Page 39 of Saving Pookie

"Nothing has changed about me, sweetie," I teem at her. "We're all the same exact people we were two months ago, doing the exact same things, in the exact same rooms, at the exact same times." I tap her on the side of her noggin. "I want you to reallythink about that the next time you want to dance on this merry-go-round, because I promise, I'll spin us both straight to hell."

She lets out an audible gasp as if I've just threatened her.

Good, she got the memo loud and clear.

For some reason, Jules has me filming the confessional in nothing but my pink hat, pink boots, and white briefs. I sit on a table underneath a pink umbrella on the patio as she prods and pries into my thoughts about the argument Tamra and I just had.

There's a bright ring camera to my left, and it's just the two of us out here. Production takes the sanctity of private confessionals very seriously. They want our unfiltered thoughts, but they're not always that unfiltered when the producers are asking leading questions. I get it, though. They have a story they need to tell. God knows what those stories are actually going to look like when all the footage is edited together.

I frown at the thought, hoping they don't try and paint me to be the villain.

"What do you make of Tamra's conversation with you?" Jules asks from behind the camera.

I stare straight into the camera. "I think she needs to mind her own damn business."

She fidgets with the lens on the camera. It looks like she's zooming in to get a closer shot. "What really happened at the club the other night?"

We kissed. Wait, no. That didn't happen at the club. That happened after. Besides the point, nobody needs to know about that. Nobody willknow about that. The club. What happened at the club? I must hesitate a little too long because Jules clears her throat and repeats the question.

"Pookie and I went and met some friends." I scratch at the side of my nose and swallow a dry lump in my throat. "Danced and had a few drinks. Tamra wants to turn it into something bigger so she can have a storyline."

"Fourth wall," Jules says with a frown. "Rephrase what you just said."

I roll my eyes and let out an agitated sigh. "Tamra wants to pretend my world still revolves around her, and when she's hit with the reality that it doesn't, she starts making up stories because she's both a liar and a drama queen." A mischievous grin hitches across my lips. I like that answer much better than the first. "Better?"

Jules nods but continues with her interrogation. "Tamra swears she saw you dancing with Pookie."

"Friends dance together," I say flatly with a shrug.

"The way she told it, it sounds like it was a little bit more than friendly."

I glare at her for a little too long, trying to get my story straight. But what is there to get straight? We danced at the club. That was it. At the club. That's all we did. The question throws me for a loop, though, so I answer the inquiry with a question of my own to buy more time. "I'm sorry, but what are you implying?"

She shrugs with faux apathy, like she doesn't care. She absolutely does. Anything for a storyline. She looks down at her phone and then back to me, peppering me with another canned question. "Are you an alcoholic, Braxton?"

My jaw tightens. "I'm twenty-three years old. I like to party."

"Do you use drugs?"

Tamrat is really starting to get to the producers, isn't she? "I smoke pot occasionally."

Jules furrows a brow, digging for the truth. It's like she already knows the answer, like someone has already ratted me out. "Nothing else?"

"If you'll excuse me, I have to get inside." I unclip my microphone necklace and tuck the wire behind my ear. "And off the record, I don't like the insinuation."

"Braxton," she coos, a desperate attempt to settle me with her put-on teacher voice. "Nobody is trying to get you. We're just trying to put together what happened when the cameras weren't rolling."

I purse my lips and nod, but I'm pleading the fifth until I've had some time to think. I know it's not the best look, and that by running away, I'll look guilty. But also... I kind of don't care. Without proof, all she has are guesses.

She doesn't know Pookie and I were high out of our fucking minds, or that we went home with two strangers. She doesn't know that Pookie and I kissed. More than that, we kissed as we both orgasmed at the same time.

She'll never know that.

Nobody ever will.

And she certainly won't know how much I've been thinking about the kiss.

How much I've been thinking about him.