Chapter 16 – Braxton
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
brAXTON
"You're not a barbarian," Mr. Pink scolds me as he paces behind his office desk, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You made me look like a fool at The Spritz.
Kamu called." He comes to a stop and braces a hand on his hip.
Looks me straight in the eyes the way I imagine a disappointed father would.
My father wasn't around enough to ever be disappointed in me, but I'm sure he would have been if he wasn't too busy being a disappointment to my mother.
I grip the arms of the chair with both hands and swallow nervously as I ask, "And what did this Kamu guy say?"
"You know what he said," he growls and spins his computer around to face me. He stabs a finger on the spacebar and a video begins playing.
It's footage from earlier in the day and begins with Cameron taking a seat and introducing himself.
He wears an absurdly punchable face, and within five seconds of appearing on camera, he catches these hands—rated C for Cameron.
It's not often that production lets us see early footage, because they don't want us seeing how we look on camera and making unnatural adjustments. This is apparently a special case.
The only time I've really seen myself is in the mirror or in selfies, and I tend to mostly be smiling in those.
That is to say, I've never seen myself painted in such shades of reddened rage before, and it still looks worse than I remember it.
There's a furor lurking in my eyes, and I swear I can see the shadow of the angel on my right shoulder falling off as the devil on the other takes flight, leaping across the table and landing a good shiner on Cameron's left cheek.
And then Gunnar gets involved, shouting that nobody touches his man. "You don't touch my man, you hear. You don't fucking touch him." It's a sorry attempt at dialing up the drama for the camera, because let's face it—Cameron isn't his man. He's a prop and nothing more.
And as Boone and Dixon are dragging me back from the table, I manage to break free just long enough to grab my glass of water and throw it on Gunnar across the table. To which he responds by hightailing it over the table, feet and all, and tackling me to the ground.
I've also never seen myself getting my ass beat before, so I'm experiencing a lot of new firsts right now.
As Maverick is failing to pull Gunnar off me, Talon enters the frame and gives an assist. Talon is immediately punished with an elbow to the face which makes me snicker for some reason.
What I'm not laughing about is watching Pookie flee the scene, exiting out of frame with his head held down, all the while Cameron smirks just before the video cuts out.
I sink in my chair as Mr. Pink teems at me.
"I don't give a shit what you idiots do in your own apartments," he groans, "but when you are at neighboring businesses, I expect you all to act like you've been in public before."
"Production wanted drama," I shrug, trying to pretend as if I'm anything other than a turtle desperately wanting to retreat into my shell. "I gave them some damn good footage."
"I don't give a pig's shit what production wants." He slams the computer shut. "If you behave like this at one of my friends' restaurants again, you'll be looking for a new job."
"That's not fair," I huff.
"Please enlighten me," he says. "Please tell me how this was actually a noble gesture and that guy had it coming. You're lucky he's not suing you, me, or the production company."
"I, uh..." I chew on the bottom of my lip. "I plead the fifth."
What other choice do I have? It's not like I can tell Mr. Pink the truth. I mean, technically, I could, but Pookie would be even more mad at me than he already is.
"We're done here." He points to the door behind me. "See yourself out."
I give him a nod before bolting, not able to get out of there fast enough.
The cameras are set up in the dressing room, and I'm sure production is frothing at the mouth for the continuation of Gunnar and I's feud, but I'm not in the mood. I change into my work clothes—jockstrap, jeans, no shirt—before Gunnar shows up, and make my way out to the bar.
Avalon and Tamra are behind it, organizing the liquor on the pink neon back-lit shelves. I lean against the bar, waiting for them to notice me.
Avalon twists to me with a mischievous grin that's almost as bright as her eyes. "I heard I missed out on some fun today." She leans forward, supporting her weight on her elbows. "Maverick told me you went full-on John Wick."
"I think that's a little bit of an exaggeration," I say, scratching at the back of my head. "Have you seen Pookie?"
Tamra rolls her eyes as she turns in a quick circle. "Precious Pookie," she huffs. "You defend him more than you ever defended me."
I'm not in the mood to argue right now, but Tamra makes it a little too easy. "Please give me an example of a time when you needed defending."
She scoffs. "How about the time Dixon kicked me out of his birthday party because I accidentally spilled a drink on the art book of dicks on his coffee table?"
"Bros before hoes." I flash a shit-eating grin and shrug. "Also, that book was signed by the photographer, so totally valid."
"What about the time Kolter threw a glass of wine on me?"
"You told him he smelled like a hospital, which is a crazy thing to say to someone," I say flatly. "Do you have any other examples?"
She purses her lips, searching for a fictional reason to be mad at me.
"While you're doomscrolling through those terrible, terrible memories, maybe you could take a detour through Vegas?"
She narrows her gaze on me, but at this point, she's smart enough to say nothing more. There's a camera aimed squarely over my shoulder.
I clear my throat, proud I've embarrassed her with the footage to back it up. "Now, can either of you girls tell me if you've seen Pookie?"
Tamra turns from me, going back to rearranging liquor bottles on the shelves while Avalon smirks in my direction and points toward the bathrooms.
"You've always been my favorite gal here." I blow Avalon a kiss, and as I duck away from the bar, I'm filled with a warm heart, knowing Tamra heard what I'd just said.
The hallway that houses the bathrooms is long and darker than the rest of the bar, with only dim lights illuminating the narrow walkway.
There are ten bathrooms, each of them private.
The things that go on in these bathrooms. At the end of the hall is an out-of-service dark room that's in the process of renovations.
It's been that way for over a year, so God knows if the fuckroom is ever going to come back into service.
A bathroom door opens at the end of the hall, and out comes Pookie. He marches in my direction with his head bowed down, not looking ahead, and bumps straight into me. His gaze lifts to meet mine, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh.
I grab him by the arm. "I need to talk to you."
He shakes me free and frowns. "I'm not in the mood, Braxton."
"I just got a tongue-lashing by Mr. Pink, and not the good kind." I lean around the corner to make sure nobody is watching, especially any cameras. We seem to be in the clear. I look back to Pookie. "Why are you mad at me? I was protecting you."
"Cameron wasn't going to do anything. There was a camera pointed right at him, and besides, I didn't ask you to do that."
I groan, more than a little frustrated. "Why can't you just tell everyone the truth?"
"Would you be quiet?" He rips me into the nearest bathroom and spins the lock behind us. "Do you know how humiliating it'd be to stand in front of not just my friends, but the whole world and say, 'Yeah, that man used to beat the shit out of me'?"
I comb a hand through his hair. "It's not your fault."
"That's not the point." He retreats backward, cupping his hand over his face. "I took this job to escape Cameron, and now I'm back at square one. They're digging into my life now." He exhales sideways and briefly closes his eyes. "Jules is asking me about Cameron, and she suspects I'm lying."
"What did you tell her?"
"That he's a jealous ex, but clearly that is not the story Cameron has told Gunnar. God knows what other conversations they've been filming."
"Gunnar's a prick," I mumble under my breath.
"I'm well aware of that, but he doesn't know the truth so I can't entirely blame him."
"Please don't make excuses for him," I scowl. "You're probably right that he doesn't know, but he still brought Cameron around to fuck with you, and that makes him a piece of shit."
Pookie leans his back against the wall and tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He sputters his lips and lets out a sharp exhale. "This is a shitty situation, and I'm trapped."
"You're not trapped," I say, trying to soothe his fears.
"I am." He drops his gaze to meet mine, and there's something about those eyes that awakens the feral beast within me, that makes me want to protect him, need to protect him.
There's this sadness, too, that comes and goes.
Puppy dog eyes that pull at my heartstrings.
"I either let Cameron paint me out to be this person I'm not, or I tell the truth. "
From where I'm standing, I don't understand how this can be a complicated decision at all.
I'm not Pookie, though. I haven't walked in his shoes, or been through the hell he's been through.
I don't know what it's like to be confronted with this terrible thing you thought you escaped, to look that terrible person in the eyes and not be able to say anything.
I bite my lip contemplatively and move to the sink to lean against it. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to run," he says flatly, those dark eyes deepening.
I shake my head. "Running isn't an option."
Not just because he can't let Cameron win, but also because he's my best friend. He's not going anywhere. I won't allow it.
"It might be the onlyoption." He sighs. "It's the one thing I'm good at."