Page 7 of Saving Pookie

"Okay, Talon," I say, coming to a stop next to a pink—what other color is there—door. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, but can we please slow this horse race to a crawl?" I scratch the side of my head, digging at the skin beneath my hair. My nerves are on fire. "For example, can we just begin with pleasantries and then tell me what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing because, if I'm being honest, I'm lost as hell."

He rolls his eyes and opens the pink door beside us, leading into a gaudy dressing room with padded pink walls and brass edges. A long mirror covers the far wall with bright lights aimed from the ceiling. There are eight stations in front of the mirror, each looking as if a tornado has recently passed through. I spy with my little eyes: hair spray, water bottles, crushed beer cans, empty liquor bottles, scattered makeup, stained socks, towels, and a box of Magnum condoms. Beside six of the chairs are matching pink cowboy boots, each branded with the same names as the backplates on each of the chairs—Maverick, Boone, Dixon, Gunnar, Kolter, and Braxton.

Talon snaps his fingers in my face. "Where are your clothes?"

I drop my eyes to the wrinkled white shirt and gray sweats I'm wearing.

"You can't be bloody serious," he exclaims. "I'm not British, by the way. I'm just trying this new thing where I'm not cursing so much when I get overwhelmed." He huffs and disappears into a suite on the right side of the room. A moment later, he rolls out a mobile closet and leans against it. "The only time you wear white here is during the wet underwear contests⁠—"

"The what?" I squawk, eyes narrowing on him. "Is this a bar or a strip joint?"

He drags a long inhale until he's spent. "You have no idea what you've walked into, do you? Just pick something from this rack that fits."

I let out a sigh as I peruse the selection of jeans and find a pair that'll fit. I sling them over my shoulder and flip to the backside of the rack where there isn't a single shirt to be found. There are a few pink vests, but they're far too big for my slender frame. I grab one of many brown belts, and beside them, there's a selection of pink jocks, thongs, and briefs—all with the tags, so at least they're brand new. Thankfully, I won't be needing those.

"There are no shirts."

"Oh." His eyes widen. "What an astute observation." He mutters something else under his breath as he shoves the cart back into the other room and comes back to me with his hand on his hip. "Mr. Pink thinks this is his show, and he's half-right. However, he doesn't have his finger on the pulse of reality TV. He swears he sees something in you and swears even more so that you're a perfect fit for the job, but he and I do not share the same sentiments."

Curiosity wins. "What does he see in me?"

He stares at me. "He thinks you're desperate, and hey, I've seen enough Housewives to know desperation can be the key to high ratings. Just the same, it can light an entire production on fire with inauthenticity that will have viewers tuning out faster than a Kid Rock concert."

My mind is stuck on the first sentence.

"He said I was desperate?" I scowl. Sure, he's right. I'm as desperate as one could possibly be, but how the hell does he know that?

"He says a lot of things. It's best if you listen to him when you really need to and brush the things you don't need to listen to aside. He's one of those old, eccentric gays. One of the ancient ones who lived through all the trauma that predated our somewhat comfortable existence."

"Like the AIDS pandemic?"

"And the riots. Police brutality and all that shit. The reason you can go inside this establishment and dance half-naked on the bar is because of people like him. Still, he has a... how shall I say this... propensity to say some outlandish shit. It's best to just brush those remarks off. Us young folk..." he gestures in my direction, "well, you know we have to break our backs keeping our mouths shut."

"How old are you?"

"A lady never reveals her age," he stammers with a forced inhale, and then quickly corrects himself with a smile. "I'm twenty-six. Yes, I know I look great for my age. Yes, I know I'm more accomplished than most twice my age. Yes, I know you're thinking I've lost my goddamn mind. Yes, you're right. I lost it about..." he raises his wrist to the air, checking a non-existent watch... "Ten minutes ago when you showed up late."

"I wasn't late," I grumble.

He ignores my protestation and pulls at the waistband of my jeans, taking a peek. "Well, at least you got the pink underwear memo."

"I see the lack of personal boundaries is contagious around here."

"If you're looking for a safe space, I suggest you walk out now and come back as a patron. This isn't daycare. This is show business, and whatever boundaries you think you have? They will be crashed, wrecked, stomped, smashed, slammed, and every other word that ends with -ed that you can think of."

"Are you saying you don't have boundaries?"

"I'm saying you're a show pony. You're going to be ridden until your hooves fall off, which sounds borderline awful. However, if you ride that horse right, your life is going to change forever." He rips open a closet behind us and grabs a box of electronics. He carries it over to an empty station in front of the mirror and drops it on the counter. "As for my boundaries, they're pretty simple. Don't make my life more difficult than it needs to be. Show up on time. Don't hold anything back, and if you get an inkling in that flat-toned belly of yours that a scene is boring, do something to fix it."

I cock a brow. "Like start a fight?"

"Maybe you're not so boring after all."

I kick off my shoes and climb out of my sweats, standing before Mr. No Boundaries in my stolen pink briefs. "Who said I was boring?"

"I plead the fifth."

I grab the jeans off my shoulder and pull them over my legs, leaving them unbuttoned for now. "Pleading the fifth is usually called upon to protect yourself from liability."