Page 71 of Saving Pookie

"Break it up!" the husky voice of a muscular security guard shouts as he storms into the room, prying Gunnar off Braxton.

Talon follows into the room behind, swiping through the tablet on his wrist. "Physical violence at the taping of the reunion is explicitly forbidden and can result in ejection from the venue and forfeiture of the reunion fee." He looks at the cameraman standing in the corner. "That being said, did you get that on film?"

"Absolutely," the cameraman responds, tapping his palm on the side of the camera.

"Great! Can you make sure that gets put into the opening segment?" Talon checks his watch. "We have about an hour before the video needs to be locked."

In Talon's world, rules exist only to wield power over our heads. There aren't consequences for breaking them as long as breaking them makes for good TV.

When Marina is done beating my face—as they say—I stand up, fit the pink cowboy hat on my head, grab Braxton, and drag him to the patio in the back. There are production vans parked in the back alley and a small group of assistants lugging gear inside. The March air is frigid, hardening my nipples in an instant. We shouldn't be out here shirtless, but I need to have a chat with Braxton to make sure we're on the same page and that our stories are straight.

"Why do you look so worried, Pook?" he asks before I can say anything at all.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper, my breath dancing between us. "I'm peachy-squeaky."

He eyes me sideways, knowing very damn well I botched that idiom. "You look like a ghost. A fuckable ghost, but a ghost nonetheless. What I'm trying to say is that you look pale."

I glance over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear. "We're about to go on live television carrying very big secrets, so it's probably best to get into the habit of not saying every little thing that pops into your head. For example, that tirade you just went on. We have enough people to worry about blabbing without either of us doing the heavy lifting."

"Gunnar isn't going to say anything," he says softly, trying to reassure me.

"That's not what I'm worried about." I flatten a palm over his chest. It's more to steady myself than it is to comfort him. "Aren't you worried Tamra might say something? God knows she's itching for a juicy storyline, and what's more juicy than, well..." I trail off, because again, we need to get in the habit of shutting the hell up.

"She's not going to say shit," he says with a level of confidence I'm forced to question.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I made her a deal." He shrugs. "I told her I'd let her out me next season."

"What?" I shout, but immediately bring my voice down to a reasonable level for two people trying to have a private conversation with cameras and microphones planted everywhere. "Why in the hell would you tell her she can do that? That's not her story to tell."

He swallows two gulps, the second one heavier than the first. "Because I'm weak," he breathes. "I..." He distracts himself, eyes landing on a skinny man in even skinnier jeans lugging a large black box back to the vans. "I don't know," he whispers.

"You're a lot of things, but you're not that." I palm his cheek and guide him back to me, quickly removing my hand when I'm sure I have his attention. "You're not weak."

"You have blinders on when it comes to me. You can't see the forest through the sticks." Apparently, it's his turn to fuck up an idiom of his own. Must be the nerves. "You deserve something more than this. Something more than being fucked in backrooms because we can't be seen on the dancefloor."

I grit my teeth because, babe, what the fuck are you doing? I'm worried he's not going to be able to hold it together when we start filming. Still, the only way I can think to comfort him is to whisper back, "I like being fucked in darkrooms."

And it's true. I do. I like getting fucked everywhere. I like being with him.

"Not the point." He shakes his head, his lips trembling into a pout. "I'm scared I won't ever be ready to say it myself, and I'm scared you'll get tired of waiting and find some other sexy himbo to fuck you in darkrooms."

"You're the only himbo I want." I force a smile through this imminent sense of heartbreak that tugs at my soul. Most people I know have been wounded by someone in the closet, not ready to come out. Because of that hurt, they throw up a wall around them, not letting others in. My walls are down, and they're going to stay down. "I'm fine with waiting," I assure him softly.

"You say that now, but the pressure will only mount from here on out." He brings his arms in to cover his chest, taking hold of cold shoulders. He can't even look at me as he passes by, making a beeline inside.

I tell myself he's just cold, but as a man who's done my fair share of running, I can spot the signs from miles away.

Bright stage lighting floods the typically dark dance floor. There are two pink chairs in the center of the room that are flanked on either side by long pink couches. A large TV hangs from the ceiling directly behind the bar, and a packed audience fills the rest of the bar with additional seating on the second-floor terrace.

The host, Matty Banks, stands in front of the chairs, drinking wine with one hand while reading through cue cards with the other. He's a notable professional who spent the first ten years of adulthood playing baseball before pivoting to the world of entertainment. At first, he hosted game shows, but after coming out of the closet, found a new home at the head of Flaunt TV, the premiere network for queer audiences. Word on the street is he's a total dick, but you know what they say about rumors?

Meh, fuck it. This one's probably true.

Production ushers us to our seats, which we don't get to choose. The seating arrangements have been chosen carefully for maximum drama. Starting on the left couch, from left to right, is Boone, Dixon, Braxton, and myself. Matty Banks sits in the chair beside me while Mr. Pink sits in the other. On the couch opposite of us, from right to left, is Gunnar, Maverick, Avalon, and Tamra.

We do a final mic check as the minutes count down to zero, and when we run out of time, that's when we go live. The lights dim as the Pink Stallions logo flashes on the screen. There's a quick montage of scenes from the season, but they're spliced together like a strobe light with fast cuts. Matty's voice narrates the opening: "One year ago, the sexiest, wildest, messiest bartenders on the East Coast set out on a journey to document their lives living in the city that never sleeps. It wasn't all work, though. The explosive, record-setting first season featured all the play, the fights, the drama, and the friendship. It all culminates here tonight, right where it all began as the Pink Stallions assemble for the first time since filming wrapped..."