Page 13 of Saving Pookie

I purse my lips with a nod and fill up a pint of an IPA called Cowboy Glitter using the method Avalon showed me. It's not quite as clean as her pour, with foam that's twice as thick, but it's sufficient. It's when I push the glass to the stranger that I realize I don't know how much any of this costs, so I make up a number. "Ten dollars," I say flatly.

He retrieves his wallet and grabs a twenty dollar bill, slides it to me, and palms his drink in his hand. "Why aren't you up on one of those poles?"

I peer upward at the aluminum pole nearest me. It leads to a hole in the ceiling about twenty feet above the bar. When I look back to the stranger, I shrug. "I'm not exactly sure. It's my first night."

"Fresh meat," he purrs, raising the beer to his lips and taking a quick sip. He bats his tongue over his wet bottom lip. "What's your name, handsome?"

"Pookie," I say with a nervous grin. "I'm Pookie."

Such a ridiculous fucking name. If I say it enough, maybe I'll start to believe it's really my name. Pookie? Fucking Pookie? Of all the fucking names Mr. Pink could have given me.

"Well, Pookie..." he raises his beer to toast my nonexistent beer, "I'll be seeing you around."

It's been so long since someone has flirted with me that I can't be sure that's what just happened, but it feels like that's what it was. Shit, the last time I noticed some guy even remotely looking in my direction, Cameron punched him in the face.

Cameron, the ex I escaped, the ex I need to forget, that I wish I could erase. Just the thought of him thumps at the back of my throat like a drum ushering me to war. I search the packed crowd, looking for his face. This isn’t his scene. He’d be caught dead before showing up to a joint like this. It’s beneath him and his precious, curated image. He’s high society and this is low-brow trash. A bar without a membership, where everyone and anyone can mingle. No, he’d never show up and still I search for his face anyway.

The stranger retreats from the bar, carrying his drink into the crowd. But just as he’s about to disappear into the mess of patrons, the lights of the bar dim and he stops in place, turning in a complete circle. His eyes shift to the ceiling and he takes a long gulp of his beer.

The crowd erupts as pink spotlights land on the bar at the base of each of the five poles and I think to myself that I’m about to find out where the boys have been hiding. It would appear the answer is in the fucking ceiling.

An unfamiliar song—if you could call it that—blares through the speakers. It’s an obnoxious drumbeat of non-words that sounds like idiots marching to war in a Monte Python film. And then, the bass kicks in and against my better instincts, I recognize the song as Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy. Thick frayed ropes drop to the bar, pooling around the base of the stripper poles and attached firmly to the ceiling. The five boys appear through the holes in the ceiling, gripping onto the poles with one hand and the taut ropes with the other. The Pink Stallions cling to the poles as they slide down from the ceiling. All of them shirtless, wearing only jeans and pink cowboy boots with the first letter of their names etched into the leather. Each of them wear the same necklace I have, a clever way to hide the mic from the cameras.

In reality, their descent to the bartop probably takes about fifteen seconds. It feels so much longer than that, like I’m watching in equal parts mesmerization and nervousness. It takes too long to realize I’m slack-jawed, practically drooling as I watch.

By the time they land, the crowd is lost in a complete frenzy.

They dance in unison, tapping their boots in sync as the Big and Rich begin to croon the words of the famed song. The first time it arrives at the chorus, the boys are back on the pole, riding the aluminum with enough sexual innuendo to make a boy faint. My eyes switch back and forth between them, watching them in equal measure.

Maverick's thong rides up his hip, and when he turns around, his muscular cheeks peek over the hem of his denim. Boone massages his hands through the hair on his chest that's already slicked in a thin veneer of sweat.

Gunnar bends over, grabs a liquor gun that's actually shaped like a shotgun, and holds it over his crotch. The innuendo is obvious. Every time he thrusts his hips forward, he sprays well tequila into the crowd, and the men in attendance are hungry for his load. They clamor at the front of the bar, pushing and shoving to get closer, each of them opening their mouths wide. Gunnar drops to his knees, grabs the back of a fan's head, and pulls it into his crotch. He bucks his hips forward, feigning an orgasm as his mouth drops open and he throws his head back.

"Excuse me," a man shouts in my direction.

I snap my attention to the crowd on the opposite side of the bar, annoyed that I actually have to work when these boys are doing... this. "What do you want?"

The man looks to be about thirty and far too drunk far too early in the night. His eyes flicker as he processes what I'm asking him, and he stumbles forward, dropping his elbow on the bar. "I'm looking for an asshole."

"Is that a person or a drink?"

The man glares at me as if I should know the answer. Little does he know this is trial by fire, and the powers that be didn't teach me shit. Just as I'm about to answer, a palm lands firmly on my shoulder. I look up to see Braxton, his curls peeking beneath the brim of a cowboy hat.

"I got this," Braxton says, letting out a sharp exhale.

I watch as he quickly unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down the curves of his ass.

Beautiful ass.

And I'm a well-worn bottom. I have always been a bottom, but I can appreciate a perfect ass when I see one. It's framed like a painting in the Louvre, the cheeks held firmly in place with the pink supports of a jockstrap. He drops to his knees and arches his back, offering his ass for display.

The drunk man inches forward and kisses Braxton on his perfect ass, and I have to admit, I'm more than a little jealous. Braxton gives his ass a little shake, and the drunk man slips a twenty-dollar bill into Braxton's jockstrap. Pleased with himself and his performance, Braxton rises to his feet, pulls up his pants, and passes me a mischievous grin.

I can barely keep my eyes open on the train ride out of the city. It doesn't help that I changed back into my comfy sweatpants and tee before leaving the bar.

It turns out Mr. Pink was not lying when he said his boys make bank. I did jack shit all night other than watching and taking an order here and there, and I still walked away with four hundred dollars in tips. In New York City, that's not an insane amount of money. Anywhere else in the country, the tips alone would be a living wage. Still, I feel like a king as the underground train rips along the rails, shuttling from one station to the next.

I check the monitor and realize I still have two more stops until I reach my destination where I'll find the cheapest hotel I can for the night. To sleep in a bed of my own, without relying on selling my body for a pillow, is a luxury I didn't believe I'd have anytime soon, not until I stumbled into the best worst thing ever. And it was all a happy accident. On the surface, I'm so fucking far out of my league, but my mom always said that determination was a more powerful force than talent. It's why I was the first of my family to graduate high school. It was why I was the first of my family to ever leave Cinder Row. And still, somehow, I ran from one bad situation straight into the arms of another. Maybe this is my chance to break the cycle.