Chapter 19 – Pookie
CHAPTER NINETEEN
POOKIE
It's funny how much life can change in less than a year. Nine months ago, I was a nobody on the run from an abusive ex. Now, I'm about to film my first reunion for the biggest reality TV show in years.
Prior to today, I brushed up on the long history of reunions.
For research, Braxton and I watched countless hours of Real Housewives reunions, and I'm praying things go better than those did because in that world, nothing gets resolved.
Reunions aren't about making peace; they're about throwing bombs.
From my understanding, those shows are taped months in advance of airing.
For some dumb reason, production decided to have a live reunion.
The millions of viewers who have watched our every move for the past nine months will now tune in live.
There's an uneasy feeling rocking back and forth in my gut.
Filming in front of a camera crew is one thing, but filming in front of a studio audience and the whole damn world? That's something else entirely.
The budget for the show has increased tenfold since it hit the air.
Instead of Jules applying makeup to my face, there's an actual makeup artist. She's cute, bubbly, and dressed in an unconventional, glittery emo outfit.
She packs a cloud of concealer over the hickey on my shoulder and blends it in, erasing the evidence of Braxton's furtive love—as elusive as it is obvious.
He says so much with so little, and yet those three magical words I long to hear have increasingly become a burden weighing me down.
I love you. Those same three words that sometimes tremble from my lips as I watch Braxton sleep, all the while knowing he can't hear them. Three words that chain me to a prison I can't quite escape.
Braxton steps into view, his devilish body reflecting off the mirror of the dressing room.
He's dressed as if it's just another day at work.
Originally, Mr. Pink wanted us all to dress up in fancy clothes for the special occasion, but production vetoed the idea, stating this was a sexy reality show, and the audience wanted half-naked cowboys.
And the audience gets what it wants.
Which is why Marina, the makeup artist, has just covered up my hickey. The sight of it would almost certainly become a topic of conversation around a subject Braxton and I both would very much like to avoid.
Braxton approaches from behind and smiles as he places a hand on each of my shoulders, giving them a gentle massage. It's about all the touching he can get away with in public. When he pulls his hands back, one of them is covered in concealer.
"What the hell?" he chuckles and cleans his hand on a towel. "Looks like my man Pookie was out late with some lucky gentleman last night."
I choke back a sigh that desperately wants to air out my grievance of listening to Braxton overcompensate.
Gunnar and Maverick enter the dressing room together, wearing matching pink thongs and nothing else. Maverick quickly climbs into his jeans while Gunnar approaches, taking a seat on the ledge of the counter.
He looks straight ahead, pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and smiles.
"The audience is going to want us to fight today, so this is my warning.
" He twists his gaze to me first and then Braxton, and raises his fists to playfully punch the air.
"I hope you two shitbirds came prepared. "
Braxton readies his fists and squares up to Gunnar. Straight-boy shit, though neither of them qualify. I guess the more apt descriptor would be macho-boy shit. They playfully bounce back and forth, lobbing punches they know won't connect.
Until one does.
Until Braxton lands a blow on the side of Gunnar's head.
"Shit." Braxton winces. "I'm sorry."
Gunnar recovers from the blow, his cheek reddening. He aims a finger at Braxton and screams, "You're fucking finished."
And as Gunnar is prone to do, he loses control. He leaps at Braxton, tackling him to the floor. There's a scuffle behind me that I can't see, but in my mind, I imagine it looks like one of those violent cartoons where literal dust is kicked up, obfuscating the combatants.
"I'm not getting involved," Maverick says as he and I share an irritated look. He leans forward, checking himself out in the mirror. "I look way too good to walk out there with a bloody nose."
"Break it up!" the husky voice of a muscular security guard shouts as he storms into the room, prying Gunnar off Braxton.
Talon follows into the room behind, swiping through the tablet on his wrist. "Physical violence at the taping of the reunion is explicitly forbidden and can result in ejection from the venue and forfeiture of the reunion fee.
" He looks at the cameraman standing in the corner.
"That being said, did you get that on film? "
"Absolutely," the cameraman responds, tapping his palm on the side of the camera.
"Great! Can you make sure that gets put into the opening segment?" Talon checks his watch. "We have about an hour before the video needs to be locked."
In Talon's world, rules exist only to wield power over our heads. There aren't consequences for breaking them as long as breaking them makes for good TV.
When Marina is done beating my face—as they say—I stand up, fit the pink cowboy hat on my head, grab Braxton, and drag him to the patio in the back.
There are production vans parked in the back alley and a small group of assistants lugging gear inside.
The March air is frigid, hardening my nipples in an instant.
We shouldn't be out here shirtless, but I need to have a chat with Braxton to make sure we're on the same page and that our stories are straight.
"Why do you look so worried, Pook?" he asks before I can say anything at all.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper, my breath dancing between us. "I'm peachy-squeaky."
He eyes me sideways, knowing very damn well I botched that idiom. "You look like a ghost. A fuckable ghost, but a ghost nonetheless. What I'm trying to say is that you look pale."
I glance over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear.
"We're about to go on live television carrying very big secrets, so it's probably best to get into the habit of not saying every little thing that pops into your head.
For example, that tirade you just went on.
We have enough people to worry about blabbing without either of us doing the heavy lifting. "
"Gunnar isn't going to say anything," he says softly, trying to reassure me.
"That's not what I'm worried about." I flatten a palm over his chest. It's more to steady myself than it is to comfort him.
"Aren't you worried Tamra might say something?
God knows she's itching for a juicy storyline, and what's more juicy than, well...
" I trail off, because again, we need to get in the habit of shutting the hell up.
"She's not going to say shit," he says with a level of confidence I'm forced to question.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I made her a deal." He shrugs. "I told her I'd let her out me next season."
"What?" I shout, but immediately bring my voice down to a reasonable level for two people trying to have a private conversation with cameras and microphones planted everywhere. "Why in the hell would you tell her she can do that? That's not her story to tell."
He swallows two gulps, the second one heavier than the first. "Because I'm weak," he breathes. "I..." He distracts himself, eyes landing on a skinny man in even skinnier jeans lugging a large black box back to the vans. "I don't know," he whispers.
"You're a lot of things, but you're not that." I palm his cheek and guide him back to me, quickly removing my hand when I'm sure I have his attention. "You're not weak."
"You have blinders on when it comes to me. You can't see the forest through the sticks." Apparently, it's his turn to fuck up an idiom of his own. Must be the nerves. "You deserve something more than this. Something more than being fucked in backrooms because we can't be seen on the dancefloor."
I grit my teeth because, babe, what the fuck are you doing? I'm worried he's not going to be able to hold it together when we start filming. Still, the only way I can think to comfort him is to whisper back, "I like being fucked in darkrooms."
And it's true. I do. I like getting fucked everywhere. I like being with him.
"Not the point." He shakes his head, his lips trembling into a pout. "I'm scared I won't ever be ready to say it myself, and I'm scared you'll get tired of waiting and find some other sexy himbo to fuck you in darkrooms."
"You're the only himbo I want." I force a smile through this imminent sense of heartbreak that tugs at my soul.
Most people I know have been wounded by someone in the closet, not ready to come out.
Because of that hurt, they throw up a wall around them, not letting others in.
My walls are down, and they're going to stay down.
"I'm fine with waiting," I assure him softly.
"You say that now, but the pressure will only mount from here on out." He brings his arms in to cover his chest, taking hold of cold shoulders. He can't even look at me as he passes by, making a beeline inside.
I tell myself he's just cold, but as a man who's done my fair share of running, I can spot the signs from miles away.
Bright stage lighting floods the typically dark dance floor.
There are two pink chairs in the center of the room that are flanked on either side by long pink couches.
A large TV hangs from the ceiling directly behind the bar, and a packed audience fills the rest of the bar with additional seating on the second-floor terrace.