Page 2 of Nanny for the Rockstars

“What did she look like?” Caleb asks.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “All I can say is she was on the shorter side, only a couple inches over five feet if I had to guess, but she was wearing a baggy hoodie and had the hood pulled over her head, so I couldn’t make out any features except for her height. Even her pants were on the baggy side so I can’t tell you if she was skinny or average build for that matter.”

“Ten minutes ago, huh?” I ask. “Maybe I shouldn’t have dragged out that encore and we might have been here soon enough to figure out who that woman was, who this baby is, and who the father is.”

“If she even knows,” Caleb says with a laugh. “I mean, we plow through the women fast enough. Which of us got some short girl knocked up about a year ago? I feel like if we wanted to be able to figure out the answer to that, we would have been better off knowing more about this situation before today.”

“Do you want me to take the baby?” the guard asks. “I can turn him in to Social Services.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t think we need to do that just yet. Let’s think.”

I turn to my brothers, and the security guard looks surprised, but leaves us alone anyway, walking out of the dressing room and pulling the door closed behind him.

“What do we do now?” Terry chimes in. “It says that the baby belongs to us so, I don’t know, I feel like it’s not going to be great for publicity for us to put it in the system.”

“Do you think it’s got a name?” I ask suddenly. “All the note says is that it’s a boy.”

“Fuck!” Caleb groans. “Now we have to name him too?”

“Fender,” Terry says.

“Are you crazy? He’s not a puppy!” I say. “We’re not going to name him like we would a dog.”

“How about Gene?” Terry suggests with a smirk on his face. “Gene Simmons? Why not?”

“Because we’re trying to make our own name popular, and I don’t think leaching off the fame of one of the KISS members is going to help our cause. I don’t think it’s possible for us to name this kid directly after a famous rocker, being rockers ourselves, and not have it be beyond obvious what we’re doing,” I argue.

“You could call it a stroke of luck that he happens to have the last name Simmons, and there are tons of kids out there with the name Gene, so I don’t know why you’re so defensive about it.” Terry shrugs.

“Because we only know of the one really famous Gene Simmons who’s in the same industry we’re in. That’s like Mr. Coca-Cola naming his kid Pepsi,” I reply.

“We’ve got to call him something,” Caleb says. “Maybe he’s got a name already. I mean, he looks like he’s a few months old anyway. I doubt he’s been nothing at all until this point.”

“Babe,” I announce. “We can call him Babe. Like Babe Ruth.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to name him after someone famous?” Terry argues.

“I don’t want to name him after a famous rockstar,” I clarify. “Because we are rockstars. If we were baseball players, then I wouldn’t want to name him Babe.”

“I don’t think Babe Ruth’s name was actually Babe,” Caleb says.

“Even better.” I smirk.

“Fuck that, I’m not naming my son the same nickname I use for all the groupies I hook up with!” Terry says.

“Then what the hell are we going to name him?”

“Hendrix,” Caleb announces.

“Hendrix?” I ask.

“I don’t mind that,” Terry says. “It’s still got the musical quality, but it’s not as blatant as Fender. Like, I don’t feel like we’re naming him what you’d name the puppy you got for Christmas, if that makes sense.”

“Hendrix Simmons, that’s got a nice ring to it,” I confirm. “Alright then. Now that that’s out of the way, time to rack your brains, guys. Let’s see if we can think of who this guy’s mother is.”

“Good luck with that.” Terry laughs. “I don’t even know if one of us dated her, or if she was just one of our one-night stands. And how the hell are you even going to get into that with anyone?”

“I don’t really care if it’s the product of a girlfriend or a fun friend for the night,” Caleb says. “I just want to know which one of us is the actual dad.”

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