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?”
“I’ll have a beer.”
“What kind?” the bartender asked, although he kept looking down the bar as if he were trying to be in two places at once.
“Whatever is fine,” Getty shouted when the place got louder.
The guy opened a beer bottle and placed it on the counter. Getty paid for it, grabbed the bottle, and sucked half the contents down.
He was starting to regret coming here. Getty was used to the peace and quiet, and this place was cosmically loud. It was also too damn crowded. Men kept bumping into him, stepping on his toes, and not one damn apology.
He spotted a balcony and decided to go upstairs. It seemed less crowded up there. He had to fight to get to the stairs then was bumped numerous times getting to the second floor.
Getty pressed himself against the wall and waited for everyone to pass him before he spotted an empty couch. He dropped onto it and sat back, looking up at