Page 1 of Saving Pookie

CHAPTER ONE

POOKIE

I never thought myself naive—quite the opposite, in fact. I was the guy who'd point and laugh at the morons confused about how they ended up in a cult. I became one of those idiots—fell hook, line, and sinker. Instead of a hook in my mouth, it was a cock.

Beautiful, forbidden cock.

Older cock.

Magical cock.

Cock that hit the spot until it stopped hitting.

Until he started hitting me in the face.

Breaking my nose.

Ripping my hair.

He stopped fucking me, and he started hurting me.

Then I woke up, pointed at myself in the mirror, and I fucking laughed.

Fucking idiot.

And then I ran as far as I could, which wasn't very far. In New York City, it's easy for someone to hide when they don't want to be found. It's a little more difficult to find somewhere to lay your head at night when you haven't worked a job since high school and have nothing to your name but the backpack you carry on your shoulders, gripping it as tight as humanly fucking possible because it's the only thing you own.

I survive one meal at a time, finding temporary homes with strangers down to fuck. They think we're entering a mutual agreement to get off, but their end of the bargain is far greater. They give me a place to lay my head. Most of them, anyway.

I've been kicked out right after the deed is done once or twice and forced to stay on the streets.

Jim, Jack, Jose—whatever the fuck his name is—snores loudly, his face crushed into a satin pillow. He's a financier. A big shot capable of affording an apartment on the Upper East Side without needing a roommate.

I gently pull open the top drawer of his rustic dresser. It's long and deep and stuffed full of neatly organized and folded underwear: boxers, briefs, thongs, and jockstraps. The collection is sorted by color, so it makes snatching a pink pair of briefs easier than I thought it'd be.

The only showers I consistently get these days are the ones I take after the deed is done. Sometimes they let me shower first, which is optimal, especially for the ones who enjoy tonguing my ass.

I grab my backpack and sneak into the adjoining bathroom. I gently close the door behind me, all the while reflecting on the lies I'm forced to tell the men I meet.

I'm on my way out of town, but sure, I could change my flight to tomorrow morning.

I'm allergic to nuts, and it's easier to carry a bookbag than it is to stuff an Epipen in my pocket.

And when I catch a glimpse of my black eye in the mirror, I think about all the people I've told that it was my fault, that I'm clumsy, that I tripped. The bruising has faded now, softer. Black and blues have washed into painted yellow and brown hues. Two weeks free from the chains that tied me to him, but his hands are still all I see.

A gold necklace with a diamond heart hangs around my neck, a gift from my mother and the last vestige of my life back home in the California desert. If today doesn't go well, if I don't get the job, I'm going to be forced to sell it.

My mother is back home in Cinder Row, none the wiser about the hole I've dug myself into this time. We grew up in a trailer, and she still lives in that trailer, but if push comes to shove, I know she'd find a way to get me back home, even if that meant throwing my ass on a Greyhound bus. It'd be so easy to call and beg for her to help me out of this predicament I've found myself in. She's the kind of woman who keeps score, though. The last thing I want is to be indebted to her. Again. Besides, there are so many lies to unravel that I'm not quite sure where to begin.

Would I start by telling her I dropped out of college? That I haven't been seen on campus for the past three years? That the graduation she is so excited about watching on a live stream next spring isn't happening?

Would I start by telling her that I met a charming man? Or would I start with letting her know her son turned out to be just like his father? Her life has already been flipped upside down once by the throwing open of a closet door. I'm not sure how she'd react a second time. Would I tell her this man invited me into the upper echelons of New York Society? That he promised me the world, provided it, and then wielded that power to control me for years? That he beat me?

Or that I'm pretty sure he's in a fucking cult?

Jesus Christ, how the fuck did I end up here?

I climb into the shower first, and then twist the knobs. Freezing cold water shoots against my chest, feeling like razors dragging over my skin. The temperature quickly adjusts, steam billowing around me as the hot water paints my skin red. I make quick work cleaning every nook and cranny of my body, paying special attention to my bum by slipping a soapy finger inside and massaging.