Christian Punk

“Drew," said Wil, "where are we dropping you off?”

“Uh, Carol's parents. San Jacinto. You need a bed, or are you heading for home?”

Wil sighed. “Home.” Home to Lisa. Home to Rodney, their dough-faced sprat with the toxic diapers. Dear God—sometimes he couldn't believe the boy was his. Wil could stare and stare into those beady eyes, trying to find some sign of...

Oh, who was he trying to kid? It was physically impossible to stare into Rodney's eyes: right from the moment the whelp left the womb Rodney had the attention span of a chimp on speed. Wil couldn't stare into those eyes if he'd gone A Clockwork Orange on the brat and strapped him to a chair. Rodney's sole purpose in life was to bookend Wil's misery with careful consideration of what to destroy next. Rodney wrapped his chubby mitts and gums around food, records, books, stray lyric sheets and guitar picks—anything physical that had emotional ties to Wil's soul, including, especially, Lisa. Lisa, once a curvy, nervy, undeniable piece of the Lord's handiwork, now a depressed, misshapen lump who ate ice cream straight from the bucket. Who got lost in thought three minutes into intercourse. Who smelled like she'd just lost a talcum fight with herself...

“Home to the wife and kid,” said Drew. He clucked his tongue. “You lucky dog. Sure wish I was spending the night with my Carol.”

I'll bet you do, thought Wil. He shoved his hip against the amp until the dull ache increased to a sharp pain. He stopped, threw his head back against the kit, and gave up. His hip and head throbbed, feeling worse than ever.

And the truth was, Wil wished he was spending the night with Drew's Carol, too.