Chapter 13 – Braxton
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
brAXTON
"I would say surprise, but it'd feel redundant," I say, circling a finger over the surprised look on Pookie's face.
"Long story short, I came down with a cold on my way to work, so I went shopping instead.
Mr. Pink isn't too happy about having two of his stallions out for the night, but I told him it's better to be safe than sorry.
He didn't agree and demanded I show up anyway.
" I purse my lips, barely able to hold back a chuckle.
"He's not going to be happy the next time I see him. "
Pookie stands there for a moment more, still wearing that trademarked confused face. It's kind of cute in a very hetero way. "Why are you dressed up?"
"I got you this." I hold out the bag I'm holding in my right hand. "I looked through your closet once and noticed you didn't have anything nice to wear."
Maybe that's not the most polite way of telling him he needs new clothes, but the clock is ticking, and I don't have time to be coy about it. The boy seriously needs a new wardrobe, one that includes fancy clothes. I'm sure he had plenty of them in his last life but chose to leave it all behind.
"What is this?" he asks with a frown, seemingly uninterested in the gift.
"It's a suit."
"No," he huffs. "I mean, what are you doing right now?"
I cock my head sideways. Isn't it obvious? "I'm taking you out for your birthday. It's not like a date or anything, but I..." I scratch at the side of my head, nervous for some reason. "Birthdays are supposed to be special. You shouldn't have to spend it alone."
Because people shouldn't have bad birthdays.
It's the one day of the year that should be all about them.
I had one of those insane sweet sixteen birthday parties when I was in high school.
All of my friends showed up, got drunk off sugar with a little bit of vodka being sipped in the shadows, and then they all assembled on the front lawn to watch me get a brand new Jeep Wrangler.
Somehow, birthdays have only gotten better since then.
"I told you, birthdays never turn out well for me," he says flatly. "You should have just gone to work like you were supposed to."
"I could say the same thing and yet here we are, both playing hooky.
" I push the bag towards him again, but he hesitates to accept it.
His fingers dance so close to the roped coil of the handle, but he just can't bring himself to grab it.
I roll my eyes, nudge past him, and make my way to his bedroom where I toss the bag onto his bed.
When I turn back around, he's still standing at the end of the hall.
"You have twenty minutes to get ready." I snap the tips of my fingers together. "Get moving."
He trudges down the hall, one heavy step at a time.
I snap my fingers again and he walks faster, which brightens my face with a knowing smile. Something about the way he listens, about the way he's obedient.
I snap my fingers a third time and he stops dead in his tracks, his dark eyes turning to ice. "Do that again and I'll break your fingers."
I pucker my lips and pencil in a mental note to not do that again.
His steely gaze lingers for a beat longer before breaking away, turning his attention to the bag on the bed.
He pulls out the black suit, a pale pink button-up, and a matching pair of dress shoes.
He spreads the clothes out on the bed and takes a measured step back, and when he speaks, he doesn't look at me.
"Please tell me we're not going to see Hamilton. "
"You worried about running into the dirtbag?" I furrow a brow. "Wouldn't it be kind of satisfying to watch him get all jealous-eyed?"
"I can tell you've never been in an abusive relationship." He cocks his head over his shoulder. "Making them jealous is the last thing you ever want to do. What little satisfaction that would come from it would be beaten out of you, whether or not it's your fault."
I consider Tamra to have been abusive, but more in a roundabout kind of way. Like those roads that curve in a circle instead of just having a stop light or a stop sign like a normal fucking road. They say they are statistically much safer, but I have my suspicions.
I shake away the unwelcome thoughts of road safety and look him straight in the eyes.
"We're not going to see 'Hamilton.' I bow my head sheepishly and stuff my hands into my pockets.
"Sold out show." In hindsight, that's probably a good thing.
Sometimes, I overthink things, like why in the hell would he want to spend his birthday potentially running into his ex? "How does Hadestown sound?"
"Never seen it," he says flatly, but the tiniest hint of a smirk settles on the corner of his lips.
"Neither have I, so it'll be a new experience for both of us.
" Truth be told, I've lived in this city for three years, and I've never been to a Broadway show.
It's not really my thing, but I'm guessing Pookie likes it well enough.
Again, it's one of those things I could have thought about more before acting on impulse.
I check the time on my phone and let him know we have to leave in the next twenty minutes.
I close the door behind me, take a seat at one of the stools at the kitchen counter, and wait.
About fifteen minutes later, the bedroom door opens.
I swivel around on the stool, hands held between my legs, and wait for Pookie to make his grand entrance.
He steps through the door in slow motion, but not actually slow motion because people don't walk like that.
There's a strut in his step, his movements bolstered with a confidence I've never quite seen him wear.
He appears taller by at least an inch. Holds his head up higher too.
My mom always said a suit can change a man.
Find the dirtiest man on the street, dress him up in designer clothes, and send him off to start a new life somewhere.
I personally don't love suits. They're too fitted and don't allow enough movement.
I like to be as free as I can be, thus my affinity for boxer shorts.
I wonder what Pookie's wearing under those black pants. Probably briefs, which is what he usually wears. Why am I wondering what's hugging his balls?
When he steps out of the shadows of the hallway and into the bright kitchen lights, he looks like a fucking star.
The muted pink button-up complements his naturally tanned complexion.
His cheeks are kind of flushed a pastel pink.
Are they always like that? His eyes too, as dark as always but bigger and less hollow.
Look, I don't want to say the hunger lurching in my gut is Pookie's fault, but it's his fault.
If he had told me more than a few hours before the latest shows that his birthday was today, I could have planned it all out.
We could have had dinner. Hell, I might have even been able to pull some of the guys together at the last minute—not including Gunnar for obvious reasons, because fuck him right now.
Instead, we're already sweating when the train pulls into the 42nd Street station.
We have thirteen minutes to exit the station, get to the Walter Kerr Theatre, and find our seats, which we do with about three minutes to spare.
It's enough time for me to run to the bar and grab two glasses of sweet wine.
I take my seat and pass a drink to Pookie as the stage comes to life.
There's a wrought-iron balcony spiral staircase on the stage with a wooden bar that gives off prohibition vibes. The entire band ensemble is parked on the stage with their instruments, a soft light focused on them as they begin to play jazz music.
Holding my drink in one hand, I flip through the Playbill in a desperate attempt to figure out exactly what Hadestown is about.
I live in New York City, so I've heard of it and I've seen advertisements for it.
I quickly glean from the Playbill that the show is a Greek tragedy set in the Great Depression, which seems an odd combination.
I tuck the Playbill into the side of the cramped seat and take a sip of the wine, which is not sweet enough for me.
Appears to be a Riesling when I really only drink Moscato.
When I look over at Pookie, he has his drink held with both hands, his eyes fixated on the stage. Mesmerized.
Already?
I focus my attention on the stage, but I don't feel the same sense of wonder.
I'm really not a theater person. Sure, I appreciate that it's art, and I'm never going to yuck someone's yum.
After a few very long songs, some impressive dancing, and monologues, I discreetly pull out my phone to check the time.
It's been twenty minutes. Opening the Playbill again, my mouth drops open when I see the show goes on for over two and a half hours.
I look back at Pookie with a flat expression.
At least he's enjoying himself.
He's relaxed in his seat, and he doesn't appear to be uncomfortable even though there's barely enough room to stretch his legs. The corner of his mouth does this maddening thing where it keeps creasing at the corners, and then widens into a full-ass grin.
More time passes and I grow more bored. A weight tugs at the top of my eyelids, and I have to shuffle around in my seat to stop from falling asleep. I grip onto the armrest, my hand brushing against Pookie's. He jerks away from my touch and settles his hand closer to the ledge.
Some time—and a handful of yawns—later, Orpheus belts out a song I think is called Wait for Me.I think he's singing about making his way to the underworld, and as he does so, the cast pushes muted yellow lanterns into the audience.
They swing inches above our heads, captivating everyone as their sights aim for the sky.
It's a magical stage trick that transports us all into Orpheus' journey.