Page 3 of Saving Pookie

Instinct kicks in, and I lower both hands over my cock, shielding the goods from his ogling eyes.

He taps one boot on the hard floor. "Are you aware that this is more than just a bartending job?"

That sounds like we're heading in the right direction. I pull my sweats back up over my thighs. "Yeah, the flyer said something about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"We're filming a reality television show here," he says. "Are you ready and willing to be a star?"

This is an insanely bad idea, being on the run and all. But money is money, and from what I know about television, most shows never make it to air. If it does, I can take my money and fucking run. For real this time. "How much does it pay?"

He waves off my question with his hand. "When you come in tomorrow, the producers will go over all that boring shit with you. The unfortunate part of the deal is that you won't get paid your fees until the show is airing."

"I have bills to pay."

"My boys make six hundred dollars on a slow night," he says with a wink, tilting his pink cowboy hat forward. "That's on top of whatever the production company is paying."

I smile for the first time since arriving, a weight off my shoulders. "Sounds like I'll see you tomorrow."

"Production will need you here by five. Plan on a long night." He waves me off with his hand. "Now, go get some rest. You're going to need it."

I came. I saw. I conquered, but my feet are glued to the floor. "I know I should go, but I'm just thinking out loud here. Why the last-minute search for a bartender if you're starting filming tomorrow?"

He chuckles as he slides the chair back underneath the lip of the table. "We've been filming for a month. Most of the footage is being scrapped. I had to let go of two of my boys."

"What the hell did they do?"

"They committed the ultimate sin."

"They killed someone?"

"Worse." He scratches at his mustache as his lips hitch into a grin. "They were boring."

Off the top of my head, I can think of about a hundred things worse than being boring. "Unforgivable," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Don't be boring, Pookie."

"It's Paul," I remind him.

"Not anymore," he says flatly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Pookie."

On my way out the door, I'm filled with a sense of hope. It's a feeling that is quickly overshadowed by a new sense of fear. What the fuck did I just sign up for? And then I think about Jim, Jack, Jose, whatever the fuck his name is, and wonder if he'll ever think about me, or think about what I took from him.

But honestly, people have done much worse things to earn a dollar than stealing a pink pair of undies from a one-night stand.

CHAPTER TWO

BRAXTON

"These are our real lives," I say somberly, making direct eye contact with the camera. Talon, one of the junior producers for the show, stands behind it. "And unfortunately, that means we don't get to hide anything." A mischievous grin settles on my lips. "The good news is that you're about to get some great footage."

Talon flips his wrist outward and yells, "Cut."

I groan, repositioning myself on the barstool as he approaches. "What now?"

"We've talked about this," he sighs with a patience reserved for a saint. "What you just did was break the fourth wall. The viewers obviously know they are watching a show, but when you mention anything related to production, it breaks the illusion." He points at me and smiles the kind of smile a teacher would give a young student—annoyed but hopeful that whatever he's saying will go in one ear and stay inside the brain instead of going right out the other. "I love the energy, but we're going to redo it without breaking the fourth wall, okay?"

It's only been a few weeks of filming, but the confessional portion of the job is already grating on my last nerve. It's easier to be natural when we're filming as a group because we have a long history with each other. Here, it's just Talon and I having a conversation, but I'm not really having it with him. I'm having it with the camera, a piece of fucking glass that somehow records my reflection while a low-paid intern holds a boom mic over my head.

My stomach growls just before the red light on the camera begins to flash. "If Tamra thinks she can cheat on me with a Magic Mike wannabe from fucking Canada during her little girls' trip to Vegas, then she's absolutely right. She can do that, and I can throw her ass out of our apartment." I shoot Talon a glare. "Is that better?"