Page 22 of Saving Pookie

"Oh, shit!" Maverick gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"I cheated on my boyfriend," she says with a shit-eating grin. A grin that would be cute on Braxton, but comes off overly smug on her. "I didn't cheat on my girlfriend because I don't have a girlfriend. Words matter, airhead."

I place my hand in front of my face, forming a stop sign of sorts. "This feels like it's getting a little personal."

"That's the point," Gunnar teems. "Stay in your lane, noob."

Braxton clears his throat and rises to stand, brushing the non-existent dirt from his hands. "I'm going to go grab a drink. Come with me, Dixon."

Dixon nods and stands to join Braxton. "We'll be back."

The two of them cut through the circle, stepping over Avalon and me on their way out of the living area.

Avalon reaches over, counting my fingers with hers one at a time. "How do you still have almost all of your fingers?"

"Because he's boring," Braxton says flatly, without turning back around. "He hasn't lived enough."

I groan and roll my eyes. It's bad enough getting shit on by the rest of them, but catching a stray from the one person who has made any attempt at befriending me hits different. He and his actual best friend disappear into the kitchen.

"Guess it's my turn," Gunnar says, shooting lasers with his eyes at Boone. "Never have I ever..."

I don't listen to whatever pointed attack comes out of his mouth. Instead, I climb to my feet and excuse myself to the bathroom. Nobody seems to notice or care that I leave. I make my way through the galley kitchen that sparkles underneath the light of the setting sun through the spacious windows, and into the hallway where I assume the bathroom is. I twist the knob and push, but the door is slammed shut.

"Sorry," I gasp. "Didn't know it was occupied."

Just as I'm about to step away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, the door cracks open and I'm met with Braxton's eyes. He nods his head to the right. "There's another bathroom in Maverick's parents' room."

I give him a silent nod and make my way down the hallway. What the hell is he doing in the bathroom? I thought he was going to get a drink. Does he keep a secret stash of the good shit in the bathroom?

The door at the end of the hall is wide open. Inside is a bedroom the size of most apartments in the city. The California king bed looks minuscule parked against the wall with views of Central Park that are to die for. The sheets are snow white, and the floors are marbled with gold flakes. Cameron is a rich man, and even his place wasn't as nice as this. Maverick's parents must be absolutely loaded. I find my way to the bathroom, but instead of using the toilet, I stare at myself in the mirror.

Over and over again, I whisper to myself, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

By the time I've rejoined the party, everyone is still there except Braxton and Dixon. The old game is over, and they've started another juvenile game. There's a bottle on the floor that Maverick spins as I take a seat, clutching my water in my hand. As fucking fate would have it, the bottle lands pointed straight at me.

My chest flushes with heat as I notice Maverick's eyes fall to me. A mischievous grin quickly follows. Before I can protest, he crawls forward on his hands and knees, making his way to me. I've seen him like this before, on stage. He shimmies forward, prowling, teeth sinking into his voluptuous lower lip. Where I'm from, perfect specimens like Maverick don't even notice me, let alone whatever the fuck this is.

He's a suave Spanish man, and I'm just plain California desert trash.

He reaches me, the weight of his body shifting over mine. I swallow a breath, equal parts anxiety and steadying myself. I choke on the words as they come out, "Your girlfriend is right beside me."

"She likes to watch," he purrs against my lips, and then kisses me. It's softer than I'd imagine, a slow brushing of his lips and then wetter as he adds his tongue, lapping over the sensitive flesh of my lip. A part of me wants to retreat, to run—the fight or flight that's always running on a full tank of gas. The other part of me is lost in the memories of what a kiss used to feel like, back before love became colored in bruises and pain. When he pulls back, smiling from ear to ear, I allow my gaze to linger on him for a second too long.

"That was hot," Avalon coos. "Do it again."

"How about we let fate decide?" Gunnar scoffs. He's clearly a stickler for the rules. "Noob, take a spin."

I could refuse. I could pass the buck along. The truth is, though, that I'm getting awfully tired of being the boring one, tired of being the one who's ruled by my anxiety. It's there. It'll always be there, sucking the oxygen from my lungs and suffocating me when I need to breathe the most. Spinning this bottle might send me into a fucking full-on panic attack, especially if it lands on Gunnar. Something tells me that a panic attack wouldn't be boring for the audience. It'd be something, which would be a lot, considering I'm apparently giving them nothing.

With great apprehension, I duck forward and give the bottle a spin. A shadow falls over the circle as Dixon and Braxton pass over the bottle of fate, taking a seat back across from me. I watch with intense eyes as the bottle slows, passing over Gunnar, Maverick, Avalon, and myself. And then it slows to a crawl, ticking like a clock as it passes Tamra and Boone. And then slower still.

Inching, crawling.

To Dixon.

And then just a little bit past him.

Fate chooses Braxton.