Page 6 of Saving Pookie

I'm a man of contradictions with a thick cock.

Thank God I don't utter every thought that comes into my head. It's a fucking madhouse inside here. Dose me up, lock me up, just don't fucking throw away the key. I've self-diagnosed myself with ADHD but have never had the nerve to walk into a head doctor's office to find out for sure. A part of me is scared he—or she—would diagnose me with something else. Something my recreational use of Adderall wouldn't quite cure. And trust me, that's the last thing I need to hear because the only thing stopping me from doing coke recreationally is the Adderall.

Pick your poison, kids.

Dixon snaps his fingers in my face, luring me out of my own head and back to the real world. It takes a moment to reorient myself, and I'm back to right where I was before I zoned out: our little secret that I'm—occasionally—a sweetheart when in the company of my bros.

"Do you need somewhere to crash while Tamra gets her shit out?"

"Huh?" I question, my brain still foggy. "Shit," I grumble. "She's moving out." And then the panic sets in. "What the fuck am I going to do?" I jump to my feet, the beer in my hand sloshing around as I begin to pace. "This is why you don't break up with your girlfriend without a solid plan." I point a finger at Dixon. "You have to think of the big picture: the bills and the rent. Christ on a canopy, what about the rent? I can't afford this shit on my own." I stop in place, my gaze meeting his. "I have to apologize to Tamra. Make things right. Say sorry, honey, buy her some roses, a necklace, a ring, and some chocolates. I'll even buy her a car. No, wait. That would make my financial situation worse. But I can tell her I was a fool, that only she can fill my love tank the way she does."

"Absolutely not," Dixon protests, shaking his head profusely. He'd rather see me dead in a casket than be with Tamra, and he's never made those feelings subtle. "We'll find you a new roommate. One who isn't going to cheat on you with some piece of Canadian bacon. We'll throw up some flyers and place some ads online."

"That's how people get killed." I narrow my eyes on him. The thought of letting a stranger into my apartment gives me a strong case of the willies. I'm a big man. I've thrown a few punches in a bar fight here and there, but I'm also a deep sleeper. The last thing I need is some Norman Bates type wandering into my bedroom with a knife when I'm sleeping.

"I'd wager a quarter of the tenants in this city live with people they didn't know prior to moving in together," he says, trying to temper my worst-case expectations. "That's the nature of living in the city."

I give his words some serious thought, but then I'm right back to where I started.

"I think it'd be easier to just apologize."

"She cheated on you," he shouts, jumping up from the couch. "Multiple times."

"Multiple?" I raise a brow. "Look," I sigh. "It doesn't have to be permanent. Just long enough until I can find a new roomie."

"Rent was already paid last week, right?" He waits for me to nod before continuing, "That gives us three weeks to find you a new roomie. If we can't find one by then, then I'll begrudgingly ask Mike if we can move upstairs with you. Short term."

"I say this with all the love, respect, and allyship in the world, but I'd rather live in the subway." I place a firm hand on his shoulder. "I've been on vacation with your boo and you, and I know he's a screamer. A wild, fucking he-banshee." I fake a moan as I imitate the sounds I heard coming from their bedroom in the Berkshires. "Oh... ah... yes, fuck me, tiger."

He leers at me, unamused. "Don't say I didn't try to help you."

"Three weeks." I point at him. "If I can't find a roomie by then, I'm taking her back."

CHAPTER THREE

POOKIE

By the time I arrive at Mr. Pinks the next day, the excitement of finding a job has worn off. It's been replaced with a dread in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if this is what a walnut feels like. My nerves are frayed, and I find myself completely out of my league. A job as a bartender is already well out of my wheelhouse, and that same job with fucking cameras? Fucking reality TV...

I'm not exciting enough for this shit.

"Fake it till you make it," I whispered to myself in the windowed reflection of a financial firm on my way over. My stomach was already nauseated when I passed the same homeless man sleeping next to a fresh puddle of piss. I almost threw up on the poor man. I'm sure the cameras would have loved to pick something like that up.

The signage above the blacked-out windows at the front of the building is switched off. Instead of a neon pink, it's a muted pink with visible wiring inside the letters that spell out Mr. Pinks.I make my way down a narrow side alley to the back entrance. There's a decent-sized patio back here, with pink couches and tables parked beneath closed pink umbrellas.

The back door erupts outward, screaming on its hinges.

"You must be Pookie," a man says flatly, his face equally dry. His hair is darker with shades of dirty blonde highlights separated about an inch from his dark roots. He drops a hand on my shoulder and guides me inside. "You're late."

I raise my phone just enough to catch the time. "Actually, I'm right on time."

He comes to an abrupt stop and turns to face me fully with a frown. "This is showbiz. The definition of being on time is being an hour or two early." He glances up and down, sizing me up. "You're a fucking mess, and we have our work cut out for us."

"Thanks," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you like... in charge or something?"

"We run a tight ship around here. So all you need to know is that I'm an executive producer for this dumpster fire." He grabs my hand and shakes it quickly before retreating. "I'm Talon, by the way. But you can just call me—" He cuts himself off. "Just fucking call me Talon. Don't make things weird."

If neurotic were a person, it'd be this nitro espresso on wheels standing in front of me: on edge and reeking of cigarette smoke. The type of guy to burn out by age forty, tired by the unnecessary energy he spends in his youth worrying about things he can't control.