Chapter 9 – Pookie
CHAPTER NINE
POOKIE
A subterranean roar echoes through the dark tunnel, followed by flashes of bright lights as the train comes to a screeching halt at the next station on our journey to Brooklyn.
It's a little after three in the morning.
I should be in bed after a long shift at Mr. Pinks, but Braxton coaxed me out of my comfort zone because it's his birthday.
"I want to party," Braxton begged, wrapping his arms around my chest as I sat in my chair in the dressing room. He pouted his lips, and that's all it took for me to give in. "You're the best friend I've ever had, Pookster."
It's a statement I know not to be true. He has plenty of friends.
All of them are better friends than I am.
It's been two weeks since we started sharing a living space, and we still barely know each other.
I'm not the type of guy to open up easily.
Telling him about my toxic past with Cameron almost made me croak from embarrassment.
Since then, we've barely been home, and when we are, he sits in the living room in his boxers, watching trashy reality TV—the exact type of show we're filming.
I can't figure out if he actually enjoys the shows or if he's studying the ins and outs of the format.
Still, a lot can change in two weeks.
For example, two weeks ago, I had never tried any drug other than a brief experimental phase with marijuana when I was a teenager.
About twenty minutes ago, just before we boarded the subway in Hell's Kitchen, I swallowed ecstasy.
There wasn't any peer pressure necessary, either.
Braxton simply asked if I wanted a magic pill, and I grabbed one from the palm of his hand, only stopping to ask him what it was after I had already ingested it.
As the train doors draw to a close, I count the stops remaining on the board until we reach our stop in Brooklyn. Eight more stops. Eight more stations.
I'm sitting on a bench while Braxton stands in front of me, holding onto the railing above his head with his muscular arm folded at a ninety-degree angle.
There's a white tank slung over one shoulder, and he wears short white shorts with blue boxers crumpled above the hem.
There's a slick veneer of sweat on his chest, glistening underneath the lights as we exit the station.
I push my head back against the window behind me and aim my gaze at the ceiling in a desperate attempt to steady myself.
"You good?" Braxton questions, palming a hand on my shoulder. He asks this same question every few minutes as if he's expecting the answer to change, as if he feels my insides twisting and turning with every motion.
A lukewarm wetness triggers my gag reflex at the back of my throat as I force out a simple, "Yeah."
He swings forward, drapes his other hand over the railing too, and stares down at me with a wicked grin. "You have to experience the darkness to shine in the light."
"Is that supposed..." I choke on a burp that tastes too much like vomit for my liking. "Poetic?"
"Nah." He shakes his head, all the while his smile remains unshakable. "I'm just saying I know it feels like you want to die right now, but trust the process."
I lower my head and look straight ahead to find I'm face-to-cock.
There's a visible penis line in Braxton's shorts, the head of what appears to be an impressively thick cock pressed against the thin fabric of his underwear and shorts.
He reaches down and adjusts himself, batting his cock to the left, and I can't tell if he's putting on a show or just doing straight-boy things.
I swear I can feel the heat of his eyes on me, so I force myself to look anywhere but at his cock. I look to my right, and the next thing I know, he's spinning down to take a seat beside me. He throws one arm behind my head, cradling himself there like a pillow.
He chews on his bottom lip contemplatively.
"I don't want you leaving my sight tonight.
No running off or anything of the sort." He retrieves a pack of gum from his pocket, pulls out a foil-wrapped piece, unwraps it, and holds it out to me.
I stick out my tongue and let him drop it in my mouth.
"Chewing gum is important. It'll stop your jaw from locking up. "
I clear my throat. "What?"
He places a hand over both sides of my mouth and gives my cheeks a gentle squeeze. "You're going to be fine, champ."
The brakes on the train scream, metal on metal, as we roll into the next station.
Seven to go.
The hot summer air feels obnoxious on my skin. At once it's warm and then it's cold, like I'm coming down with a fever. Braxton says the chills will come and go all night, but at some point I'll stop caring.
We'll see about that.
A group of about twenty others hopped off the train with us once we reached Brooklyn.
We're traveling in a missorted pack of dancers, druggies, straights, and queers.
Braxton has made friends with the strangers.
He's a people person, and I'm... not. I keep to myself, walking on the outskirts of the crowd, but he doesn't let me out of his sight nor his grasp.
His arm remains fixed around my shoulder as he chats up a tall woman with purple streaks slashed through dark hair.
I overhear her say her name is Lindsay and she's with three other friends, all lesbians.
My teeth chatter, so I swish the gum around in my mouth, pulling the hardening orb to rest between my teeth. Up ahead, the party arrives with the roar of music echoing off the abandoned buildings and warehouses.
Braxton calls it "the tracks." It's not a club, so much as a rave.
He says the location changes constantly, and nobody knows where it's going to be until a few hours before the party revs to life.
I check the watch on my wrist, and it's about to be four in the morning.
On every level, this is a terrible idea, and yet, I'm drawn to the sound of music in the near distance.
The beat courses through my veins, pulsing and thumping, twisting and careening through my arteries, where a chorus of synthesized beats drums in tandem with my racing heart.
Bad, bad idea.
And yet, a half-cocked smile hitches across my lips.
Before I know it, we find ourselves in a short line. Brief flashes of light tear through the front door every time it opens, painting over the crowd with streaks of neon pink and blue lightning.
A bouncer stands on either side of the door, only letting one person or small group in at a time, and only after they've been cleared by security.
A drag queen with a high pony and a beat face patrols the line, shouting out rules.
"No weapons, no cameras, and absolutely no phones.
" She points to a trash can to the side of the line.
"If you have any of the above, throw it in the trash. You can dig it out when you leave."
I pat the pockets of my shorts and let out a shriek. "Fuck."
"What are you doing?" Braxton asks, an amused expression on his face as he chomps on a piece of gum.
"I can't find my phone."
"Your phone is safe and sound back at the apartment, remember?"
I narrow my gaze on him. I don't go anywhere without my phone in hand, but then I vaguely remember a conversation about leaving them behind. I can't believe I agreed to this. "Oh, right," I say. "What happens if we get separated?"
"That's not going to happen," he says flatly. He's nowhere near worried enough about the logistics of getting messed up and not having our phones on our persons. He holds out a flat palm. "Gum."
Instinctively, I know what to do. I spit the old gum into his hand, and he passes me a fresh piece of strawberry goodness.
The door rips open again, the neon lights inside blinding me, as the lesbians we walked here with hustle inside. There's only one more person in front of us. That man stretches his arms out to the side as a guard waves a metal detector over him.
I turn into Braxton's shoulder and whisper, "They're going to know."
Braxton grits his teeth and whispers back, "Know what?"
"That..." I clear my throat. "About the stuff."
He chuckles quietly and tightens his grip on my shoulder. "Trust me, they don't give a shit. You're fine. If drugs would get us thrown out of here, we would have turned around a mile back because your eyes are buggin' out of your head, all dilated and shit."
I glance up at his eyes. They're dark and seedy until the neon lights splice through the door, lighting up the familiar blues that remind me of the ocean.
A paradox. Braxton himself is a chaos demon, but his eyes...
always so calm, so steady. More a quiet sea than a raging ocean.
And yet, when he looks at me, it's like a wave crashing over and ripping me into the currents.
I'm way too high for this shit.
I'm walking on a fucking cloud, living inside the house music. It doesn't so much echo off the walls as it does echo my soul. Words riding on wavelengths that ebb and flow, dancing to a beat that makes sense now, even if it never did before.
I, myself, am entirely held together by some kind of glue. It holds me here, on the ground, even as my eyes drift to the catwalks above where crowds have assembled.
And to myself, I think, this is freedom.
That is something I've never truly known.
A thousand eyes hover in the shadows between the neon lights, but they don't judge.
They just exist. And there's something to be said about existing, just fucking existing, in a space where everyone else is doing the same.
No rules.
No limits.
No judgment.
Just people embracing freedom.