Page 54 of Saving Pookie

"You know what he said," he growls and spins his computer around to face me. He stabs a finger on the spacebar and a video begins playing.

It's footage from earlier in the day and begins with Cameron taking a seat and introducing himself. He wears an absurdly punchable face, and within five seconds of appearing on camera, he catches these hands—rated C for Cameron. It's not often that production lets us see early footage, because they don't want us seeing how we look on camera and making unnatural adjustments. This is apparently a special case.

The only time I've really seen myself is in the mirror or in selfies, and I tend to mostly be smiling in those. That is to say, I've never seen myself painted in such shades of reddened rage before, and it still looks worse than I remember it. There's a furor lurking in my eyes, and I swear I can see the shadow of the angel on my right shoulder falling off as the devil on the other takes flight, leaping across the table and landing a good shiner on Cameron's left cheek.

And then Gunnar gets involved, shouting that nobody touches his man. "You don't touch my man, you hear. You don't fucking touch him." It's a sorry attempt at dialing up the drama for the camera, because let's face it—Cameron isn't his man. He's a prop and nothing more.

And as Boone and Dixon are dragging me back from the table, I manage to break free just long enough to grab my glass of water and throw it on Gunnar across the table. To which he responds by hightailing it over the table, feet and all, and tackling me to the ground.

I've also never seen myself getting my ass beat before, so I'm experiencing a lot of new firsts right now. As Maverick is failing to pull Gunnar off me, Talon enters the frame and gives an assist. Talon is immediately punished with an elbow to the face which makes me snicker for some reason. What I'm not laughing about is watching Pookie flee the scene, exiting out of frame with his head held down, all the while Cameron smirks just before the video cuts out.

I sink in my chair as Mr. Pink teems at me.

"I don't give a shit what you idiots do in your own apartments," he groans, "but when you are at neighboring businesses, I expect you all to act like you've been in public before."

"Production wanted drama," I shrug, trying to pretend as if I'm anything other than a turtle desperately wanting to retreat into my shell. "I gave them some damn good footage."

"I don't give a pig's shit what production wants." He slams the computer shut. "If you behave like this at one of my friends' restaurants again, you'll be looking for a new job."

"That's not fair," I huff.

"Please enlighten me," he says. "Please tell me how this was actually a noble gesture and that guy had it coming. You're lucky he's not suing you, me, or the production company."

"I, uh..." I chew on the bottom of my lip. "I plead the fifth."

What other choice do I have? It's not like I can tell Mr. Pink the truth. I mean, technically, I could, but Pookie would be even more mad at me than he already is.

"We're done here." He points to the door behind me. "See yourself out."

I give him a nod before bolting, not able to get out of there fast enough.

The cameras are set up in the dressing room, and I'm sure production is frothing at the mouth for the continuation of Gunnar and I's feud, but I'm not in the mood. I change into my work clothes—jockstrap, jeans, no shirt—before Gunnar shows up, and make my way out to the bar.

Avalon and Tamra are behind it, organizing the liquor on the pink neon back-lit shelves. I lean against the bar, waiting for them to notice me.

Avalon twists to me with a mischievous grin that's almost as bright as her eyes. "I heard I missed out on some fun today." She leans forward, supporting her weight on her elbows. "Maverick told me you went full-on John Wick."

"I think that's a little bit of an exaggeration," I say, scratching at the back of my head. "Have you seen Pookie?"

Tamra rolls her eyes as she turns in a quick circle. "Precious Pookie," she huffs. "You defend him more than you ever defended me."

I'm not in the mood to argue right now, but Tamra makes it a little too easy. "Please give me an example of a time when you needed defending."

She scoffs. "How about the time Dixon kicked me out of his birthday party because I accidentally spilled a drink on the art book of dicks on his coffee table?"

"Bros before hoes." I flash a shit-eating grin and shrug. "Also, that book was signed by the photographer, so totally valid."

"What about the time Kolter threw a glass of wine on me?"

"You told him he smelled like a hospital, which is a crazy thing to say to someone," I say flatly. "Do you have any other examples?"

She purses her lips, searching for a fictional reason to be mad at me.

"While you're doomscrolling through those terrible, terrible memories, maybe you could take a detour through Vegas?"

She narrows her gaze on me, but at this point, she's smart enough to say nothing more. There's a camera aimed squarely over my shoulder.

I clear my throat, proud I've embarrassed her with the footage to back it up. "Now, can either of you girls tell me if you've seen Pookie?"