Chapter One
“Hey, Getty, I need to borrow twenty bucks.”
Getty Jones gritted out a tight smile as he reached for his wallet and handed his dad the money.
“Thanks.” His dad walked away, his girlfriend hurrying to catch up to him.
Getty ran a hand over his face, cursing under his breath as he stormed to his room and closed the door. This was complete and utter bullshit.
He snatched his phone off his dresser and dropped onto his bed, dialing his brother. When Pete answered, Getty snarled, “I’m so tired of this, man. So damn tired of it.”
Pete clucked his tongue. “Welp, I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have to tell you not to let dad and his bimbo move in. You should’ve known better.”
“You are absolutely no help. Maybe I just called you to vent. Maybe I’m not looking for advice or even a solution. Sometimes you can be a real dick, Peter.”
“That got old when we were kids,” Pete said. “Besides, Dad’s the dick since his name is Richard. What’s going on now?”
“Everything!” Getty hung his head, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. “Dad hasn’t worked in two months. He keeps saying he’s looking for a job, but hell if I see him doing that. His girlfriend is a deadbeat, too. She keeps asking for change so she can buy loose cigarettes, and Dad just bummed twenty bucks. How much do you wanna bet it’s for booze?”
Getty had made it clear that he didn’t want any smoking in his house, but he suspected she did it anyway. He hadn’t smelled it, but she was the type to do whatever she wanted.
“Kick them out.”
Getty growled. “You come over here and tell your father he has to live on the streets. The only thing that’ll happen if I say anything is an argument I don’t have the energy for.”
Or the guts. Besides, Getty loved his father, he really did, and didn’t have the heart to put him out on the street. Now Bimbo? Getty would kick her ass out in a heartbeat if he thought she would go or that his dad would allow him to do that.
Getty was such a goddamn wuss.
“It’s your house,” Pete argued. “If he doesn’t have enough respect to help out, then he’s gotta go. Does Bimbo do anything around there besides suck his dick?”
“Gross!” Now Getty had that image stuck in his head. It was not a mental picture he’d wanted. “No, she just sits around on her ass. At least Dad tries to do the dishes and vacuum, when he isn’t drunk.”
“Here’s an idea,” Pete said. “Why don’t you move out, find a smaller place that has only one bedroom so no one can move in, and leave Dad and Bimbo there?”
Getty wasn’t even sure of her real name. Amy? Ashley? He couldn’t recall. Bimbo was what he and Pete called her because she dressed like a damn floozy and wore so much makeup that Getty probably wouldn’t recognize her if she went without it.
But his dad sure seemed to love her, when they weren’t screaming at each other.
“You might be on to something,” Getty said. He might have taken Pete’s idea seriously if he didn’t own his house. There was no way he was letting his dad and his slut run him out of his own home.
Getty just had to come up with a solution. Even if he had the spine to tell his dad he had to move out, his father wouldn’t do it, not when he had nowhere to go.
“I have no idea what to tell you.” Pete sighed. “I really wish you hadn’t let him move in.”
There was no love lost between Pete and their father. Their dad had gotten drunk as fuck at Pete’s wedding, embarrassing Pete and his new bride. Even before that, Pete and their dad had gotten into many, many arguments over the years about his dad’s drinking, his lack of motivation, and how their father needed to act like a man.
“He was being kicked out of his apartment,” Getty reminded his brother. “I felt trapped when he came over, pleading for me to let him stay a few weeks until he was back on his feet.”
Pete snorted. “Why do you think Mom left him?”
Getty wished he could move in with his mother, but she’d remarried and was living halfway across the world. Pete was married with two kids. No way could Getty crash there.
He felt so damn miserable that he wanted to cry. Worse, he made good money working from home. He was a web designer, and his father knew Getty had a good gig. Every freaking time Getty turned around, his dad had his hand out.
“I’m gonna go get drunk,” Getty muttered. “I need to get out of the house before I’m arrested for murder.”
“Call me if you need bail money.” Pete hung up.
Getty tossed aside his phone and fell backward on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He spent most of his time in his room just to avoid his dad and Bimbo. Even her voice grated on his nerves.
Fuck it. He was going out and getting smashed. He’d grab an Uber home. Hopefully his dad and her would be asleep by the time he crawled through the door.
Too bad Pete had gotten married and popped out a few kids. They used to have fun hitting the bars and staying out until the wee hours of the morning. Now Getty had no one he could call.
How pathetic was that? He’d lost touch with a lot of his friends and, because he worked so much, hadn’t made any new ones. Except his online friends, of which there were three Two lived halfway around the world, and Blaster lived three states away.
So they were out of the question. To be honest, Getty really didn’t feel like going out, but he needed to clear his mind, forget his life was in shambles, and maybe, just maybe, he could get laid.
He showered and dressed then peeked out his door to make sure no one was around. He heard the two laughing upstairs, and prayed they didn’t come down for anything.
Getty knew he should’ve used the spare bedroom as storage space or an office. Now he had two deadbeats running up his utilities, eating his food, and draining his wallet dry.
With a grunt of disgust, Getty locked his bedroom door, hurried out the front door, jumped into his sedan, and pulled from the driveway.
God, it felt good to get out. He rolled his window down and let the wind blow on his face, smiling as he hummed to himself. The parking lot at Pump was packed as he pulled in, trying to find a place to park.
A black SUV pulled out of a space, and Getty was quick to pull in. If his father knew Getty was at a gay club, he’d flip his lid.
Why did he hide the fact that he was gay from his dad? Because he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to get into an argument with his old man, didn’t want the guy all up in his life.
And as pathetic as it was, he didn’t want his father judging him.
“One day I’m going to grow a backbone and stand up to him,” Getty muttered to himself. He wished he had the guts. “Just forget about it and have a good time.”
Getty got out and went inside. The music was blasting out a solid beat, the place was packed, and fuck, there were so many good-looking guys that he didn’t even know where to begin.
The bar. That was where he would begin because he needed the liquid courage just to talk to someone. Not that he was bad looking, but he sucked at flirting, at striking up conversations, and when he did actually talk to someone, he was always at a loss for words.
A blond who looked like a freaking diva came over to him when he managed to squeeze close to the counter. “What can I get for you?”