Page 8 of Saving Pookie

He passes me a knowing wink. "Exactly."

I don't know if it's because all I've had is a bagel this morning, but I feel the familiar feeling of aggravation creeping up my esophagus. I grit my teeth and pull the belt through the loops of my jeans as Talon grabs a small black box from the cardboard box and steps back to me, circling around my back. He clips the box onto the back of my belt.

"Raise your arms," he groans, and I do as instructed. He pulls my shirt over my head and disposes of it on the counter. "This is your mic pack. This stays turned on at all times."

Good thing I don't even know how to turn it off, or on for that matter.

He drapes a black necklace with a small pink cowboy hat pendant around my neck and attaches it to a wire that hangs down my back and gets plugged into the mic box. I glance at myself in the mirror, and it's been years since I've seen myself in this lighting. In the light. In the brightness. The world I'd been living in was dark, moody, and filled with tension. I look better in the light, more alive, more free. I'm slender, but toned and muscular. Nowhere near the physique of a bodybuilder, but big enough to—hopefully—not look like a scrawny stick on TV. My hair is dark, almost black, which is a far cry from the sun-kissed color my hair used to be back when I practically lived outside on the California shores.

Talon peers over my shoulder, proud of his work. "We've been filming for a month, but the executives aren't happy with the footage. They fired two of the boys and brought you in last minute."

Something in the pit of my stomach tells me I should ask the question that comes next, because it seems kind of important. "Am I at least going to get trained for the job?"

He shakes his head with an amused smirk. "We're going with a fish-out-of-water storyline."

"A what?"

"Fucking hell." He talks into his mic. "Please tell me we didn't hire another guy without a foot in the industry." He turns his gaze back to meet mine in the mirror. "Fish out of water means an outside perspective. Someone new to the world. We're reshooting the pilot episode tonight, and your first night at Pink Stallion will serve as the lens for the audience. This is reality television, meaning the ideal footage is authentic. You will be learning by fire."

It's my turn to shake my head, because that's not going to fly with me. I'm not someone who can just walk into a room and pretend I know what I'm doing. There has to be some training. Businesses have rules, regulations, and policies. Before I can further protest, the door flings open and a tall woman with a bob enters.

"I heard the sirens wailing." Her eyes peel sideways to me, and she smirks. "At least he's cute." She grimaces as she directs her attention to Talon. "Maverick and Gunnar are out back fighting again."

"Good," Talon cackles, rubbing his fingers together in the universal sign of make me that money.

"Not good," she scoffs. "They're not mic'd."

Talon's face turns red, steam sizzling out of his ears. "Those two big-cock fuckers are going to send me into an early grave."

"It's okay, Talon," she assures him with a soothing voice. It kind of reminds me of the voice of one of my elementary teachers—soothing. "I'll handle the hot mess express new guy. You go handle the silent cowboys."

They know I'm standing right here, right?

Talon closes his eyes and takes a labored breath. "One more minor inconvenience is going to break me."

"I suppose this is a bad time to tell you Kolter called off tonight?"

His eyes flash open. "Not another word."

And then he's gone, storming out the door to either deal with the guys fighting out back or to end himself. I'm not entirely sure which. Either way, I'm now stuck with another stranger.

"Hi, I'm Jules, the other executive producer." She reaches out and forces me into a too-tight handshake. "The nicer one. The prettier one. The more relaxed one."

Yeah, something tells me that's not an accurate self-assessment.

She drags me by the arm to one of many chairs in front of the brightly lit mirror that stretches the width of the dressing room. "When's the last time you had a haircut?"

I shrug, not able to pinpoint an exact date, but it was before I fled my crazy ex. So... "Maybe a month?"

She shifts the weight of her body against the back of the chair, reaches over my shoulder, and digs a pair of shears out from a narrow drawer. My eyes follow her as she collects the hair at the front of my head between two fingers and begins to snip.

I swallow an agitated sigh but settle on saying nothing.

She chops my bangs, little fibers of hair falling into my lap.

"You're a hairdresser, too?" I ask nervously.

She squints her eyes as she collects another band of hair between her fingers. "I've seen a YouTube video or two. I cut my boyfriend's hair once."