I push up on the bar and lower it on the rack.
“What the hell are you doing pressing without a spot?” He says as I sit and wipe my face with a towel.
“You’re turning into a soft old lady,” I jab.
“It’s fucking dangerous,” he grumbles, and I lift both brows in response.
His eyes flare in the realization that he’s being a helicopter parent, and he flashes me a sheepish grin. “I blame your overprotective mother,” he sighs and cups the back of his neck. “Shit, I really am that dad, aren’t I?”
Dad didn’t have ideal parents. Both were drunks and died within a four-year period after I was born. According to Mom, Dad had to support them when he didn’t have two dimes to rub together, and sadly, it almost kept him from realizing his career dreams. I don’t have a single memory of them. However, I’m well aware that though they weren’t deserving, Dad took care of them financially up until they died. Knowing that, I don’t give him too much shit about being overprotective of me. But together, they have a tendency to be a bit much. Neither of them can go long without checking on me. I sometimes wish I had a sibling to take some of the pressure off.
“It’s fine. I’ll make you spot me next time. You can scrutinize your cuticles while that gut of yours keeps expanding.”
He gives me his signature glare as I chuckle. In truth, Dad is still in pretty good shape and often hits the gym, though not nearly as hard as he used to.
“It’s one of the perks of retiring,” he defends.
I can’t find any good in that statement and say as much. “Are you really done for good?”
He shrugs as if he’s unsure, but more and more, Dad and the rest of the band are turning down gigs, even if they’re just isolated events.
He gives me a pointed look, and I tense, knowing what’s coming. “I’m more interested in what’s about to happen for you.”
I sigh, and he reads the ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ in my expression but doesn’t ease off the gas.
“Just tell me where you’re at.”
Dad is the only one who’s heard my music. Mom has heard me sing and play plenty of times, but hasn’t been made privy to a single song I’ve recorded.
“You’re biased,” I say.
“You know how gifted you are. And it’s not just talent, Easton. It’s an astounding talent. And I think you know that too.” He shakes his head in irritation. “Do you think for one fucking second, I would encourage you in any way if I thought your music didn’t deserve an audience? What you’ve done is mind-blowing, and I’m proud.”
He stuns me with the easy admission, though I’ve seen the way he looks at me after I let him hear a new track. I’ve only allowed him to help me sharpen the sound. So in truth, he has helped produce to a small extent, but most of my work is untouched by anyone. He’s got a lot to do with strengthening my backbone and sharpening my skills as a musician and lyricist, but he’s given me, and continues to give me ample creative space when it comes to my music, knowing I want to do this all on my own.
“It’s all I can do daily to keep from telling your mother we’re finally going to have to share our son—indefinitely.”
He draws the conclusions for my hesitance easily because he’s been absorbed in the meaning behind my lyrics time and again.
“You’re in control of this, son. You made it that way, and I wish to fucking God we’d had it that way when we started out.”
I nod, knowing it’s the truth. Though the Dead Sergeants got signed with one of the biggest labels in music, they were pressured to carry out the will of the label and the other powers that be for years before they were able to negotiate themselves into calling their own shots. I have no intention of following suit in that respect at all.
“It’s just…You’ve worked so fucking hard for this. Now that you’re seriously thinking about doing it, it’s literally all I can do to keep from tearing into you to go for it because you know goddamn well the minute you do…”
He reads my aggravation and lets out a heavy sigh.
“All right, I’ll drop it for now. But if you don’t come upstairs, you know she’s going to—”
“To what?” Mom snaps halfway down the stairs. Dad visibly flinches, a slight fear in his eyes when she reaches the landing, crossing her arms. “What’s she going to do?”
“Jesus, Grenade,” he turns to her, a sparkle in his eye as he pats himself down. I bite my lip to hide my smile because I know what’s coming.