Starting From the Top (Starting from 5)

“No, not me. My son.” He waved dismissively. “Forget it. Even if you had time, I’m not sure Parker would want to do it. I’ve been told I need to get a better handle on teenage-speak. I’m pretty sure one of the rules is not to assume you know what’s going on in a thirteen-year-old’s head.”

I nodded as though I had the adolescent insight he lacked. I didn’t. I’d left the worst of my teenage angst behind years ago, thank fuck. “I thought you said he was twelve.”

“He’ll be thirteen in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, I get it. You want to give him a killer birthday gift. A guitar and lessons from a rock god. Nice touch.”

“Do you know any rock gods?” he deadpanned.

I grinned. “Fuck off.”

Sean twisted his lips in amusement and pointed to the street. “Out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey, that kiss isn’t gonna make it weird between us, is it?”

“What kiss?”

“Excellent. Tell Lullah good-bye for me.” I raised the color wheel over my head like it was the neck of a guitar and strummed invisible strings as I walked backward into the shadows.

I thought I heard him laugh before he closed the door, and I liked the idea more than I should have. I took perverse pleasure in getting a chuckle out of super serious types like Sean. He had a better sense of humor than I’d thought. Truthfully, he seemed…cool. The dog alone gave him chill credit. Add the proud yet concerned paternal aura, and I had to admit I was intrigued. If he really wanted to arrange guitar lessons for his kid, I’d help him find someone trustworthy.

And maybe he’d hook me up with a hot dude who’d greet me in his birthday suit. Oh man, I couldn’t wait to tell the guys about my unexpected detour tonight…minus the kiss, of course.

2

Johnny

I didn’t tell anyone.

In the light of day, I felt oddly protective of our neighborly exchange for reasons I couldn’t explain. I figured my possessive weirdness had something to do with spending my first night in my new house. Now that might sound random, but for a guy who’d lived in crappy apartments his whole life, home ownership was a big fucking deal.

Every little detail was significant…from the first half-eaten pint of ice cream I stored in my top-of-the-line Sub-Zero freezer and the Mandalorian marathon I watched on my computer to my brief hangout session with Sean. Being lead guitarist in an almost-famous band was insanely cool, but having a place of my own…something I’d earned that couldn’t be taken away from me—that was special.

The kind of special I needed to keep to myself for now. Because if I started talking and blabbed about that kiss, I might never live it down.

Christ, I still couldn’t believe that had happened. I rubbed the back of my head as though checking for physical proof I hadn’t been dreaming, wrinkling my nose in distaste at the wicked tequila concoction in my free hand. Apparently, Dec had followed a recipe Charlie had given him, and this was the end result. Yuck.

“What do you think of the cocktail?” Dec asked, bumping my elbow companionably.

“It’s disgusting,” I replied.

“You’re supposed to lie, asshole. I made that.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re a great guy, an amazing singer and guitarist, but you’re a sucky bartender.”

Dec took a sip from his red Solo cup and grimaced. “I don’t think this is my fault. There must be something wrong with Charlie’s recipe.”

“Ex-squeeze me?” Charlie sailed between us, tsking indignantly. “I think not. I taste-tested when Ky and I got here. It’s perfect. Tequila, cranberry juice, grapefruit juice, and a touch of orange liqueur. I call it disco diva tequila. Why, you ask? Because it’s got a fabulous, glitzy hue and if you have more than two, any surface will look like a dance floor.”

I snickered when Charlie turned in a circle with his arms above his head, then moved aside to give him room to shake his ass as I cast my gaze over my surroundings. It was a beautiful day.

Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze. Heat lamps were set up around the backyard in case the February afternoon got too chilly. They probably wouldn’t be used tonight. Southern California was enjoying the kind of weather that made the rest of the country jealous…seventy degrees, blue skies, and plenty of sunshine. Perfect party weather.

Laughter drifted above the strains of a John Coltrane classic. Friends, family, and a few work associates gathered near the sleek pool or around the bar set up just outside the Spanish-style bungalow, engaged in cheerful conversation for a housewarming barbecue…rock and roll style. Sometimes, I wanted to pinch myself ’cause I seriously didn’t understand how a punk queer kid raised by a crackhead mom in a one-bedroom apartment in Bellflower ended up here.