10. Booker
Booker
I wait as long as I can before going downstairs to find some food. It’s late afternoon, and I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, since before my flight.
I keep my steps silent on the staircase, but somehow my father finds me within minutes of leaving the haven of my bedroom.
“James. I didn’t hear you get in last night.”
“It was late. You must’ve been asleep,” I say, knowing very well what he was doing, and it wasn’t sleeping.
I close the fridge, turning to look at the man I share half my genetics with.
My mother was Puerto Rican, so I have her black hair and tan skin.
My father’s genes were strong enough to pass on the rest of my traits, though.
He’s tall and broad; I inherited my size and build from him.
To my eternal despair, I also have his soulless gray eyes.
My father is classically handsome in a rough, disheveled rock star way. He’s just over forty, having gotten my mother pregnant when they were young and stupid, and then abandoning her.
“Get dressed. We’re going out for lunch,” he says, turning to walk away.
I know better than to refuse, but my mouth moves before my brain can catch up. “I’m still a bit jet-lagged—”
Crack!
My head snaps to the side as the back of my father’s hand connects with my cheek. We stand there in silence for a beat, me not moving an inch.
“We’re going to lunch,” he says, never changing the inflection of his tone. He walks away, not bothering to wait for me to agree.
We go to eat at a high-end steak and sushi bar for lunch.
The place is packed with people who are here to watch the football games and who don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.
I’m dressed in a pair of designer cargo pants and a black Balenciaga crewneck, something I’d never wear at school.
I knew Dad would be after the paps’ attention, though, and I’d attract more of his wrath if I wore normal clothes.
I’ve also got sunglasses on to cover the bruise forming under my eye.
I can feel people taking our photo, staring, pointing. I always underestimate my father’s fame until I’m tossed back in the middle of it.
After being seen and photographed in public, Ross leaves me alone for the rest of Thursday night and all of Friday.
I barely leave my room, spending my time doing push-ups, sit-ups, anything I can without having to unlock the door.
I make videos with my guitar—not the black Fender I have back home, but an equally expensive red one my dad bought for when he wants me on stage with him.
My dad likes to pull me up for a solo or two during some of his shows, to let the world see I’m his perfect little nepo baby. He tells me I have no talent, that I’d be nothing without him, but he knows my presence brings forth another audience base: younger fans, hockey fans,…girls.
Despite what he says, my name is decently well known, both from playing with him and being drafted to the NHL.
His insistence that I’d be nothing without him is part of the reason I started the anonymous social media account. I can post without my name or face attached, and the six-point-eight million people who follow me prove I’ve got enough talent to make it without his endorsement.
Not that I want to go into music, anyway. The industry is too tainted for me at this point. The NHL is my only goal.
The social media stuff is more of a hobby. And a silent “fuck you” to Ross Booker.
Saturday night rolls around, and Ross has the makeup team prep me for the show. Meaning he’s going to have me come on stage with him and doesn’t want everyone to see my black eye.
I stand off stage during the first half of his show. The older he gets, the less jumping around and dancing he does. But as much as it pains me to admit, the man can sing.
After the intermission, he walks up and pats me on the shoulder. “You’re on for the next one, kid.”
His pupils are blown wide, and he sways slightly, letting me know he took something while he was back in his dressing room.
The drugs don’t affect his ability to perform, though, because he runs back out there, grabs his guitar, and starts right where he left off.
All morning, I was debriefed on the plan for tonight and the set I was to play with him. Luckily, he only wants me on for two songs this time.
“I’ve got something special for you tonight, folks,” my dad shouts into the mic, getting ready to introduce me. “All the way from Pennsylvania, for tonight only! Taking a break from his busy schedule to make time for dear old Dad, let’s hear it for my son, Jameson Booker!”
Plastering on a smile that’s entirely forced, I walk to center stage and wrap my dad in a hug for the crowd.
The fans roar, loving it every time I appear at a show. I’m not sure if it’s a sentimental thing, where people are emotionally invested in the father-son legacy bit, or if this many people genuinely enjoy listening to me. Either way, hearing the fans is the one thing about this I don’t loathe.
Hockey’s the same. I love the rush I get from hearing the crowd cheer my name, and a part of me is horrified by that. I shouldn’t like the attention, the way Ross does, but I do.
Ross has me do one song with him now, singing alongside him. Then, for the rest of the second half, I play backup guitar. The last song of the set, he calls me back up to help him finish out the show.
Chaos ensues after the show ends, and everyone rushes to leave for the after party, which is at our fucking house.
I don’t mind a party in general, but I hate Ross Booker parties.
By the time the driver gets us home, there are a million people both in the house and around the backyard pool area.
Before I can get out of the car, my dad grabs my wrist in a suffocating grip. “Behave. People will be taking photos.”
I jerk my arm away from him, scowling as I climb out of the Rolls-Royce.
When he says “behave,” what he really means is: get drunk and be seen having fun.
As I said, everything is about images with him. It doesn’t matter that I have a flight tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter that being seen at a party with drugs could ruin my NHL career before it even begins. No, the only thing that matters is Ross Booker and his son celebrating a successful show.
I grab a beer from the kitchen and make my way outside, looking for a quiet place to settle in the sea of strangers.
I get stopped by people—mostly women—as I try to traverse the house. One lady, old enough to be my mother, unabashedly palms the front of my jeans as I walk past.
Eventually, I escape the chaos and make it to a mostly secluded corner of the backyard near the pool house.
A vibration from my pocket distracts me from the multitude of party-goers.
Tugging it free, I read a text from my good friend, Claire Wilson.
She’s a spunky, loud, free-spirited girl I met a few years ago at a music festival where my father was playing.
We hooked up a couple of times over the course of that weekend, but neither of us cared to take the relationship any further.
Over the course of those three days, though, we’d done a lot of talking and confiding in one another, and we decided to stay friends. She doesn’t know everything about my past, but she knows Ross is an asshole, and that I hate the “daddy’s boy” routine.
Claire
Claire: You did great tonight!
Me: Thanks. Were you there?
Claire: No, but I’ve seen videos show up online already. More of you than
of Ross.
Me: You probably just searched me, stalker.
Claire: Don’t flatter yourself *middle finger emoji*
Me: You ready for your trip Down Under?
Claire: Sooo ready. I’m gonna be down under so many hot Australians
Me: Ew. Never say that again *puking emoji*
Claire: You love me
Claire: Anyway, I need to finish packing. Hang in there, Jay. Only a few
more hours until you’re home free.
My solitude doesn’t last long after I put my phone away. People begin doing lines of coke off the patio furniture and jumping into the heated pool. I watch warily, trying to make sure none of them is going to drown.
“Hi, Jameson,” a woman greets, leaning her entire body against me. Her tits are about to fall out of her shirt—if the thin piece of lace can even be considered a shirt.
I struggle to unpin my arm from beneath her, nearly spilling my beer when she finally provides enough space for me to get my arm out from between our bodies.
“Hello,” I say with a grimace, taking a huge swig. Just a few more minutes and I can go to my room.
“Your dad said you may be…interested in hanging out with me tonight,” she explains flirtatiously, pushing her hands up under my shirt. I try to back away, but there’s a wall behind me.
“I’ve, um, actually got a flight tomorrow,” I reply, taking another sip and trying in vain to escape her wandering fingers.
She puts on a fake pouty face, arching up to give me more of a view of her chest, not that I needed it. I look away—out toward the pool—and my vision starts to dance. The fuck?
I feel her hands begin to lower, playing with the buckle of my belt. When I look down, trying to move my hand to stop her, my head spins, and I can’t find the words to tell her to quit.
Did…did she put something in my drink?
I lean heavily against the wall, my legs feeling weak. I’ve got to get out of here, quickly. Before the effects get much worse and I can’t move at all.
Somewhere deep inside, I find the strength to push her off and stumble back into the house. I don’t know how, but by some miracle, I make it up the stairs to my room, locking the door behind me.
I all but crawl to my en suite, kneeling over the toilet and gagging myself until I’ve purged everything in my stomach and hopefully the rest of whatever drug that woman slipped into my beer.
Then, I pass out on the cold tile floor.