Only Seventeen

~ 3 ~

*~*~Justin's POV~*~*

I wake up and immediately hear my mother arguing once again on the phone. Glancing at the clock next to my mattress on the floor, I see that it's half past eight. Mom's late for work again and I have a pretty good idea whose fault that is. I don't have to start until one and the idea to pull the covers over my head and fall back asleep crosses my mind, but my stomach gurgles and the urge to piss overpowers. With a grunt and groan, I heave myself off the mattress and to the door.

I hate mornings.

Her words get louder and her voice harsher with each of my steps toward the kitchen. I wave slightly when I'm in her line of sight and head for the refrigerator. She's used to me being there during her tirades and frankly, I think she likes that I'm on her side. So much so, that she's almost stopped bugging me about talking to him. I think my mother realizes that it's not going to help any because I don't want it to; that when I do, I will, but until then, leave me the fuck alone.

While pouring my glass of orange juice, I turn my attention back to her conversation and discover that, surprise, it's the same thing they've been fighting about for the last three months and probably before that.

Money.

Or our lack of it, more likely. He sold the house a week after we moved and fought tooth and nail for the profits, but Mom's lawyer chewed him another asshole and my sperm-donor relented. Now, he refuses to pay child-support for me because I turn 18 in less than a year. His belief is that I should be pulling my own weight and thus not needing any further assistance.

He's an ass and I tell him every chance I get.

I, also, tell him that I do pull my own weight, which is more than his sorry ass can say considering his parents paid for everything. He kindly reminds me that mine did also until recent developments. Did I forget to mention that along with my bed frame and the soiled Le Corbusier table, my $50,000 convertible -2004 Mercedes Benz no less-is sitting in a storage unit just waiting to get stolen? The thing is, I didn't even want it. I wanted the midnight black Jeep Wrangler with convertible roof, but my father didn't want his only son driving around in the fag mobile. Irony aside, he bought me the Benz when I got my license. Frankly, it's mine and I really don't want it stolen. I'd feel the same way if it was a fourteen-year-old Cutlass Supreme that's seen more accidents than I have cocks. It's pride of ownership, at least that's what I tell myself.

"He's so infuriating." My mother screams and slams the phone on to the white countertop of the island.

"What now?" I ask even though I know the answer. I figure it helps her some to vent her frustrations on me.

"He calls me and starts in on how he doesn't believe you should be on his insurance any longer because he never sees you and you don't want anything to do with him. I reminded him that it's five o'clock in the morning his time and to be calling at that hour he's most likely drunk. He said that drunk or not the facts were still the same." She notices the forlorn look on my face and rushes over to give me a hug. "I'm sorry, baby."

I brush her off. "It's not your fault, okay." I swallow the lump forming in my throat and will the tears away. Just because I hate him right now, doesn't mean he has to hate me. It's kind of that realization that your parents aren't going to always be there to make everything all better. "You should get to work. I don't want your boss firing you for being late. Again."

"I'm supposed to be the parent here, remember?" She smiles weakly and gives me a kiss on the forehead before grabbing her briefcase and rushing out.

As I watch her leave I think, I'd rather be the parent in this whole fucking situation because truthfully, being the kid sucks.

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*~*~Brian's POV~*~*

My eye peeks open involuntarily and is greeted by a wave of morning sun. The pounding in my head can stop at anytime. I roll over and glare at the blinking red numbers of my alarm. It's too early and my hangover is too new for me to logically read what is right in front of me, so I turn over and attempt to fall back asleep.

No such luck. God, I hate mornings.

Babylon was a fucking dream last night. The backroom was full of men slightly above mediocre, drooling to get at what I have to offer. Yeah, my ego could fill the fucking club, but I'm digressing.

I don't remember coming home or how I got home. I'll assume that Mikey had some hand in that. I'll have to thank him, later.

He wouldn't forgive me if I didn't. Though, it's not like I asked him to be my bodyguard; he kind of assumed the role on his own.

I role out of bed, leaving my thoughts behind, and traipse towards the bathroom. I don't feel sick, which is a first after a night like last night, but I opt not to question it. Instead, I strip naked and climb in the shower, turning the water on and directing the nozzle at my face. Maybe this will wake me up.

I hear Claire downstairs and she's making more fucking noise then an elephant stampede. It's fucking ridiculous. She usually knows when something is up and I guess today is no different. I walk down the stairs in my jeans and black wife beater, looking hot as hell.

"Slept kind of late, don't you think?" She asks in a condescending tone.

"Fuck off." I answer simply.

"Fine." She shoved another pot in the cupboard and then turned to look at me. Her hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised. "Don't expect me to save you next time you're late for work."

That's when I look at the clock and realize it's later than I thought. It's close to two. I should have been there an hour ago.

Shit!

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*~*~Justin's POV~*~*

I pick up a plate covered in grime and something slimy in the corner -I'm hoping it's egg--, suppress my urge to gag, and toss it in the gray bin to let it mingle with the other grimy, filthy, slime covered plates.

People are slobs.

Between my huffs and heavy sighs, I move on to the next table. I hate this place. Mom says that it's a job and to be proud of it. I am proud, sort of.

"Not like the club, is it?" A voice behind me asks. I roll my eyes, which I have a tendency to do lately and turn around. What's the use in trying to cover it up? My whole persona screams 'Country Club'. I have that well-groomed, nicely spoken manner that only comes with good training. I like to refer to it as brainwashing, but that's just me.

"Not exactly." I answer with a tongue in cheek smile. The recipient of that facetious tone isn't who I expected it to be. My smile disappears and in its place pops a lustful gaze. Brian, I think that's what Deb called him the other day, is standing in front of me in all his glory.

"You'll get use to it." Brian says before turning towards the kitchen.

"The tips suck, the people are rude, and the job is beyond gross." I groan inwardly after I say it because he'll probably assume I'm a whiny, little, rich kid, which I am, sort of, but that doesn't mean I want him to think that.

"You work when all the customers are also working and only the hustlers are out. They're just kids like us and whatever they make they horde." He smirks slightly and looks me up and down. "Yeah, you'll get use to it."

He turns and walks back to the kitchen leaving me with a stupid grin on my face and a bucket full of wretched dishes.

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