Page 42 of Saving Pookie

There are a few rules when it comes to the pool. For starters, no street clothes or shoes allowed. White undies only. If we're going to parade ourselves around like show ponies, the least the customers can do is the same. It's not a rule anyone really ever objects to. I envy gay men's ability to express themselves however they please. I mean, can you imagine straight people having a party at a bar like this? I mean, sure, somewhere in the world there's a topless pool party.

Hmmm. Topless pool party. If the bar wasn't so damn busy, I might be tempted to Google that for my next trip, now that I'm a single man. I push two beers to a young couple and wave my hand for the next patron to approach.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Gunnar drop to his knees on the deck by the pool, schmoozing with an older guest who is a regular. I recognize the face, but don't know the name. I'm not great with names. He's on the wealthier end of the spectrum, and I'm pretty damn sure he had a paid fling with Kolter once, but I can't exactly prove that, and I'm not about to put my nose in someone else's business. Especially when I don't know whose ass...

I lose my train of thought as I watch Gunnar push his wet briefs down and haul out his cock—raging hard, I might add—and aim it for the customer's mouth. He holds the man's head still as he smacks the man's lips with the head of his cock and then slithers inside his mouth. The cock-sucking action only lasts a few seconds before Gunnar tucks his cock back in his briefs and the man passes him a stack of wet money.

That motherfucker better be sharing those tips, because if he doesn't, I might have to threaten to rat him out. Absolutely no body parts are to go in the customers' mouths. But this one guy once tapped my asshole with his tongue when I was offering a wink of my asshole, and Gunnar didn't say a word, so I guess I owe him my silence.

But still... We share all the tips we make.

I search the pool for Pookie and find him sitting on the opposite side with his feet dangling in the water. The college boy from earlier wades in the water between Pookie's thighs, eyes angled up like he's staring into the soul of a merman. The college boy caresses the delicate flesh on the inside of Pookie's leg, and Pookie doesn't kick him away. He just let it happen, playing the part.

I purse my lips and shake away the intrusive thoughts. I slam four empty shot glasses down on the bar and fill them to the brim. There are only three customers, but the fourth is for me. On the house, of course. If only Mr. Pink knew how much money he lost because of the lush nature of his bartenders. It's only funny because we haven't been caught.

I clink my glass with the trio of elderly men, throw back the shot of tequila, and relish the way it burns at the back of my throat. As I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, I notice it tastes like a certain memory—tastes like Pookie.

Am I fucking posessed?

I shake my head and wave to the next customer. I've become a master at multitasking, or at least attempting to multitask. ADHD is no fucking joke and I forgot to take my Adderall this afternoon, which will no doubt become a huge detriment as the night carries on. Regardless, a man wearing a Mr. Pink's branded T-shirt orders a drink, but it goes in one ear and out the other because my attention is elsewhere.

Pookie is gone.

He's not in the water, and I don't see him in the crowd.

Gunnar storms behind the bar, grabs his phone, dials a number, and places it to his ear. He looks me dead in the eyes with a huff. "We have a problem."

"What?" I question as my heart begins to race. I search the crowd again, unable to deny this sinking feeling in my gut. Something happened to Pookie. Did he drown? Did someone get too handsy? Did he quit to go live a new life with the college boy? No, that's not it. The college boy is still in the pool. I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing I'm overreacting. And for fucking what?

"Can you send Maverick up here?" Gunnar shouts into the phone and pauses, waiting for a response. "Yeah, I know," he says. "Pookie just fucking left." He tongues the inside of his cheek, waiting. "Just hurry up. I can't work the entire pool by myself." He hangs up the phone, tosses it beneath the counter, and hovers over my shoulder. "Your boy isn't going to cut it."

"What?" I ask in disbelief. "What the fuck happened?"

He shrugs with an agitated scowl. "He said he wasn't feeling well, but he looked pretty damn fine until he saw me with Roger in the pool."

I throw my arms out to the side. "Who the fuck is Roger?"

"He's one of the regulars. He's mad loaded."

"Oh," I say with a chuckle. He's talking about the guy who just had a taste of his cock. I guess I now have a name for the face, but I'm sure I'll forget it soon. Back to the point. "How do you know Pookie didn't come down with something? A stomach bug, perhaps?"

"Get this." He punches me in the chest. It's not a hard punch, but rather one of those bro punches straight guys give to each other, even though Gunnar himself is gay. An absolute top, but gay nonetheless. "After Pookie stormed out, Roger told me some shit." He checks over his shoulder, as if to make sure nobody is listening, before turning back to me. "I don't think Pookie is who he says he is."

Huh?

CHAPTER TWELVE

POOKIE

Sliding doors—the life I live versus all the other lives I could have lived. In the modern world, I think they call this the multiverse: infinite worlds of possibility opened by split-second decisions that change everything.

It's been four days since I stormed out of the wet underwear party. A bomb ticks inside me, counting down the seconds until everything falls apart. I've been conditioned to understand that eventually, everything breaks. There is no good without bad, and the bad weighs so much more than the good.

Roger is a nice enough guy on the surface. He has never done anything explicitly wrong to me and, to my knowledge, never witnessed the things Cameron would do to me. Cameron was careful like that, for the most part. If he lost his temper in public, it was never around the elite he surrounded himself with. It'd be in the penthouse, or the bathroom at a fancy eatery, or on the subway surrounded by what he'd call trash. In the back of limousines that were driven by men on his payroll, who wouldn't say a word because it was good money.

But Roger knows Cameron. He's friendly with him. They run in the same circles, revel in the same gossip, and share the same half-truths. I can only imagine the stories Cameron has told Roger in my wake. Roger, well, he's a talker. He likes to talk. More than most. He talks the most when he's flirting, which is clearly what he was doing with Gunnar. Something tells me there's no way Roger didn't tell Gunnar everything he doesn't actually know about me—just what he's heard.

So, no, I haven't been back to work since. I've come down with an illness that I try my best to feign whenever Braxton's around, but I'm not sure he's buying the act. I've never been a good actor, which is crazy because most gay boys who spend the entirety of their formative years in the closet learn to at least be somewhat competent at playing pretend.