to conceal the bouncing of my lively dick.
When I reach the door, I stand still for a moment. There's a little ritual I like to perform right before filming a scene. I close my eyes, inhale, and gesture outwards as I exhale. All set!
I groan as I swing open the door, prepared to bite into Pookie. We've had this conversation before. Tardiness is one of my very few pet peeves—along with chewing with your mouth open and cutting into a sandwich on the wrong side.
Instead, I say nothing.
His right eye is swollen and bruised, purples and blacks painted together at the winced corner with pale yellows extending outward. His lip is busted too, a crack in the chapped flesh. There's a fresh wound carved into his cheek with invisible stitches taped over his skin.
"Sorry I'm late," he groans painfully.
And still I say nothing, instead choosing to talk with my hand as I gesture for him to step inside. He walks past me, eyes fixed on the camera for a beat before ducking away. He tosses his two duffel bags onto the floor, landing with a soft thud.
He turns in a full circle and looks at me with a pained expression as he tries to speak, but the words come out like hushed gravel. "It's been a long night." He winces and grunts under his breath as he scratches the back of his head. "I would like to make this as fast as possible."
Talon jumps off the arm of the chair, landing on the ground with force as he claps his hands together.
"Fourth wall, people." He points at Pookie, who cocks his head over his shoulder to stare back at the producer.
"We've talked about this. We don't talk about production.
We pretend the cameras aren't here at all times. "
"Sorry," Pookie says, dropping his head. A kicked fucking puppy. "It won't happen again."
I look at him. He's so defeated and deflated, and then I look at Talon, who's wearing a scrunched expression and sweating profusely. I look straight at Nessa and yell, "Cut."
Talon pinches the bridge of his nose and chuckles under his breath. "This is why it's so damn hard to buy a gun in this city, because if I had a gun right now...."
I bite back a laugh. The truth is, I love seeing him frazzled like this. It tickles an inner part of me that fills me with immense joy. But this isn't about me. It's not about Talon. It's about Pookie. There's something wrong here.
Nessa's eyes search the room, settling on Talon as if she's waiting for permission to stop rolling. He doesn't give it. Instead, he treads past the camera and the hot box lights. "You're starting to piss me off."
"I have an idea," I say through a smirk. "Why don't you turn on the air conditioning, and then maybe you won't be so damn cranky?"
He purses his lips, his throat tensing as he shakes away the rage. He attempts to speak, but nothing comes out except hot air. Poor guy's really about to blow a damn gasket, and for what?
"Look at him," I point squarely at Pookie. "He's torn the hell up."
Pookie's gaze lifts upward, all squinted eyes and flushed cheeks.
"I saw him walk in the door," Talon seethes.
"I was born with two eyes and perfect vision.
" He inches closer with tiny little baby steps until he's standing just to the right of Pookie, out of the camera's frame.
"What should have happened when he showed up looking like he ran his mouth to the wrong guy on the street is that you should have sat him down and said, 'Hey bro, what the fuck happened to your face?
'" He folds his arms over each other, as if he's waiting for me to play the part of the trick pony. Do as I'm told.
"No." I shake my head defiantly. Something about this feels wrong. "Pookie, speak up and tell them 'No.'"
Pookie dabs his lower lip with his tongue, says nothing, and looks straight at the wall.
I nod, realizing that once again the responsibility to do what's right falls on my shoulders. Always the horse. Never the cavalier. Hmm? I punch the inside of my cheek with my tongue. That doesn't sound right.
Regardless, I step past Pookie and form a blockade between him and the camera, crossing my arms over each other.
I'm a fucking brick wall. I stare straight at Nessa, standing my ground.
"I can fill—uh—whatever they call it in Congress all day.
It's not like you can air footage of me speaking gibberish straight into the camera.
Now, fun fact, did you know that it's not actually cats that have nine lives?
" I wag my finger in the air. "It's raccoons that are blessed with countless lives.
Do you know how many times a single raccoon earns his death before it actually comes to pass?
" I'm straight up making shit up, but hey, I enjoy telling stupid, pointless lies.
"Did you also know—" My chest sinks as I realize Talon isn't going to allow Nessa to turn off the camera.
I purse my lips and chuckle quietly. Without further ado, I do the only reasonable thing left to do.
I push my boxers to the floor, exposing my cock and balls to the camera. Full fucking monty. Talon's eyes roll to the side of his head, unamused. Nessa bows her head and huffs. In the quiet that follows, I consider the idea that there's a small chance I may have just committed a crime.
Pookie's gaze falls too. He's seen my dick before in the dressing room, but he hasn't seen it like this, held firmly in my grip. He notices me noticing him and averts his gaze. Too late to turn back now, I grab my—hefty, if I say so myself—dick and swing it around like a helicopter blade.
"Cut the fucking camera," Talon snarls, pointing at Nessa.
The flashing red light beside the lens turns off.
Talon reaches into his pocket, grabs a pink vape, and takes a long drag. He blows the smoke straight in my face, which I'm forced to bat away. It smells like cotton candy and rage.
"We haven't even made it to air," Talon seethes, clutching the vape tight in hand. "And somehow you think you have the power to control what is or isn't shown."
I pull my boxers back up as he scolds me.
"I thought Gunnar was the problem child," he continues. "It turns out you're my biggest fucking problem."
"I'm not a problem child." I mash my teeth together and blind him with an ornery grin. "I'm your favorite."
He clasps his hands together in a manner that would make me think he's about to pray if he'd ever stepped foot in a church. Now that I think about it, Jesus might be just what Talon needs because goddamn, he's wound tighter than a coiled snake trapped in a tank too small for its body.