Hans Larsson

"How can you not know what a sugar daddy is?" Rekker just rolled his eyes at the Swede. He doesn't believe he is that clueless. The dirty mouth comment had Rekker's mind on things other than how annoying the Swede was. Maybe he'd forget that he was supposed to wash the singer's hair.

"My house is considered ridiculously small." That wasn't a lie either. The other houses in the Hills were easily 3 times larger than his with pools and shit. He pulled the Firebird up under the front deck. There was a garage but he didn't intend on staying long.

"I've been playing... probably as long as you've been alive." Rekker comments while sliding the t-tops back in place. He'd noticed the age difference and by behavior put the singer in his early 20s.

Walking up on the deck he went inside the sliding door into the living room and down the hall. One side was a huge greenhouse Rekker was unlocking. The other wall was covered in framed things, magazine covers, platinum albums from Hexed, photos, a couple music awards from magazines and other media, letters from other musicians who played his custom guitars on stage with photographs of them rocking out on them, and a green V guitar hung at the top covered in writing about Rekker being a fucking bastard and talking about kicking his ass. His band had done that to his favorite guitar when he was recovering from slitting his wrists. The things seemed to go back until Rekker was a teen from the dates. This was the wall that helped keep Rekker sane sometimes, reminded him not to die, but it also gave some insight into why he could have this house.

Rekker opened the glass door and knelt down. "Come on girl." And then there was a huge lizard climbing into his arms like a dog.. or a child.