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He was late.Sharon looked out the window hoping to see the lopsided headlights of that godforsaken Trans Am, but all that drove by were the humdrum sedans usually reserved for rental fleets.
It was after 10 and Billy should've brought Gary back by now but her ex-husband had a history of being late, so this wasn't all that unusual. Still, what an asshole, she thought.
When she was done with the dishes she heard the gravel in her driveway mushed by the growls of Billy's 455 engine, and it wasn't long before a little body popped out and ran into the house.
As the boy flicked the hallway light on, Sharon was horrified by what she saw.
"What in Jesus happened to you?" she asked her son, hoping it was some sort of all-too-realistic prank he and his pop were playing.
"Dad did it. Ain't it rad?" he said proudly looking into a mirror.
Outside, Billy leaned on the Pontiac and reached inside to lower the Def Leppard. He wore that same smirk the night they met when he thought she was the end-all and be-all of barmaids.
"What the fuck, Billy?" hands outstretched, was all she could muster.
He smirked even harder. "I told you, the next time you hand him off to me in a prissy tie and creampuff shirt, I'd make a man outta him."
"Oh, and I suppose that fucking mohawk makes him a man?!" she screamed.
"It's a start," he grunted, flicking his cigarette into a pile of half-melted snow. "We're buying a gun next week."
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