The Complete Rockstar Series

My dad’s words sting like a slap to the face.

“I’ll turn you into a real man if it’s the last thing I do!”

“A fucking fag! My son is not going to be a fucking cocksucking faggot.”

I tried to resist the feelings inside, tried to deny that I was different, but I am who I am and my father hates me for it.

I shake the pills in my hand, then tilt my head back and throw them in my mouth. Swallowing them dry, I lie back on the beach and close my eyes, a trickle of moisture running down my temples.

Sorry dad. I guess you’ll never get the chance to turn me into a real man.

61

Gavin

“C’mon Gav. I’m bored. Let’s do something.”

I see Hawke moving out of the corner of my eye, all fidgety and restless. Nothing new there.

“Hawke, I’m not in the mood, all right?”

He huffs and stomps over to where I’m lying on the couch in my hotel room, feet propped up on one arm. Hawke reaches out and smacks my leg.

“Ow. What’s your problem?” I glare at my best friend.

“Dude, you can’t hide in here all the time.”

“The fuck I can’t.”

“Jesus, Gav. We’ve been in New York for four months. Don’t you want to see some, I don’t know, art or some shit before we finish the album and go back to L.A.?”

My eyebrows must hit my hairline. “Art or some shit?”

Hawke smirks, his unusual eyes flashing behind those black-framed glasses he wears as a shield. “Yeah, some shit. I know you like that kind of stuff.

We could go to the Museum of Modern Art or whatever it is people do in New York. Hell, even Ross went out. Don’t make me go alone, because you know I’ll do it.”

The guilt card, of course. Hawke is the king of that move.

“You suck, you know that?” I swing my feet to the floor, grumbling and groaning. “It’s not like we haven’t been to New York a dozen times before. And just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like art.”

“Maybe, but the fact is you do like art, gay or not. How many times have you been to the Guggenheim? Huh?” Hawke grabs my wrists and hauls me to my feet.

“Guggenheim? Are you feeling all right?” I glance over my shoulder to get a look at my best friend’s face as he shoves me towards the bedroom. “You sure you don’t want to go bungee jumping, or skydiving, or hell… I don’t know, swim in the East River or something equally dangerous?”

Hawke barks out a laugh, giving me a final push into the bedroom. “Get dressed, asshole. We’re going to look at some high-class art. I’m going to enjoy it even if the pretentiousness smothers me to death.”

I grab a clean shirt off of a hanger, sliding it on over my bare chest while shaking my head and smiling.

“Brush your teeth too. I’m not going out in public with a complete slob. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Unable to hold it in, I laugh out loud, sputtering to catch my breath.

“What?” Hawke asks innocently, blinking wide eyes and running a hand through his wild dark hair. His sleeve pushes back, exposing one of the colorful tattoos that spans from his wrist to his shoulder. “I do.”

“Give me five minutes,” I respond, still smiling.

“Five. Not a minute more, Walker.” Hawke spins around to leave the room.