Page 64 of Saving Pookie

For the last filmed event of the first season of the show, the entire cast gathers on the beach for a picnic. Grievances are aired. Friendships are mended. And everyone leaves off on a positive note. Production was not pleased that Cameron decided to quit the show, choosing to fly home instead of attending the finale.

I played the part I was hired to play and confronted Gunnar, putting on a show about how we will never be friends. He did his part in return but took it a little too easy on me. I'm not sure it'll come across as believable to the audience.

After the dinner, we all moved to the hotel pool where production is hosting a wrap party.

Maverick and Avalon have a twink cornered in the pool, where Avalon watches her boyfriend lose his tongue somewhere down the twink's throat. Dixon and Mike are off to the side, arguing about something, but they're too far away to make out what they're fighting about. Boone sits at the bar, taking shots with Jules. The funniest thing happened as soon as cameras turned off for the season. It's like a switch was flipped, and Jules became a different person—lighter, funnier, and an absolute joy to be around. The weight of our bad behavior is no longer a stressor for her... at least until the reunion a little bit further down the road.

Braxton and I sit on the ledge of the pool, kicking our feet in the water that's painted a neon pink from the hotel's lighting. Braxton looks fucking unreal in his yellow Speedo, and it takes every bit of self-control I have not to grab him by the waist and kiss him the way I want to kiss him. To kiss him until he loves me and doesn't have a problem saying so.

But I can't.

"How long are we sticking around?" I whisper to Braxton and slyly pet him on the shoulder. "That's code for me being horny."

"You're going to be waiting a while," he teases with a cocky grin. "We're going out to the club right after."

I peek over my shoulder at the poolhouse bathroom and think of how hot it'd be to have him fuck me right there. Sure, we could go up to the hotel room and have a quickie, but that's not as fun. Before I can relay this naughty suggestion to Braxton, I spot Gunnar swimming up to meet us at the edge of the pool.

He slicks his hair back as he wades in the water. "I don't want either of you getting the wrong idea," he begins. "I still don't like either of you. But we're a family, and family watches out for each other." He clears his throat before continuing, "And I'm sorry for bringing him around."

Apology accepted, but there's one piece of this puzzle that's confusing me. "I don't want to go backward with you, but can I just ask why you disliked me so much you would bring Cameron onto the show?"

"Since we're done filming, and considering the hell I put you through, I think I owe you the truth." He lifts himself from the pool, chlorinated water pouring like a waterfall from his scantily clad body. He adjusts his camo Speedo before taking a seat beside me. "Talon suggested a feud and connected me to Cameron."

I think my eyes fly out of my skull. "How the fuck did Talon know about Cameron and me?"

"Producers are like investigators," Gunnar shrugs. "They're experts at digging up dirt from our pasts. Roger didn't show up to that party randomly; he showed up because Cameron wouldn't. Talon had to personally convince Cameron to show up."

"Wow," is all I can bring myself to say.

I always knew production—especially Jules and Talon—could be sketchy, but I truly wasn't prepared for just how low they could go. It makes sense, though. This is a business to them.

"That doesn't surprise me," Braxton says, pointing to me. "Talon made me befriend you."

"What?"

"Yeah, he offered me an extra ten grand to be your friend," he chuckles, but quickly corrects himself. The expression on his face shifts to something more serious—flat lips and a clenched jaw. "I'll share half with you."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BRAXTON

Winters in NYC are terrible, but I've heard they're much worse in other parts of the state. For example, I've been told Buffalo is an absolute hellscape of blizzards. Now, my ass was born and raised in California, so I'm not used to this shit, even after being here for a few years. And every time I check the weather app on my phone to find it's below freezing, I ask myself why I ever moved here.

The reason? Because it seemed like something fun to do. That's it. I didn't have a job lined up. I didn't have ambitions. Didn't want to be an actor or work in finance. Didn't come here to be a sex worker or join the mob. I simply came here because I was bored.

And now I'm stuck living the dream for half the year and living in a winter hell the other half. This is all a long-winded way of saying I'm happy to be hiding underneath the comfort of a cozy blanket with my best friend, Pookie.

It's premiere night for the show, which they've decided to call Pink Stallions. The trailers leading up to the first episode promised a scandalous, explosive, and, quite frankly, horny show. I didn't realize how little clothes any of us ever wore until I saw the first footage.

The lights are dimmed, and our drinks are full. I've convinced Pookie to start drinking the good shit—half White Claw, half vodka.

The opening credits roll, and it's a pink bonanza of the cast in our work uniforms—pink cowboy hats, blue jeans, and pink cowboy boots. Dramatic clips are intertwined between each of our introductions, where our names are splattered over the screen in a neon pink font. The final shot of the credits is the entire cast modeling in our swimwear in front of Mr. Pink's pool house in the Hamptons.

I have to be honest. The first thirty minutes or so is a sloppy train wreck. It's clear production had no idea what to do with the footage we shot before Pookie was brought on board. None of it really makes any sense. Boring.

And you know what happens when I get bored? I get horny.

I jerk Pookie off underneath the covers, and he does the same for me, until it's too hot and the blanket gets thrown onto the floor. I've always been fascinated by my own cock. I've always played with it a little too much. Now, I'm fascinated by Pookie's cock and play with it a little too much. Lately though, I've found myself wanting more.