Chapter 8 – Braxton #2
My eyes twitch to the side, contemplating whether or not snakes have brains. I mean, they must have brains, obvi. But how big of a brain? The size of a pea? The size of a rock? Some rocks are big. Some rocks are small.
Wait!
Do snakes have emotions? Do they cry out for their mothers when they're smashed with rocks? Damnnn, that sucks.
And just why are people smashing snakes with rocks, anyway?
With these intrusive thoughts, it's a miracle I ever get anything accomplished.
I shake away the madness and pucker my lips. "Sorry, my ADHD brain got sidetracked thinking about the emotional well-being of snakes."
Talon bows his head over his hands and whispers to himself, "I will not get violent today. I will not get violent today." He pulls in a sharp inhale and steadies his gaze on me. "The camera is going back on the count of five," he seethes quietly. "Now do your fucking job."
I push my thumb beneath the hem of my boxers, prepared to unleash the monster again. "Can you please just cover up his black eye so the audience doesn't think he's a battered wife?"
Talon's eyes dart between Pookie and me before he lets out a frazzled sigh. "You have five minutes."
The front door slams an hour later, leaving Pookie and me alone in our apartment. Calling it ours seems weird. It's something I'm going to have to get used to. For so long, it belonged to Tamra and me.
I gave Pookie a tour of the apartment while Nessa followed us around with the camera.
The place isn't grand by any means. By the standards of most zip codes in America, it's practically a closet.
Small spaces are part of the NYC experience, and I'd rather live in a shoebox here than a mansion anywhere else.
We went over the rules—never leave the front door unlocked unless we're throwing a party, spray toilet spray if you go number two in the half-bath in the hall, and keep the fridge stocked with booze at all times. I'm an easy roommate to get along with.
It was a simple scene to shoot, and I did my best to help shield revealing angles of Pookie's face. Nessa's makeup job was adequate enough, but it was a rush job that left much to be desired. High-definition cameras catch everything these days.
When it's just Pookie and me, he's noticeably more exhausted than usual after filming. He slinks away to the half-bath down the hall, leaving the door open behind him. I hear the sink faucet turn on.
I consider the idea of giving Pookie space, but my feet betray me, and the next thing I know, I'm standing behind him in the bathroom. I watch as he cleanses the makeup from his face with tissues, smudging the familiar purples and blues into focus.
"I appreciate what you did back there," he says quietly as he continues blotting away the skin-tinted makeup. "However, I'm starting to think I probably looked like an even bigger idiot with this shit on my face. It comes off as if I'm trying to hide something."
"Are you?"
His gaze meets mine in the reflection in the mirror. "I told you, I fell down the subway stairs yesterday morning."
That's his story, and he's sticking to it, but I like to think I have a rather fine-tuned bullshit detector.
I drop my gaze to the back of his neck, where the fringe of his dark hair lines up neatly.
I trace my finger over the side of his neck, running a circle over purpled marks that curiously look like fingers.
Pookie grabs the white hand towel hanging from the wall and blots his face. A grimace tears across my lips as I notice makeup smeared on the fabric, and I pencil in a mental note to add a new rule to the list—don't use the bathroom towels to wipe makeup off your face.
He turns the water off and turns around, bumping into me. I guess objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. I grab him by the hands and examine them.
"You said you landed on your front when you fell." I flip over his hands, investigating his palms. "There are no signs of physical damage on your hands, arms, or elbows."
He yanks his hands away from me and shuffles past me, out into the hallway.
I stand at the sink, lost in my thoughts, as chaotic as always. On one shoulder, I carry this devilish imp who roots me in a constant tornado of chaos. On my other shoulder, an angel that I most often flush down the toilet. I toss the angel into the toilet and pull the proverbial handle.
Following Pookie out into the hallway, I call out after him. "There are no cameras here."
"It doesn't look like there's a friend here, either." He pivots in a full circle, gritting his teeth. "Because when your friend tells you something, you believe them. You don't investigate the truth."
I jab at my lower lip with my thumb. "You just said it," I point out. "The truth."
"It's none of your business." He shakes his head with a scoff and retreats to his bedroom, which is right beside mine at the end of the hall.
"You're right." I chase after him, matching his pace.
He closes the door, but it's not like that's going to stop me.
I don't have boundaries. I push his door back open before he has the chance to lock it and stand against the doorframe.
"Unfortunately for you, I'm a huge fan of not minding my business, and if someone is hurting you, if someone is hurting my friend—"
"We're not friends, Braxton." He palms a hand over his forehead. "This is a storyline, remember?"
He's got a point, but that's not the point I'm after. "Who did this to you?"
He stares at me with a blank expression that's impossible to read. "The very mean concrete stairs."