Page 30 of Filthy Rock Stars

My old man, who is a fucking horrible bowler, has a bowling alley in his basement. It’s across from the walk-in beer fridge, not far from where he keeps his complete Playboy run and depressingly large collection of porn memorabilia.

I adjust my leather jacket. “What did you do to the cave?” I ask cautiously.

He gestures toward the house. “Here. I’ll show you.” As he starts walking, he pulls out his phone. “Let me just send a couple of texts.”

“Could we not invite anyone over?” I say quickly, following him. “I have to stop by Mom’s still, and I’m headed back to Seattle tonight.”

“It’s just Billy. He was already coming over.”

I groan. “Fuck. Seriously? Are you talking about Billy Prosser?”

He keeps texting. “You know, he coaches the football team now. And his old man is opening a bar in town.”

I have always hated Billy Prosser. We grew up together, and the guy’s a total asshole. He would always rip up this one kid’s homework, I remember, but he was a jock with a symmetrical face, so everyone just let him get away with it.

Elle and I did steal his football senior year. That was fun. We lit it on fire in her backyard and roasted marshmallows on it.

“Why do I care what Billy Prosser is doing? Or his dad?”

He finishes his texts as we reach the rear of the house, a wide porch with a couple grills built into it. “You know I’m still seeing Marianne. She likes to go out after the football games, and Tom Prosser and I haven’t always gotten along, you remember.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustrated and wishing I could get life updates from him without the sugarcoating of bullshit. I was curious about Marianne, though, hopeful dating someone might be good for him.

“Come on,” he says, working his jaw sideways. “Elle and Adrian both come back to see their families all the time. People ask about you, son. They think it’s weird that no one sees you.”

Somehow, the fantastic duo of Elle and Adrian haven’t gotten tired of the hero worship yet. I think Bearhead is sentimental to them because here is where they fell in love or something; I don’t know. Fans are usually great, but having assholes like Billy Prosser acting like we’re best buds is just too much.

Ron pushes open the door to the cave, and immediately, I’m staring at the tackiest shit he’s pulled yet. A giant neon sign fills the back wall,Real Men Only, and beneath it, he’s gotten a couple of cardboard cutouts of women in string bikinis, larger than life-size.

“I found a place online that makes neon signs, and the idea just hit me,” he says, laughing to himself.

All the million reasons that sign is offensive flash through my brain at once. “Ron, that’s fucked up.”

“What?”

“Seriously? What does that even mean? Are you going to ban Marianne now?”

I usually let stuff like this go because it’s easier. Once we start yelling, he sometimes doesn’t stop.

But I don’t mind shooting my mouth off, either.

“It’s my cave,” he says, annoyed right back at me. “I don’t need your big ideas about what’s politically correct down here.”

“Whoa ho ho,” I say as I hold a hand up. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were so easily offended, snowflake.”

Now I’m just trying to piss him off. Whoops.

He pulls out his phone. “Fine. Do you want me to tell Billy not to come over? Is that what this is about?” He tightens his brow. “I’m not asking you for money, son. I haven’t done that in a long time.”

It’s true, but that’s only because I already gave him so damn much. They weren’t great parents, and we’re a family that spends most of our time arguing, but my mom and dad both worked their asses off at shitty jobs while raising me, so it’s the right thing to do.

They’re my parents. Damn it.

Plus, I have so much fucking money, it’s obscene. I give a bunch of it to charities and environmental shit, but there’s always more coming in. Especially since we signed this latest contract.

I sigh and look at the flashing neon. It makes me think about Prince and how my dad would probably think he isn’t a real man because he’s soft and stuff, and that pisses me off all over again.

Not to mention what he would say if he learned that I’m gay. He’d shove me out the door. It’s a reality I can usually bury down and ignore, but today, it stings fresh for some reason.

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