Page 21 of The Billionaire Is Back

My mother turns her annoyance back to the original source of it. “Don’t you start, mister. That hardly matters.”

“Of course it matters,” my father argues. “It’s totally different. Some drunk guy driving a machine that’s spinning blades is totally different from a guy who’s basically driving a go-kart at less than five miles an hour.”

Here is the battle line that was drawn in my family when I was a kid. Me and my mother, the concerned rule-followers, on one side; my dad and my brother with their tatted-up arms and their shoulders that shrug and saywhat’s the big deal?on the other.

I hold up my hands to signal peace and stop the brewing war. “That still doesn’t explain what you were doing there.Whatis lobster practice?”

My mother’s expression changes yet again. It’s not quite as joyful as it was upon seeing me but much happier than it was when she was thinking about my brother on his ultraslow joyride. “Oh, that. Tell him, Damien.”

“He wouldn’t be interested.” Damien strums a chord as punctuation.

“Try me,” I say.

My brother shrugs. “After all that stuff with the courts, I kinda looked at things and figured I needed something to focus on this summer, since it will be a lot harder to go out. For gigs, you know. I still play solo sometimes. Not that I didn’t get a lot of offers for rides from girls—” He glances over at our mom, who clears her throat. “I mean, I had offers fromwomenwith cars, but anyway, I realized…”

“Here, check it out!” my father exclaims from behind me. I turn, and there are two giant insects with huge pinchers all up in my face.

“What the hell!” I yell and step back. My father is holding two lobsters up in front of me. “Where did those come from?”

“From the pH-balanced tanks in the kitchen,” Dad says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My brother finally puts his guitar down and gets up off the sofa—to be near his shellfish, I guess. “I’m training them for the lobster race!” He bounds over, suddenly full of energy.

“Lobster race?” I’m confused for a second, looking back and forth between family members and crustaceans, and then it hits me. The Beacon Harbor Shellibration festival holds a lobster race every year. “You mean for the festival? End of summer?” I seem to recall signing a check for that, but only Alice would remember the details.

“Yeah. That’s the one. So, you know. We’ve got a little over a month to train, but we’re in it to win it.”

I nod, following now. “That’s great,” I say. I’m not even going to ask why he clearly doesn’t have any kind of job right now because finally getting his shit together is a full-time job and I’m glad he’s finally taking it on. “Yeah. It’s great.”

“Yeah, so the one to your right here is Clawdia Swiffter. She’s the trainer. Gorgeous, right? Her job is to inspire. And my guy who’s going to win me the trophy at the end of summer—this here is my guy.” My brother takes the other lobster from my dad and holds him up with both hands, like that monkey held up the baby lion inThe Lion King. “This right here is Crustaceous Clay.”

I mean, this has been an intense day, but that makes me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in, I don’t know, a decade? “Crustaceous Clay?”

“Yeah,” my brother says confidently, with a determined squint. “He’s a fighter.” He glances over at me for a beat, to make sure I get it. “Like Cassius Clay.”

“Yeah, I get it. He looks like a winner. This is good.” My brother doesn’t even seem to care if he has his big brother’s blessing. I haven’t seen him this enthusiastic about anything since my parents got him his first guitarwhen he was eight.

“Yeah, well, y’know. You’re only as good as the lobsters you’re given, but I got a couple of good ones. I just gotta make sure not to overwork them—or drop them or step on them or…”

“Boil them?” I say.

“Shhhh!” My dad and brother both shush me at the same time.

“We don’t talk about hot water around them,” Damien admonishes. “Or melted butter.” He takes Clawdia Swiffter from my dad and returns both lobsters to the kitchen. “I won’t let anyone cook you guys,” he assures the shellfish. “I promise.”

“Gotta feed those guys before the guests start showing up,” my dad announces. “Nothing but the best for them. Probably gonna have to cook ’em steak after such a long practice.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” my mother says with a wave of her index finger. She’s always wielding that thing like a weapon.

“You would deny those elite athletes the fuel for their bodies to ensure that they become champions?” My father adopts the same tone he would use to reprimand someone for clubbing baby seals or stealing toys from babies.

My mother is completely unfazed as she adopts the tone of a saint explaining her good works. “I’m very concerned for them. I would worry their portions will be a lot smaller than they would be otherwise ifyou’resneaking bites of steak while you’re cooking for them.”

“They’re kidding,” my brother explains. “I have to feed them seafood pellets.”

“Got it. I’ll grill,” I say quickly. “You relax, Dad. I’ll do it.”

“You sure you know how, Mr. Moneybags?” my dad teases. “I know you’ve learned a lot about business, but you’ll never hold a candle to my grilling.”

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