Page 20 of Saving Pookie

Do I look antisocial, avoiding everyone at the party?

Maybe I look angry. Who knows how it'll be edited? Right now, I can't be bothered to care. I've come to learn that my brain chemistry is formulated differently from most people, whether that's because I was born this way or because it's a product of the environments I've found myself in. I'm not the type of guy who can walk up to someone I barely know and start a conversation. Talking is hard.

But talking is not hard for Maverick. He approaches me from behind, meeting me to stand beside the window. "When I was a kid, my only friend was my own reflection."

I twist my gaze to meet his, confused as to his intentions. He slings one arm around my neck and drags me away from the safety of the windows. We're buddies now, apparently. He's only a foot taller, but still towers over me like I'm nothing.

"Eventually," he continues, "my mom made me go outside and make new friends, which I did. He was about fifty-one, and he showed me his willy in the park down by the remnants of the castle."

"Jesus Christ," I snarl, immediately collecting myself with a shake of my head. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

To be fair, it's not exactly the kind of story a normal person shares casually. Nobody here is exactly normal, though.

Maverick laughs and tightens his grip on me. "She made me stop going outside after that."

"Is there a point to this incredibly depressing story you're telling me?"

"Of course there is." He turns to face me, placing a hand on each of my shoulders. "Making friends with the person looking back at you is great and all. I'm all for loving yourself. God knows I love myself enough for everyone around me, but this world you're living in now can get pretty lonely. If you're not careful, you'll find the only friend you have is yourself, and that's just a miserable experience, especially in a city with this many people. Especially in a line of work where we are always surrounded by people."

He nods at me, but I get the feeling he's more so nodding at himself, proud of his words of wisdom. Meanwhile, I'm trying to parse through the bullshit. Nothing he said was earth-shattering.

But I thank him anyway, forcing a smile. "Thank you for those incredibly deep words."

He places a hand on his heart in gratitude. "Now, stop being an emo brat and come party with your new friends."

I watch as Maverick takes a seat on the floor with his friends. Back home in Cinder Row, the floors were always filthy. We didn't bother taking our shoes off when we walked in the door because there was no point. Sand and dirt bled through the windows. And in the penthouse I shared with Cameron, the floors were spotless. Sheila, our housekeeper, took care of everything for us. She was a bitter woman in her thirties from the other side of the river. I made damn sure to be as polite to her as possible, but it was never enough to earn a smile in return. She despised the both of us, and it used to bother me until it didn't—until I understood how awful her job must have been, dealing with Cameron for far longer than I did. I barely escaped with my life. I wish I could go back and save her too.

But here I am, living on the other side of that horrible life, standing in a penthouse with a bunch of faces whose names I know, but not much else. Braxton and Gunnar are the two I've said the most words to. Gunnar is easy to figure out. He's a human slab of meat, poking and prodding anything he can with his apparently big dick and bad attitude. Braxton, though? I can't quite get a grasp on him. He's the most flirtatious man I've ever met, and I'm not entirely sure he knows how he comes off.

I've been gawking long enough to catch Maverick's attention again. He cocks his head over his shoulder, eyes pulling like dark ocean tides. "Stop being so damn boring."

I can't help but roll my eyes. When I catch a glimpse of the camera fixated on me, I correct myself and take an apprehensive seat in the circle of friends, finding an opening between Tamra and Avalon.

Braxton sits across from me, flanked by Dixon on one side and Boone on the other. "Are we ready to begin?" He questions the group, but it feels like the words are directed straight at me. It doesn't help that his eyes—oceans just the same as Maverick's, but brighter and blue—look right at me, and then right on fucking through.

"I'm tired of waiting," Gunnar huffs and raises both hands, wriggling his fingers. "Hands up, everyone."

"I... I'm sorry," I stammer. "What exactly are we doing?"

Gunnar squints, his gaze darting my way. "Do they not play 'Never Have I Ever' in whatever hole you crawled out of?"

The prick sure knows how to make a guy feel welcome, but... "I don't know what that is."

Sneers and chuckles fill the room. Everyone partakes in the quiet ritual of laughing except Braxton, who instead looks slightly amused with a wry grin on his face.

I feel the presence of someone kneeling behind me, and this person reeks of cotton candy. Must be Talon. When I cock my head over my shoulder, it is in fact Talon, inhaling a thick vape. He exhales to the side and waits a beat before speaking, "It's a stupid game."

"Then why are we playing it?" I whisper back.

"It's a narrative device," he explains. "It's a game where you reveal your biggest and most depraved secrets. But you're not just playing the game with your friends. Remember, you're playing for the cameras. This game opens a window to the audience so they can..." his voice trails off as his lips purse. "It tells the audience a little about each of you."

He points to the crew as he rises to his feet, taking a step back. "Start rolling again."

Gunnar wastes no time explaining the rules. "Everyone starts with eight fingers."

"Five," Boone interjects, voice gruff. "We start with five fingers."

"Nah." Gunnar shakes his head. "There are eight of us. This makes sure everyone gets a turn."