Page 40 of Dirty Rock

“I just don’t understand where that voice of yours came from.”

A fleeting thought of my biological father flashed through my mind, but I quickly pushed it away and focused on the woman in front of me—the parent who’d stuck around. I had no idea if she knew of my real dad’s fate or not. She hadn’t given me too much history or many details, other than his name, and that he’d never been around, which was a blessing, not a curse. I hadn’t really wanted to press her, either. Parents and secrets went hand in hand, but as a fully grown adult—at least in body—could I blame them? As their kids, we think we have a right to know our parents every thought and past. I hoped like hell that any kids I had in the future wouldn’t find out about half of the sordid crap I’d put myself through.

“Maybe I was the milkman’s?” I joked.

Ma pushed off the doorframe and rolled her eyes. “Please. Give me some credit. The postman was far better looking.” She winked, and I huffed out a laugh in response. Ma walked closer until she was in front of me, brushing invisible crumbs or fluff off my T-shirt just so she had a reason to touch her son and be close to him. It was a small thing she always did, and I loved her too much to deny her.

“Ollie’s downstairs. Says he wants to take you to The Speckled Hen for a pint.”

“Nice one.”

“Are you going to go?”

“Out with my oldest friend? Sure as shi—” Ma looked up at me sternly, that one look saying enough, even if I did smirk in response. “I sure ashellam going for a pint, is what I meant.”

Ma patted my chest twice. “Just… be careful.”

“Has Cookham had a rise in gun and knife crime since I’ve been gone?”

“And don’t be sarcastic.” She playfully slapped my arm and turned her back on me. “You’re home now, son. You don’t get to be cocky here.”

She was heading back down the stairs when I heard the voice of my best friend calling up to me, “Get down here, Bieber!”

“Dickhead,” I muttered, shaking my head, and reaching for my denim jacket on my way out of my room.

Ollie Lucas had been one of my only real friends during high school. Every time someone had taken a boot to my stomach, Ollie had been there to defend me as best he could—which hadn’t been all that well, considering he’d been as weak as me back then. While other friends drifted away to more popular circles, Ollie and I had become a pack of two. Apparently, we’d been easy targets for the rugby playing, physically fit, hard bastards back then. We’d been too focused on our ripped jeans, shitty hairstyles, and what new track Green Day were releasing to care about being strong or fighting back.

Hard times make good poets, and I lived for the words I now sang.

I bounced down the stairs to see Ollie standing there in an outfit that looked like his mother had bought it straight from the house husband’s department of Debenhams. Blue jeans, a white oxford shirt, and tan coloured shoes. I stopped on the bottom step and looked down at him and his cheesy smile. At just under six-feet tall, Ollie had blonde hair that had grown into a style of curtains that suited rich kids from London.

“Yikes.” I cringed. “Who got their claws into you and made you forty?”

He glanced down at his clothes with a small chuckle. “What you saying?”

“You went and grew up on me.”

“We can’t all stay seventeen forever, mate. Some of us had to go out and get a real job.”

“What the hell for?”

“Security. I have bills to pay. A roof to keep over my head. A fiancé to keep happy.”

“Fiancé?” I cried, my eyes popping.

“I didn’t tell you?” He smirked, narrowing an eye.

“Who is she?”

“Ebony Mitchell.”

“Ebony fucking Mitchell?” That time I shouted. Ebony had been the hottie of our high school back in the day. She didn’t look at anyone who didn’t dance like Zac Efron or wasn’t ripped like The Rock. She’d been the black beauty of Cookham, with her flawless skin, bright white teeth, and eyes that could give you a stiffy with a single glance. Known as the best dancer in Southern England, everyone in our village had been certain she’d end up on the stage in the West End. Apparently, that hadn’t happened. It turned out I was to be the star of this village, and that pissed a few of the locals off. They wanted to be known for quiet, upper-class ballet, and I threw it all to shit by blasting out my hard and heavy rock.

“The one and only.” Ollie shrugged, looking mighty pleased with himself.

I hopped down off the last step and slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, mate. Well done. Punching above your weight has got to be exhausting.”

“Says the man who once screwed JJ Jones.”

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