Chapter 11 – Braxton #2
Quite the accusing tone. Alas, he would be right.
I did something. Rather, I said something I shouldn't have.
Not because it wasn't true, but because it was being filmed.
I scratch at the back of my head and grimace.
"I may have said some things in the heat of the moment. Some things you're not going to like."
His knuckles turn white as his grip tightens on the counter. "What the fuck did you say?"
I try to play it off as if it's nothing by shrugging. "Just called you a momma's boy."
"I'll beat your fucking ass," he growls.
Now that he's wound up, I can't help but poke the bear. It's a fucking flaw of mine. This mouth... Just never quits, ya know? "I also said something about not cutting it in the military—"
Both of his brows lift in unison. He's making a list, checking it twice, and when the time is right, he's going to give me a thrashing. "Anything else?"
I play with my bottom lip with my fingers, debating if I should just let him hear the last part for himself.
My mom always said honesty was the best policy, but my dad always cautioned that honesty was the key to broken hearts and divorce.
To be fair, I'm pretty certain he only ever said that because he was a philanderer who slung his dick around the Laguna coast as if it were a fishing lure for secretaries.
I let out a breathy sigh and confess, "I might have said you are terrified of commitment because you're too much of a hoe."
He tongues the inside of his cheek but settles on an amused chuckle. "That one's fair."
Now that I've said too much, I bolt away from him and run straight into Boone. "You have a wet spot," I say to him, pointing at his white undies.
He drops his gaze, the shadow of his head falling over his hairy chest. He finds no such white spot because he does not have one.
"Made you look," I snicker, taking a seat on the counter beside Dixon's chair.
Dixon grabs his pink cowboy hat, places it on his head, and spins it in a half circle to line it up properly. "They got me working downstairs again."
"At least you're not going to get wet." I elbow him in the shoulder playfully. "Is Mike coming tonight?"
He passes me a knowing smile, his eyes flipping to the side. "You know he wouldn't miss wet underwear night for the world."
"I know." I lean over him and whisper, "I always catch him staring."
He peels his gaze upwards to meet mine. "I love you, but sometimes you should just shut up."
"These lips were made for smacking and that's just what they'll do." I hop off the counter, the bottom of my boots scuffing over the floor. "Have you seen Pookie?"
He lets out a groan and bows his head. "Your new best friend is upstairs."
I jerk in place, taken aback by his tone. "What are you talking about?"
He does a half turn, lowering his arm over the back of his chair. "Tamra's gone and told everyone you have a new best friend. She says you took him to the tracks."
I let out a simper. "She told you that?"
"I'm glad someone's making friends with the new guy." He rises to his feet, stretching his arms out over his head. When he's done stretching, he pats me on the shoulder. "I just don't want to be replaced as your best friend."
And then he's gone, leaving me standing in place as he gathers the troops and they all leave together. The troops being Maverick, Avalon, Tamra, and Dixon, who are all working downstairs for the party while Gunnar, Boone, Pookie, and I work the wet bar upstairs.
But Dixon be replaced? No way in hell. He's been my rock since I started this job. The funny thing is, I've never known him to be jealous. Someone is clearly whispering shit in his ear, and the culprit is most definitely that damn sewer rat.
There's a decent-sized filming crew with cameras aimed at the bar and pool, and the rooftop is packed.
Mr. Pink stands at the front of the swimming pool with a rowdy crowd gathered around him.
He's dressed just like all of us stallions—pink cowboy boots, a pink cowboy hat, and white briefs.
For being sixty, or seventy, or however the hell old he is, he looks like a fucking stud.
He's somehow still ripped, with weathered gray hair all over his chest and abs, not to mention the well-groomed beard of wisdom he sports on his face.
"Welcome to our monthly wet night!" He speaks into the microphone, and the crowd erupts with cheers, drowning out the echo of his voice.
He waits for it to calm a bit before continuing, "As you probably know, this is our second-to-last pool party for the summer, and I want you to meet our newest stallion.
" His eyes search the crowd until they settle on Pookie standing to the side of the bar. "Pookie, get up here."
A pink spotlight lands on Pookie, centering him in the bright light. He squints and holds a hand over his eyes as he approaches, pushing his way through the crowd until he comes to rest standing beside Mr. Pink, who wraps one arm around his back.
"Now, some of you might have seen Pookie around.
He's been working behind the bar, but tonight, he becomes a bona fide pink stallion.
" He grips Pookie tighter as a mischievous grin ripples across his lips.
"I think that means we should give him the warmest," He glances down at Pookie, "give him the wettest welcome. "
I swallow an elongated chuckle as Pookie retreats into himself. Something tells me he hasn't been properly warned about the initiation ritual. I cross my arms and watch, amused.
Mr. Pink aims a finger at the crowd, searching, and settles on a college-aged boy wearing a backward pink cap. "Do you want to do the honors?"
The boy fist pumps and screams, "Hell yeah!"
It appears as if Pookie mouths something to Mr. Pink, but I'm not a lip reader, so I can't decipher what.
I imagine it's something along the lines of, 'What the fuck are you doing?
' A barback pushes his way through the crowd with a long pink hose snaking behind him.
It's a total tripping hazard, but this is show business, baby. He hands the college boy the hose.
Mr. Pink whispers something and steps away to the front of the crowd, leaving Pookie alone in the spotlight. I circle the back of the crowd to get a better view, grab my phone off the bar, and film the initiation ritual.
Pookie's body trembles a little. He's not like the rest of us—not yet, anyway.
He doesn't love the idea of exposing himself.
I think back to the first time I stood in his very spot, and...
well, I actually didn't have stage fright.
I've always loved the attention. But Pookie...
he's different. Attention: bad. Hiding: good.
Up there in front of a packed house of horny men of all ages, there's no hiding.
College boy pulls the trigger, blasting Pookie's bare chest with a torrent of water that soaks him in an instant.
A river of water rolls down his chest like a waterfall over his abs—abs that look bigger, stronger than they did before.
Has he been working out? The white briefs darken, outlining the shape of his dick and highlighting the rather large, mushroom-shaped crown.
You'd never be able to tell by looking at him in street clothes, but the boy is fucking packing. And he'd kill me for even thinking it, but he carries the exact opposite of big dick energy. He carries small dick energy.
Why am I thinking about his dick?
No, bad thoughts.
Andy's mouth swallowing him whole, and that fucking look on Pookie's face every time Andy flicked his tongue over his cock head. And those lips, trembling as he inched closer to me. Or was I inching closer to him? And the way he whispered moans into my mouth, the way he kissed me...
Hungry.
Insatiable.
Fuck.
I shake my head, hoping to shake the thoughts away.
College boy drops the hose, but is clearly satisfied by the view as he bites into his lower lip. Look at him fawning over my sweet, precious, innocent Pookie. Innocent? Nah. Not after what I saw the other night.
That cock—
Fucking christ on a stick. I stop filming and tuck my phone back behind the bar as Pookie approaches, soaking wet.
He shakes his head like a wet dog, painting my chest with a spray of shaken water. "You couldn't warn me that was going to happen?"
"Where would be the fun in that?" I hand him a hand towel and watch as he dries his face off. "If it makes you feel any better, we'll all be walking out of here tonight with at least a grand each."
"Seriously?" He raises a brow and cocks his head back to the crowd. "I feel like a hooker."
I can't help but roll my eyes. "As long as you don't go home with anyone, you're just playing a part."
"Yeah, I guess," he mumbles under his breath and tips his cowboy hat forward, ready to play the part of the newest star. "I'll see you around," he says as he begrudgingly makes his way into the crowd.
Boone and I man the main bar while Pookie and Gunnar interact with the guests at the pool. The crowd waiting for drinks is about ten people deep all around the bar, and I already can't wait to crawl into my bed and sleep tonight.
There are a few rules when it comes to the pool.
For starters, no street clothes or shoes allowed.
White undies only. If we're going to parade ourselves around like show ponies, the least the customers can do is the same.
It's not a rule anyone really ever objects to.
I envy gay men's ability to express themselves however they please.
I mean, can you imagine straight people having a party at a bar like this?
I mean, sure, somewhere in the world there's a topless pool party.