I could even believe that my father was dumb enough to try to kidnap a child, for whatever reason. But could I ever believe that he had managed to evade the FBI for sixteen years? Were we talking about the same man who sprays whipped cream in his mouth before drinking coffee to make a super cappuccino?

The same guy who thinks he's a brilliant criminal mind if he hides in the cinema bathroom to watch two movies and pay for only one ticket?

There was only one logical explanation for all this. The FBI was made up of fat idiots who not only let a kidnapper slip through their fingers for sixteen years, but now they were also blaming the wrong guy.

I rolled out of the bed where a hundred other troubled teenagers had slept before me. In the mattress above mine slept a guy who looked like he had just escaped from the criminal asylum, but in places like that, looking like a crazy killer was the norm.

"Hey, handsome. If you tell me how to slip out of here for the night, tomorrow I'll give you a joint."

The pshyco grunted, still half asleep. "Window in the staff bathroom. And it better be good stuff."

Simon's stuff was delicious, but the maniac guy would never find out because I wasn’t going to go back in there anytime soon.

I sneaked out of the room where five other guys were sleeping, and crawled through the hallway avoiding the dear educators who guarded us like prison wardens.

As predicted, the indicated window was low, open, and wide enough for a seventeen-year-old who will never become a basketball champion.

I found myself strolling through the center of Sacramento. The night had just been born and I was eager to have some fun.

They hadn't confiscated my backpack with my stuff, which I appreciated, so I took out my phone and dialed my favorite dealer’s number. 

"Hey."

"Where the fuck are you? Drake, if you don't get your ass on stage in six minutes, they won't even let us in here anymore, you got it?"

Oh. Shit. The concert.

Well, concert, now... let's not get carried away with terms. My friends and I played in the corner of a third-rate bar while the customers completely ignored us. It was still more than my father's band had ever achieved. 

"Yeah, sorry, something came up."

Phil must have picked up something from my tone because for once in his life he decided not to nag. "Come here."

...

The performance had temporarily cured all my worries. The post-performance, the one filled with joints rolled by Simon's delicate hands, had extended the healing balm for a few more hours.

My fingers hurt from the force with which I had pressed the strings. I didn't think I could still feel pain in my fingertips after all those years with a guitar in my arms.

"My father taught me how to play..."

Phil, lounging on the grass to my right, burst out laughing. Simon, lying on the other side, chuckled too.

The smoke from our hands rose high, towards the starry sky. It enveloped our scattered instruments on the grass and wrapped around our minds, protecting them from the outside world, at least for that night.

"He really did it... I always knew that one day he would screw up so big that his mess couldn't be fixed. It was me, I'm the screw-up."

Simon stroked my shoulder with a trembling, sorry lip. "You're not a screw-up, D. Your father is an asshole, everyone knows he's an asshole. Why would you be involved?"

"Yeah, but there's asshole and asshole. He's not like your brother, who walks around naked at the zoo and we all laugh about it. This is serious."

"But wait..." Phil mumbled. "...I thought he didn't do it. Didn't you say he didn't do it?"

"How the hell should I know what he did! That FBI guy said wait until you see your brother. Piece of shit. What kind of explanation is that?"

Simon rolled onto his side, sticking to me and snuggling his head against my neck. His hair smelled good, and even though everything tasted like weed in that moment, I could still smell the almond and orange of his shampoo.

My eyes were starting to feel heavy. "Mmmh do you wanna fuck?"

Simon nodded, tucking his leg over mine. Then I felt him start snoring softly.

Oh well...

I turned to Phil.

"Don't try to look at me, D. It wouldn't even get up if you were Scarlett Johansson. God, I'm so high."

"You don't necessarily have to get it up." I complained. "Just suck it."

Phil turned away with a petulant grunt.

"Oh come on, I'm sad... My father kidnapped me. Fuck, I deserve a blowjob."

"You're such a pain in the ass. I can't, Drake, okay?"

"What do you mean you can't?" I tried to sit up and get a better look of him. Simon detached from me, ending up with his face in the grass, drooling everywhere.

Phil stared at me with his dilated pupils. "I'm like... in a relationship."

"Fuck, you have a girlfriend?"

He seemed offended by my surprise. His lips twisted into a crooked grimace. "A boyfriend." He muttered.

It wouldn't have surprised me so much if Phil hadn't spent the five years of our friendship emphasizing how not gay he was. The dear old no homo while you take it up the ass. It was just to relieve tension, he said.

I’d had a rather turbulent coming out in the eighth grade. Simon and Phil had come to my rescue, massacring bullies and homophobic teachers. They were good friends with solid moral principles. Or so I thought.

Then over time, one by one, they came to me with a nice "hey, Drake, you know I'm not gay but..." which is always the introduction to something beautiful.

Simon dropped the act soon after, but Phil, no, Phil had remained firmly straight throughout all our orgies.

"So..." I coughed. How much of an asshole could I be? "You... like this guy?"

"I like him. And I don't want to ruin everything just to suck you off when I'm not even hard."

"Ah, but if you were hard then you would." I grabbed his balls to squeeze them a bit and he slapped me playfully. The kind of things straight friends do.

I wondered how long his fixation on this guy would last. Likely not very long. I couldn't imagine Phil letting go of the chance to fuck Simon's pretty little ass just to stay faithful. It wasn’t something that made much sense.

But I didn't really have the energy to chase that thought. Partly because of the marijuana we had in our lungs, partly because of exhaustion. I was very tired.

"What are you going to do now? I mean... if you find out it's true that he kidnapped you. What will you do?"

"I don't know. The agent said after I meet these guys from Canada I can go home, but I'm not even eighteen yet, and I don't think they'll let my father go so soon... maybe they'll put me in one of those institutions where the Dickhead is."

The Dickhead was our direct supplier of light drugs and his nickname surprisingly had nothing to do with the size of his penis.

Phil grunted an indistinct agreement while taking the final puff of his joint. A first ray of sunlight illuminated the ashes.

"I better go now. Later, you'll introduce me to this miracle guy who finally brought you to the right path. Will you take care of Simon?"

Phil grunted, not at all happy. Knowing him, Simon wouldn't wake up for at least twelve hours.

I left the two lying on the grass, weaving through Phil's legs and the guitar his cousin had lent me. Mine had been pawned months ago, when that brainless of my father gambled away all the money to pay the rent. He thought he was a skilled player, he thought...