“No Shirt, No Service!” screamed the handwritten sign inside Delectables’ entrance. (Being a nonchalant native, Clive refused to wear a shirt unless it was required by law.) After giving a pointed look at the sign, a server approached. She resembled a wannabe eighties pop star: bottle-blonde hair, bright lips, and excessive periwinkle eyeshadow … not that Clive was complaining. I could tell by the ultra-wide grin plastered across his cheeks this gal was his type.

She gave him the once-over. “Gotta follow the rules if you want to eat.”

“Okay, just for you.” He winked at her like a cop from Super Troopers. “Little lady.”

She was at least 5’8’’, but Clive was pushing 6’2”, so she probably appeared “little” to him.

Clive read her nametag while whipping out a wifebeater from his back pocket. “Mina.” Pulling the tank over his head, he said, “Very Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”

Mina squinted. “Was she the one who had dub-con sex with a werewolf?”

Clive had the grace to look embarrassed. “Mina’s the pure one.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Follow me, boys.” Snapping her gum, she led us to a booth located so far away from the entrance, we might as well have stopped at the next-door diner instead.

Cade snuck a look at me like he was peeking through library bookshelves at a hot nerdy chick. I considered flicking my tongue at him à la “I want to eat your pussy” but alas, PDA was so not his thing. Plus, the vibe was still weird from our surreal storage-room steam-fest. I wondered if he was still thinking about it—if he remembered anything from his drunken haze.

I sent him a jaunty wink; he ducked his head as if I’d lobbed a baseball at it.

Gleefully I hummed a couple of notes under my breath. “Working on a new song.”

He gave noncommittal nod. “That’s good.”

“I could bang it out on the keyboard after we get to Miami.”

“That’s not all you could bang,” Cade replied.

My heart raced.

“Plenty of hot people in skimpy clothes,” he added.

“Yeah,” Clive chimed in. “But Ede, you’ll be lucky if you get anyone to look at you. On a good day, you’re a six. On a typical day, a big fat zero.”

“Then you must be a negative twenty,” I icily retorted. “On a good day.”

“Keep that fire alive, brothers,” Rem said. “But put the kibosh on trading insults. It’s detrimental to our blossoming.”

We all groaned. Rem was like that embarrassing dad who picked the most inopportune moments to show his squirm-worthy quirks. (I also secretly wished he were my actual father in a Back to the Future-type scenario, but I’d rather flirt with my mom than tell him that.)

“I’ll come back with some water to keep the soil moist,” Mina promised. Giving Rem an ironic wink, she jounced off toward the drink station.

“Coffee, please!” begged Lash.

Without looking back, she gave him the thumbs-up.

Clive slid into the crescent-shaped booth first, claiming the middle. “Sharp tongue. I like that.”

“I get the cold fish vibe,” Ashley declared, scooting next to Clive. “You don’t have a chance, bro.”

I nodded at Mina's sashaying behind. “She’s too smart.”

Cade snuck in beside Clive; the space next to him was vacant. My heart pulled a jump rope on me: I tripped on my own damn feelings—and untied shoelaces. No one seemed to notice. Before I could act, Rem claimed the seat next to Cade, which left Ashley and I no choice but to sit next to each other.

With a dorama eyeroll, Lash folded his arms and punished Rem with a miffed-geisha look. “Really?”

“Don’t worry,” I muttered. “I won’t pop your personal-space bubble.” Huffing, I plopped down and snatched a menu.

“All right, boys!” Rem rubbed his hands together. “Let’s feast.”

Maybe I'd order sausage and use it to simulate oral sex … anything to keep my mind off defeat.

“Edan, you shouldn’t order meat,” Ashley said with mock concern. “It gives you gas.”

In the short time he’d spent without my dick inside him, Ashley had developed telepathy. If that didn’t prove certain people shouldn’t fuck, I didn’t know what did.

Mina returned with ice water and coffee in a jumbo-sized French press; I forgot to retain my annoyance with Ashley after taking the first sip of bitter-bean liquid addiction, which was more potent than your typical diner brew. As I sipped my joe, I made incidental eye contact with a peppy headset-wearing man waiting for his order at the takeout counter. His smile was too big for his teeth; this unsettled me.

“What can I get you?” Mina asked, thankfully rescuing me from discomfort.

“Bacon and eggs. Grits. Milk.”

“Whole milk or skim?”

“The creamier, the better. Please and thank you.”

She didn’t bat a lash at my double entendre. Glancing at Rem, she prompted, “You?”

“I’ll have steel-cut oats, a side of fruit, and herbal tea, please.” Tapping his windpipe with two fingers, Rem said, “It’s good for the throat.”

“You don’t sing,” I reminded him.

Bristling, he retorted, “I certainly do—you just can’t hear me. But I’m sure the audience appreciates my subtle background vocals.” He stared wistfully at an imaginary crowd of crying girls captivated by his lip syncing.

“I’ll have biscuits with gravy, orange juice, please. It’s bad for the throat,” Clive joked.

“Uh, give me eggs, sausage links, and pancakes,” Cade mumbled.

“Please,” Mina reminded Cade.

“Please.”

I had no idea what Ashley ordered because I was too enamored with the way Cade’s cheeks pinked up when the waitress admonished him. Too cute.

“Y’all in the circus or something?” growled a gruff voice to my left.

The five of us simultaneously looked up. Here stood Billy Bob Thornton’s older, hairier brother, minus a few teeth, add in some extra tats.

“Close,” Rem cheerfully replied. “Rock band.”

“Never woulda guessed it.”

“We get that all the time.”

“Pumping iron.”

Rem cupped his ear. “Come again?”

“You might wanna pump some iron to beef up. Y’all look like a bunch of girls.”

“Maybe we’ll do that. Have a nice day!” Under his breath, Rem said, “Kindness, guys. Goes a long way.”

“As long as it sends him on his way.” Ashley looked worried. “What if he’s in a vigilante motorcycle gang?”

I shot a finger gun at him. “Then I nominate you as the first target.”

“The guy sitting two booths down resembles the character Alex from Hell House … I just watched that movie two nights ago,” Clive overshared. “Talk about a creepy coincidence.”

“Creepy.” I mock-shivered. “And by ‘creepy,’ I mean, I’ve never seen that movie and have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Asshat,” Ashley muttered. “We watched that movie together last Saturday.”

“No, we fucked our way through the whole movie,” I corrected. “So technically, we didn’t watch it.”

“Shush,” Cade barked. “No one wants to know.”

“I’m pretty sure that guy over there does.” I jerked my thumb at the wizened old raisin who’d turned up his hearing aid and then hidden his hands beneath the table. “Don’t tell me he’s not fiddle-faddling as we speak.”

Squinting at the octogenarian, Cave conjectured, “Maybe he’s looking for the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.”

“That’s enough, boys,” Rem admonished. “It isn’t nice to make snap judgments of the elderly. What if someone criticized your grandfather, Edan?”

“My grandfather died in the war,” I said, to shut him up.

“Here you are.” Mina reappeared on tiptoe, balancing two full trays of food. Impressive. She set one down on the empty table behind us and doled out our plates. “Need anything else?”

“I think we’re all set for now,” Clive said, tipping her a groan-worthy salute.

Expressionless, she did an about-face and disappeared into the kitchen.

Because he was a faux fancy-pants, Ashley ordered the house-cured salmon egg scramble; when he took his first bite, he made a bad-cum-taste face, likely realizing how salty it was. Served him right for trying to be fucking caviar when he was canned tuna. Jes’ sayin’ … Eh, probably I was feeling bitter because he wouldn’t touch my butt—even though I knew this was a super-gauche idea, given how I’d sort of fucked him over like an under-the-table, unfinished hand job, selfish unfeeling bastard that I was.

“How can we afford this?” Cade muttered from under his Staind hoodie. It was too hot to wear that noise but his vibe was all, “Mystery Man from AM to PM,” so the fashion police forgave him.

“Groupon,” Rem cased the place like a badly disguised P.I. “And this diner could use a little publicity. Rumor has it the stars have come out to dine today.”

“There are famous people here?” I whipped my head around, hoping we’d fallen into a time machine so I could catch a glimpse of Justified-era Justin Timberlake, closeted dated-pop lover that I was.

“The future celebrities are sitting right here. In this booth. People just don’t know it yet.” Rem tapped himself on the nose. “But you’re looking at a guy who just knows.”

Cade and I expelled simultaneous groans.

“Chunks all over your face!” I whisper-screamed.

“Over every inch of it,” Cade agreed.

A minor victory, but it sent my heart a-fluttering.

Ashley pulled another “Mister, your cum tastes like rotten asparagus” face as he fashioned a shoe with his baguette and scraped up bits of overdressed spinach and flakes of egg-baptized salmon. “Do you mind? I’m trying to choke this down!”

“That’s what she said,” Clive quipped.

“Dude. That is so circa mid-2000s. Can we stop with The Office refs already? Even the memes don't make it funny,” I complained.

Through a mouthful of limp bacon, Clive said, “Netflix kinda forces you to chill in a time capsule.”

“Where the hell is Brayden?” I mumbled, not really caring about where our walk-on manager had disappeared to but bored enough to ask.

Cade gestured out the window toward the gas pumps. “Scarfing McDonald’s in his car.”

“Good.” The less we had to deal with him, the better.

“How much salt is lethal?” Ashley looked worried. “Like, how many servings of sodium do you think are in this salmon? Enough to equal a jumbo-sized bag of Lays?”

“Death by potato!” I squawked.

“Hashtag: funny or die” was Clive’s lame-o contribution.

“No one talks like that.” I scoffed. “You're so corny, it’s offensive.”

Scowling, Clive suggested, “How about we play Shut Your Piehole? Loser pays for Lash’s meal.”

“That’s eleven bucks!”

“You lose.”

“Shady tactic,” I protested. “Like, wearing-sunglasses-in-a-movie-theatre, Pee-Wee Herman-caught-masturbating shady.”

(“May he rest,” Clive interjected, but I steamrolled over his RIP quip.) “Like, oops-my-dick-slipped-in-without-a-rubber-but-it’s-OK-because-we’re-both-virgins shady.”

Cade snorted. Oh, the glimmer of hope—so fucking shiny!

“You still lose.” Clive sulked.

Patting my wallet, I said, “No problem. Fat stacks.” I had two extra bills that equaled less than a stripper’s tips on a slow night, but we’d get paid again after the gig. Under the table, too. (Just say no to taxes.)

Clive wasn’t letting it go. “Translation: ‘Got enough for a few trips to the vending machine, plus I can splurge for a tampon or two.’”

“Or a condom or three,” I countered.

“Not the magnums,” Ashley muttered. “No need.”

“And thank God for that!” I agreed. “Otherwise, I’d be leavin’ behind a trail of broken farts—hearts.”

Clive scrunched up the side of his face like he was trying to keep from cracking up—he’d always been a sucker for crass humor.

Someone kicked me.

“If I’d known you wanted to play footsie, all you had to do was ask.” I smiled sweetly at Rem.

“Strike one,” he warned.

“So it was you. Man, my psychic power’s fucking aces right now.”

“Quiet Game round two.” Rem aimed his index finger at me. “If I were you, I’d be careful, foo’. You’ll empty your pockets before this meal is through.”

There was an awkward silence. Probably everyone was inner monologuing, Now that’s why Rem sticks to the drums. Even Ashley could come up with less secondhand-embarrassing rhymes than our fearless leader.

“You sound like Anthony Anderson,” Clive remarked.

“Who the fuck is that?” I asked.

Clive sighed. “Barbershop. Hustle & Flow. Had a cameo in 3 Strikes.”

“You're really deep in that Netflix time warp, man,” Cade observed.

“So deep you broke the fourth wall,” Lash added.

“How many walls does a vagina have?” I quipped.

I fucking hate The Quiet Game.

Everyone had finishing eating. We loitered in the lobby, waiting for Rem to come back from the bathroom. Clive busied himself with laser-beaming holes through the Mina’s uniform as she scurried to and fro between her tables. Cade wanted in on the action, if only to distract himself from my superior hindquarters. Girl was retro cute, though—I’d give her that.

“You approach her first,” Rem encouraged Clive, patting him on the back. “Ladies love a confident suitor.”

“No, man. I want to do it.” Cade protested.

“Get Edan up to bat. He’ll fall flat on his face and give both of you a better chance at success,” Ashley snarked.

“The only chance you’ll have is a cold witch’s tit in hell unless you rape her, because she knows exactly what you’re doing,” a female voice hissed.

“Oh. Sound carries in this room … good to know,” Rem squeaked, looking at the floor.

Mina slowly walked toward us; we took a collective step back. The apathy had left her eyes—now an almost demonic spark illuminated them. “She sees you coming every time and plays along at first, because she wants to see how far she can string you along by the ding-dong before she snaps that fucker off between her teeth and face-fucks you with your own pathetic excuse for a drill while she clucks her tongue in a facsimile of sympathy because you bit off more than you could chew.” She cackles. “But her bite was just big enough.”

A random blond waitress came out of the woodwork to stand by Mina’s side. “It was hard enough, too,” the new gal adds. “I’m Elsa, by the way. Mina’s sister.” Menacingly she glided toward Clive. “And you are?”

“Bitch-slapped,” he muttered, striding backward.

“That’s what I thought,” the sisters said in unison.

Once we were back in the van, Clive mumbled, “There should be an app for that.”

“An app for what?” Rem asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. (He’d taken longer than usual in the bathroom—likely the coffee had run its course.)

“Female psycho facial recognition, or some shit.” Clive’s cheeks were still beet red.

I laughed. “Where would be the fun in that?” Affecting a borderline-racist approximation of what I called my “wise Buddha” voice, I intoned, “Life worth nothing if no risk taken.”

“Karate Kid?” Rem guessed

“More like, a generic quote from any feel-good, underdog-learns-to-kick-ass film ever made. I could write those scripts,” Clive huffed.

With a serious expression, I asked him, “Have you ever thought about taking a nap in middle of the train tracks, just to see what would happen?”

My sass once again inspired the brothers’ collective mute button to activate; and I became invisible to them. On second thought, maybe I should’ve tried to hitch a ride to Miami with Mina and Elsa, the sister dick chompers—never a dull moment, to be sure.