Page 30 of Saving Pookie

As I'm closing the door on my way out, Pookie calls to me one last time. I duck my head back between the crack of the door.

"Thank you for earlier with Talon and Nessa."

I wave my hand. "You don't need to thank me."

"Yeah, I do," he sighs. "I've never had someone watch after me before."

There's no way that's true, but I ponder what it would mean if it were. If nobody in this world has ever had this guy's back before? That's such a foreign concept to me. Friends watch after friends. Family watches after family. Has he never had family or friends before?

I don't investigate further. Instead, I force a smile. "That's what friends are for."

And the boy who never smiles smiles right back.

CHAPTER NINE

POOKIE

A subterranean roar echoes through the dark tunnel, followed by flashes of bright lights as the train comes to a screeching halt at the next station on our journey to Brooklyn. It's a little after three in the morning. I should be in bed after a long shift at Mr. Pinks, but Braxton coaxed me out of my comfort zone because it's his birthday.

"I want to party," Braxton begged, wrapping his arms around my chest as I sat in my chair in the dressing room. He pouted his lips, and that's all it took for me to give in. "You're the best friend I've ever had, Pookster."

It's a statement I know not to be true. He has plenty of friends. All of them are better friends than I am. It's been two weeks since we started sharing a living space, and we still barely know each other. I'm not the type of guy to open up easily. Telling him about my toxic past with Cameron almost made me croak from embarrassment. Since then, we've barely been home, and when we are, he sits in the living room in his boxers, watching trashy reality TV—the exact type of show we're filming. I can't figure out if he actually enjoys the shows or if he's studying the ins and outs of the format.

Still, a lot can change in two weeks.

For example, two weeks ago, I had never tried any drug other than a brief experimental phase with marijuana when I was a teenager. About twenty minutes ago, just before we boarded the subway in Hell's Kitchen, I swallowed ecstasy. There wasn't any peer pressure necessary, either. Braxton simply asked if I wanted a magic pill, and I grabbed one from the palm of his hand, only stopping to ask him what it was after I had already ingested it.

As the train doors draw to a close, I count the stops remaining on the board until we reach our stop in Brooklyn. Eight more stops. Eight more stations.

I'm sitting on a bench while Braxton stands in front of me, holding onto the railing above his head with his muscular arm folded at a ninety-degree angle. There's a white tank slung over one shoulder, and he wears short white shorts with blue boxers crumpled above the hem. There's a slick veneer of sweat on his chest, glistening underneath the lights as we exit the station.

I push my head back against the window behind me and aim my gaze at the ceiling in a desperate attempt to steady myself.

"You good?" Braxton questions, palming a hand on my shoulder. He asks this same question every few minutes as if he's expecting the answer to change, as if he feels my insides twisting and turning with every motion.

A lukewarm wetness triggers my gag reflex at the back of my throat as I force out a simple, "Yeah."

He swings forward, drapes his other hand over the railing too, and stares down at me with a wicked grin. "You have to experience the darkness to shine in the light."

"Is that supposed..." I choke on a burp that tastes too much like vomit for my liking. "Poetic?"

"Nah." He shakes his head, all the while his smile remains unshakable. "I'm just saying I know it feels like you want to die right now, but trust the process."

I lower my head and look straight ahead to find I'm face-to-cock. There's a visible penis line in Braxton's shorts, the head of what appears to be an impressively thick cock pressed against the thin fabric of his underwear and shorts. He reaches down and adjusts himself, batting his cock to the left, and I can't tell if he's putting on a show or just doing straight-boy things.

I swear I can feel the heat of his eyes on me, so I force myself to look anywhere but at his cock. I look to my right, and the next thing I know, he's spinning down to take a seat beside me. He throws one arm behind my head, cradling himself there like a pillow.

He chews on his bottom lip contemplatively. "I don't want you leaving my sight tonight. No running off or anything of the sort." He retrieves a pack of gum from his pocket, pulls out a foil-wrapped piece, unwraps it, and holds it out to me. I stick out my tongue and let him drop it in my mouth. "Chewing gum is important. It'll stop your jaw from locking up."

I clear my throat. "What?"

He places a hand over both sides of my mouth and gives my cheeks a gentle squeeze. "You're going to be fine, champ."

The brakes on the train scream, metal on metal, as we roll into the next station.

Seven to go.

The hot summer air feels obnoxious on my skin. At once it's warm and then it's cold, like I'm coming down with a fever. Braxton says the chills will come and go all night, but at some point I'll stop caring.