Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
Duncan
I barely hear Bobby come through the door when he finally arrives home at five.
I’d been in my studio for hours, going over the set list, listening to Felix’s songs on Spotify, which I have to say, for someone who’s only been in the business for barely six years, his back catalog is pretty extensive.
He’s a workaholic.
The man has collaborated with so many artists, released ten albums, gone platinum, won fucking four Grammys.
On the outside, it’s easy to see why people like his music.
It’s well produced; it’s high energy.
But the lyrics... the lyrics are mostly lifeless, save for his last album, Black Sea .
The songs there are haunting. The sound, the production, is much darker than his previous nine albums, but I can’t say I dislike them. They feel more... real.
I’m in the middle of drumming to Seasons, the next to last song on the set list when Bobby walks in and scares the goddamn bejesus out of me.
“Christ, Bobby, you almost gave me a heart attack,” I say as he leans in the doorway, smirking.
“Does your inevitable death mean I inherit a massive fortune? Because, if so, I’ll find a way to make it look accidental.”
I shake my head, laughing. I know most parents would think his sense of humor is pretty dark, but Marci and I had the same dark, dry sense of humor. It’s refreshing; it’s familiar.
It’s our love language.
“Unfortunately, no. Having kids sucks the life and the money out of you,” I tease him as I set down my sticks, sliding my hands over my knees.
Bobby frowns. “Out of all the famous parents, I end up with the cheapskate.”
I shake my head, crossing my arms.
I know from his bitter tone something else is bothering him, but just like his mother, he lashes out at the people he loves.
Marci was always better at this sort of thing. Talking about feelings.
I can’t help that I respond to his tone, instead of asking what’s wrong.
Sue me, I’m his father.
A good roast is fine, but I’m not about to let him disrespect the hard work I put into this family, the sacrifices I’m making so he can have a good, comfortable life with good opportunities. Opportunities a smart kid like him deserves.
“Right. I’m such a cheapskate. I took a job playing for one of the biggest acts on one of the biggest tours, just so you could go to college.”
Bobby frowns. “Dad, I didn’t mean?—”
“I have always done what is needed to give you better opportunities. Opportunities I didn’t have when I was your age...”
Bobby’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s not fair. When you were my age, you were playing shows on the strip, and auditioning for record labels, and I—” He shakes his head, pushing away from the door, and I can see the strain in his body language.
I get up, immediately following him. “What? You what?” I bite, my tone much harsher than I intend it to be.
“Nothing,” he says as he heads for the kitchen, throwing his backpack on the floor by the couch.
He opens the fridge, taking out a seltzer water.
What sixteen-year old drinks dragon fruit flavored soda water?
“Bullshit, Bobby. Something’s up. “
Bobby glares at me as he drinks his seltzer. “Just forget it. Forget I said anything.”
I know I’m at a crossroads. I can press him, but the last thing I want to do is push him away more. I want the kid to talk to me.
But I also know I’m terrible at teenager bullshit. For all I know, the kid is just hangry.
I fix my glare at him. “I don’t know what is going on, and I won’t push you. But, taking out your bullshit on me, talking down to me like I’m not busting my ass to give you everything, I won’t tolerate that shit, Bobby. Your mother wouldn’t tolerate that shit.”
I know the moment I say it, it’s the wrong thing to say.
Bobby’s lip quivers and his eyes glaze over.
We don’t talk about Marci. Ever.
“Whatever. Sorry I interrupted your important research, ” he says coldly as he turns away from me.
“Bobby...” I call out after him, but it’s too late. He’s in his room, door shut, and probably blocking out the world with his headphones.
Real smooth, Duncan.
I sigh as I look at the clock, which boasts it’s a quarter to six. I hadn’t meant to get so involved in playing and researching. I open the fridge, taking stock of what we have, trying to figure out what to make for dinner when I settle on a plate labeled Dad which is filled with chicken, mashed potatoes, and some green vegetable I can’t decipher. But it looks amazing, and I suddenly feel like absolute shit.
Why are teenagers so difficult?
I sigh as I push it back, opting to make some stir-fry.
I’m not the best cook, not like Marci was. She had a passion for food, and I’m pretty sure that’s where Bobby gets it from.
I’m not completely inept, but I’m not making Duck à l’Orange either.
I pull out the veggies in the fridge that need to be used up. Some red pepper, green onion, and a dried chili pepper.
I put my headphones back in and continue to listen to the Black Sea album while I prep.
Felix’s raspy vocals settle over me as he sings.
The waves keep coming, I can barely breathe, burying cities, burying me.
The atmospheric chill of the music combined with the evident pain in his vocals makes me stop mid-pepper chop.
I look down the hall, at Bobby’s closed door as Felix sings.
I keep treading water, but the ocean’s too deep
I keep trying to be the biggest shark, but I’m fucking weak.
Something about his words hits me in the stomach like a sucker-punch.
I resume my chopping, listening to Felix croon out haunting lyrics about hiding oneself away from the world, and for a moment, I sympathize.
For a moment, I feel like Felix has opened a window into his soul, like he’s screaming for someone to see the truth.
Either that, or he’s actually a really decent songwriter who’s overshadowed by big wigs like Palo.
I get lost in the music as I chop, sauté, and cook up my vegetables, chicken, and noodles.
Once I’ve plated everything up, I pause my music. Once the table is set, I head down to the hall to knock on Bobby’s door.
He doesn’t answer, so much as grunt, which tells me he is probably under the spell of his own headphones, or in the middle of one of those online games he likes to play.
“Hey, uh... dinner’s ready. When you are, I mean,” I say, standing outside his door.
Just as I am about to give up and leave, he opens it, his gaze flashing up at me with sadness.
Was he crying ?
Before I can ask, he shakes off the look of disdain, replacing it with his normal resting teenager face.
“What did you order this time?” he asks skeptically, and I sigh, crossing my arms.
“I can cook, too, you know. You didn’t get to be a full-fledged teenager without my cooking skills. I kept you alive.”
Bobby rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not a plant, dad.”
“Really? Because you seem pretty plant-like to me. Sitting in one place—” I glance at the rumpled bed behind him. “Lacking a bit of sunlight though,” I say as he sighs.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, throwing his arms around my waist.
I have to fight my grin as I wrap my large arms around his much smaller frame.
“You’re sorry, huh?” I ease up.
I can’t remember the last time I got a hug voluntarily. He must feel pretty bad, and something about that makes me feel bad, too.
I hate seeing him anything but happy.
As soon as it comes, it’s gone as he pushes away from me.
“I know I’m not perfect, Bobby. But I know when something is fucked. I don’t know what’s got you all off on a tear, but you know whatever it is, you can talk to me.”
Bobby twists his lips, almost as if he is truly thinking about coming clean.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he walks past me, headed toward the kitchen.
“I know. But some things I just have to figure out on my own, Dad.”
My heart breaks a little at his admission.
I know part of parenting is raising your kids to be self-sufficient.
To not need you.
But damn it if I don’t want to be needed, and not just by Bobby.
I want someone to need me again, like I needed my wife.
I need someone to want me the way she wanted me. Like I am everything.
Following him down to the kitchen, I take the small victory.
We sit down, and the silence isn’t as awkward as it should be.
I spin my noodles around my fork, the sauce nice and thick, full of spice.
Not too bad, if I do say so myself.
I watch as Bobby cuts up his vegetables and noodles.
“How... how did it go today? At rehearsal with... Felix?” He attempts to make conversation, but I can tell something is still bothering him.
“Okay, I guess. He’s just, uh...”
“What?” Bobby blows on his noodles, looking at me with confusion.
I wasn’t forced to sign an NDA or anything, but a part of me wonders just how much I should tell my kid.
Granted, he knows his mother and I weren’t saints by any means, before we had him, anyway...
But he is still a kid.
“He’s a complex individual,” I say carefully.
Bobby chuckles. “If by complex you mean a loose cannon, and a total hot topic...”
My eyebrows furrow. “I didn’t think you listened to Felix Hart.”
Bobby shrugs in between bites. “Sometimes you can’t get away from certain musicians. Plus every girl in my class is like... obsessed with him ever since he did that spread in Playgirl.” Immediately, he blushes, realizing what he’s said.
“I mean... not that I’ve seen it. I’ve just... heard about it.”
I let out a chuckle as he averts his gaze.
“Is that what you’re worried about? You think I’m going to be mad to discover you look at softcore porn?” I taunt him.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little alarm goes off. He wouldn’t be the first kid to look at porn in this day and age.
God only knows what I had available to me when I was sixteen.
He turns about six shades of red, and his vehement dismissal makes me want to laugh.
“I don’t!” he says sternly. “I’m serious!”
I raise my hands in a truce. “It’s perfectly natural for a sixteen year old to?—”
“Please don’t, Dad. I’m trying to eat,” he says hurriedly.
Perhaps I struck a nerve. While I’d love more than anything to press his buttons on a topic that embarrasses him so much, he is right. We do need to eat.
He doesn’t waste the chance to transition through my offered silence and changes the subject back to something more familiar. Felix.
“Besides, I mean, his music is okay... A little emo for my taste, but Brendan...”
Bobby stops mid-speak, looking like he’s seen a ghost.
“Who’s Brendan?” I ask, because I’ve never heard Bobby talk about his friends in a good while.
Well, not since his freshman year, really. The last couple years, the kid’s kept to himself a lot.
“No one,” he says hurriedly.
I nod, returning to my stir-fry. Maybe he’s the reason Bobby is upset. Maybe they had an argument or something.
Maybe they like the same girl. Who knows.
When he’s finished, he cleans up his plate and mine.
“You must feel pretty shitty if you’re doing the dishes,” I jab at him. “Think I can squeeze a ‘take the trash out’ in there, too? Or does that cost extra?”
Bobby rolls his eyes at me. “Fine,” he groans
“If you need me, you know where to find me,” I say as I put my headphones back in, giving him space.
Bobby nods. “Yeah, of course. I’m probably just going to, uh... do some homework, shower, and go to bed.”
I look at the clock, noting it’s barely nine pm, but then again, I know teenagers, especially boys, need a lot of sleep.
Bobby isn’t any different.
“Cool,” I respond as Felix’s raspy voice fills my ears.
When I get to my man cave, I plop my ass down in my chair, and fire up my computer.
While I continue listening to Felix’s latest album, I do a little research that doesn’t have anything to do with his music.
According to Bobby, his insinuation that Felix is some kind of sex god the ladies are all in a twist for, feels somewhat spot on, but I can’t put my finger on why that bothers me.
A quick search on Felix Hart Dating brings up many people he’s been rumored to be dating at one point or another, including the pop singer Jinger Holloway.
But despite his rumored attachments, Felix isn’t the one who’s been photographed in precarious situations with women.
It’s his bandmate, Sullivan Reign.
My mind wanders to the other night, when we’d found Felix literally showing off his dick on everyone while screaming at his bandmate, “ They’ll never be me.”
The words bounce around in my head, trying to make sense, but I can’t discern the words of a drunk man.
People say a lot of weird and fucked up shit when they are messed up.
As I click out of an article about Felix and his rumored break up with Jinger, I see the next headline.
Felix Hart Bares It All.
The tagline of Playgirl pulls my attention, not because I’m an avid reader, but because I remember when Issax did a spread for the magazine.
They’d tried to get us all in on the gig, but I was too self-conscious at the time to let anyone but Marci—or Issax, once in a blue moon—see my frank and beans.
In the end, it ended up just being Issax in the issue, and there was no full money shot. Just a bunch of images of him lying naked with his guitar covering his dick.
It was still a pretty hot spread, though, at the time.
I know I shouldn’t. But honestly, anyone in the biz knows if it’s on the Internet, it’s meant to be seen right?
I mean, for God’s sake, it’s in a popular magazine, not on PornHub.
I click the link, if only to look at the cover.
The cover, which, like Issax had done, has Felix standing, legs apart with a bright candy-apple red guitar hiding his junk.
I chuckle a little at the fact that apparently after thirty years, the magazine is reusing the same shit.
Guess some things stand the test of time.
My gaze trails over his knuckles, up his arms. While both his arms are covered in tattoos, I can see the hint of something curling from around his hips.
His haughty gaze stares at me through the computer, and accidentally, I click the arrow. Fumbling to click back, the computer loads before it can register my stupid, thick fingers, and before I know it, the air is knocked out of my fucking lungs.
It’s like a train wreck, and I can’t look away.
Felix’s long, lithe body covers my screen, and the first thought—perhaps the only thought in my brain at the moment—is that the headline was much more literal than I thought.
Spread out against black satin sheets, his sizable tattooed cock stares at me, and I feel hot as hell.
A tattoo of the infinity symbol stands out at his base, making the long, pronounced veins protruding from it much more noticeable.
He holds his cock in his hand, the veins in his hand in stark contrast to the prominent ones on his rod.
Bright blue eyes gaze out at me from beneath golden strands of messy hair, his mouth parted, skin glistening, no doubt from the oil slathered over him.
“Holy fuck,” I curse under my breath as his song-like groans fill my ears from a song I’ve heard before.
Carnage.
Felix sings about total destruction, about loving someone so terribly, so raw that all there is is devastation in its wake.
His raspy vocals and whisper-song groans mixed with his haughty look and his hard cock in his hand...
My own cock throbs.
I hurriedly click off of the photo, but fate must be playing a cruel joke on me.
Because the next photo that pops up has Felix in a chair, legs spread as he arches his back and holds his rigid length up to showcase a sliver of silver penetrating his flesh just beneath the spot where his scrotum meets his shaft.
A fucking lorum piercing.
I swallow harshly, remembering when Issax—high as shit—went and got a fucking Prince Albert.
Though I can say without a doubt, the tiny bar that accents Felix’s skin isn’t a bad look for him.
My cock twitches in my pants uncomfortably. I slide my hand beneath my pants, if only to adjust myself, but it’s no use.
Felix’s spread, the memory of Issax and Marci and my glory days...
I know there’s only one way to quiet the monster, so I don’t think twice.
I shift my pants and boxers down enough that I can free my swollen cock.
Swallowing nervously, I run my palm over the underside of my shaft, where Felix is pierced.
I imagine the tiny silver bar against my fingertips, as a memory from long ago reminds me what steel through a cock feels like against them.
I rock my hips as I build my rhythm, the sensation of euphoria building like a wave. Back and forth, back and forth.
I let my gaze focus on his oil-slicked skin, his vibrant tattoos.
His thick, pink, tattooed cock.
I try not to think about the fact it’s Felix.
Because that would be weird.
The man who acts like a spoiled child is so vastly different from the raspy-voiced singer in my ear, from the sinful looking man holding his cock, teasing me with his piercing.
They aren’t the same person.
They can’t be.
My balls tighten, and I know I’m close. I fist my cock faster, letting my head fall back, closing my eyes.
When I come, it’s full of relief.
My heavy cock twitches as I press my head against my shirt, cursing myself that I’ll have to do the laundry tomorrow.
I fumble for my desk drawer, my muscles feeling a bit like jello.
Good thing I keep a towel in here. Christ.
When I come back from the heavens and my cock has softened, I feel guilty.
Not because of what I did, but because Felix’s bright blue eyes stare at me in judgment as the last line of Carnage rings out in my ear.
You think you can escape the devastation you leave in your wake
But you can’t fight the carnage, baby, because your carnage is mine to take.