Page 4 of Saving Pookie

He stops recording, cradles his hands over the top of the camera, and shrugs. "Much better, except that last bit, but it's easy enough to cut it out."

I'm sitting on the couch when I hear keys jangling on the other side of the door.

A foreign feeling of nervousness chews through my stomach. Back in my college days, I was known around campus as the breakup king. Girls came and went through a revolving merry-go-round of slamming doors. Tears were shed. Voices were raised. Once, one of them threw a glass vase at my head, narrowly missing. She stepped over the glass debris in her bare feet on her way out the door.

Breaking up with girls comes naturally to me. They come and they go, and there never seems to be a piece missing in my heart when they're gone. It's all too easy to move onto the next piece of ass.

This doesn't feel quite as easy as all the ones that came before. That might have something to do with the bright, hot lights, the cameras, or the producers standing behind the cameramen. Breaking up with someone is something you're supposed to do alone. Letting it play out for the cameras feels like a violation, but to be fair, it's one Tamra has both earned and signed up for.

Tamra walks through the front door with a heavy sigh. She turns and drops her keys in a bowl on a stand beside the door. She's already mic'd up with a square-shaped bulge on her back, barely hidden by the thin white fabric of a tank top. Either she was tipped off in advance that we would be filming, or production sandbagged her in the hallway and taped the mic to her.

She plays the part well, though. She doesn't even look at the cameras or the crew as she makes her way to the couch and sits next to me. The smell of rose petals and cotton candy burns at my nostrils. She's wearing a fresh—and heavy—spray as if she's trying to impress somebody, as if she believes the cameras will pick up the scent. I wonder if she wore the same perfume when she fucked that man in Vegas.

My stomach twists sideways. A burp escapes my throat, which is a nervous tic that's well documented by all those who know me.

Tamra turns to meet me where I stare—straight at her. She squints her eyes. "You're being weird."

"Isn't that why you love me?" I scrub a hand through the hair on the back of my head. Absolutely not the words I should be saying when I'm about to break up with the broad.

She leans against me, a mischievous grin hitching across her lips. She taps me on the cheek playfully. "There are so many reasons." She lowers her hand to my thigh, her fingers dancing over my shorts and making their way to my crotch.

I respond with another burp.

She recoils with a grimace. "So damn attractive."

I shift my gaze to the cameras, staring straight into one of them. Something feels as if it's about to explode from my esophagus, like the inverse of a water slide. Instead of going down, it's about to come out. I jump to my feet and wipe my brow. It's damp. Nervous sweat? I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging over the couch. Shaggy hair with sun-kissed highlights and a beet-red face.

She stands up to join me at my side, concern written all over her face. The touch of her palm over my cheek feels like well-used sandpaper—grating—even though I know her hands are smooth as glass. "Are you having an allergic reaction?"

"Yeah," I whisper with a nod, all the while thinking to myself, be dramatic. Put on a show.I swallow a nervous lump in my throat. "I'm allergic to your bullshit."

Her eyes widen until they strain as she tries to quiet a guffaw.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Talon smiling behind the cameraman. His approval is enough to steady my nerves.

"I'm being serious, Tamra. I'm done with the bullshit."

She shakes her head and huffs. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

I respond to her inquiry with a knowing smirk because I know it'll drive her mad. The silent treatment gives her the opportunity to sit with her guilt for a moment. I can see the wheels turning in her head like a hamster desperately trying to remain in control.

"You know, this is my fault." I tongue the inside of my cheek, thinking back to all the times she told me who she was, and I didn't believe her. "All the warning signs were there, but I love red flags."

"Is this about Vegas?" she scoffs. "Because nothing happened."

I wag my finger at her. "There was a whole lot of nothinghappening from what I heard."

She teems quietly before me, her eyes fixed on mine. "Who told you that?"

An amused chuckle slips free as I shove my hands into my pockets. "There were five people with you in Vegas. You're going to have a lot of free time to figure it out."

She grits her teeth, desperately trying to regurgitate a lie that's going to save her ass. "They're lying."

"Really?" I raise a brow. "Do photos lie? Does video? Your lips on his. Your naked body curled under the covers next to him."

"I..." She cocks her head to the side, wiping her lips with her palm. "I don't know what to say."

"Nothing," I seethe, pinching my fingers and drawing them sideways like I'm sealing a Ziploc bag. "We're done. See yourself out."