I was on cloud nine during most of Rem’s spiel about our upcoming shows, mostly because I had a one-track mind focused on a singular line of thought: Cade and I sharing a room for three nights. If there were alcohol involved in our bunk-up, I was fairly certain he’d come on to me (at the very least, perpetrate another drunken whoopsie-daisy). At this point I’d take what I could get, horny devil that I was.  A mental moral policeman warned me against the dangers of self-devaluation, as well protested as the ignoble objectification of others for my own prurient benefit, but no one likes a party pooper; I muted the naysayer and raised the volume of the yes man, who interpreted “no” as a synonym for “not yet.”

However! There would be no coercion, no rapey oops-I-jiggled-it-in while Cade snoozed, no surreptitious hand down his jammies making him hard while he slept. Nah, he’d have to be sprung for me on his own or I’d call it a draw (even if he didn’t desire to repeat our drunken fumble, I’d still have that first smooch notched on my belt).

Near the end of Rem’s tirade about how the early bird catches the worm and *insert platitude here*, my tummy started rumbling again. Clive teased me about my bottomless pit; Rem, concerned an empty stomach would lead to a loss of diaphragmatic projection (not sure how he came to that conclusion, but oh well), suggested I fuel up before my vocal cords went on strike. After dropping my bag in Cade’s room (true to his chivalrous nature, my OOA was assisting the bros with hauling their instruments and gear upstairs), I scrolled my phone and homed in on an Americanized Chinese blink-and-you-miss-it joint two blocks down from Sunshine Suites. The picture of pork fried rice, the featured menu item, sold me; I hurried downstairs so fast I had to return to the hotel room for my shoes. 

On the way back up I bumped into Cade—literally, our tibias collided so hard I felt the need to apologize to his skeleton.

“Tell your bones I’m sorry,” I said, flipping my hair out of my eyes in what I hoped was an attractively boyish manner. “I just can’t ignore the call of the wild.”

He raised a brow. “Eggrolls?”

“You always know.”

And he did—we weren’t approaching-a-decade friends for nothing.

“Going alone?” Cade asked.

“Yeah—unless you’re joining me.” I acted like my heart wasn’t racing (no shade to Cade and his male-lead charisma, but my pulse was only pounding because I’d run up several flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator).

“Huh …” Cade paused for way too long, like he was on a movie set and had forgotten his next line. “… I could eat,” he finally finished.

“And the others?”

Shifting his eyes toward the ceiling, he said, “They already decided on the wings place around the corner.”

“Oh, wasn’t that good of them to invite me?” I sneered.

“They knew you were too hungry to wait for them. Honestly, we all figured you’d be eating by now.”

“Well, business as usual: the black sheep dining alone.” Without looking back, I headed for the elevator. After I’d pushed the down button, I heard his shuffling footsteps behind me.

“Got room for one more?”

I hid my smile. “I suppose.”

We strolled to the restaurant in silence. The city was a lot to take in—the surrounding buildings looked like pastel and neon crayons had escaped from their box and wreaked havoc on the high rises.

“We probably should have chosen a Cuban restaurant,” I remarked as we entered Luck Dragon’s blood-red double doors. “When in Rome …”

“It’s not too late to change direction,” Cade said, but even as the words left his mouth, we both knew it was a lie—the scent of Chinese five-spice powder was an aphrodisiac to us both.

A silent server escorted us to our table, a tiny two-seater. After a cursory glance at the menu, Cade ordered a smorgasbord of dishes. I didn’t even get to open my mouth before the server was scurrying off into the direction of clanging pots and pans and curt commands.

“We’ll share.” Cade fiddled with a straw wrapper. “I got all your favorites.”

I nearly tripped on my tongue, but muted myself so I wouldn’t say, “What is this, a date?” It was mystifying, his out-of-the-blue kindness. On the one hand, he genuinely might want to let bygones be bygones, especially for the sake of the band. Devil’s advocate: he might secretly want to bend me over the table and see how far he could push his eggroll inside me before I hollered, “Uncle!” (I’ll take option two, please.)

When the food arrived, all thoughts of seduction vanished—the culinary stars took center stage, and I only had eyes for them.

I devoured my apps in less than five minutes, but Cade took his time, drawing out the experience like foreplay.

“You’re a savorer,” I observed. “I’m a wolfer.”

He sipped his egg drop soup. “I like to appreciate the individual flavors.”

“Hey, remember that time we walked on that rotting pier and you stepped on a loose board?” Flailing around in my chair, I mimicked, “Flonase!” in my best impression of Cade's sub-woofer tone. 

He chuckled. “Still don’t know why I said that.” 

“The weirdest shit pops out of your mouth when you’re scared.” Affectionately I tapped his wrist with my spork.

Forgoing his tea-party manners, Cade stuffed an entire duck-sauce-drenched eggroll into his maw and licked the runoff from his fingers. 

I pulled a face. “You also eat like a fucking wild boar.” 

He grinned at me around a mouthful of compacted crispy goodness. “Mm-hm.”

The server jack-in-the-boxed out of a corner. “How’s the food?”

“Stellar.” I gave her a thumbs-up.

Cade nodded in agreement. “We app-woove,” he mush-mouthed. 

“Wonderful.”

I watched the server's butt bounce as she jounced off to the kitchen. “Cute.” 

Cade grunted his assessment: “She’s more my type than those dead-eyed chicks from the diner.”

“Did you know I had a crush on Rainbow Brite when I was but a wee sprite?”

He tittered. “For real?”

“I liked her spunk.”

“Haha! Probably literally, right?”

“I dig girls, too,” I defended. “No se necesita polla.” 

Cade curled his upper lip. “Yeah, I remember when you crushed on that Melinda chick.”

“What do you remember about the night we—”

“Hey! We don’t speak of such things.” He raised a finger in warning.

I faux-shivered. “Frosty.”

Cade scowled. “Don’t burn bridges, bro. At this point, they’re only toothpicks.”

Clearly, he thought I was referring to his drunken advances. So, he's still got my dick on the brain … excellent.

“The night we slammed those big-ass Frosties,” I clarified, “I thought Melinda would be impressed I gulped mine in under thirty seconds.”

“Oh, right!” Cade cackled. “It was the first time we let our groupies watch the band practice.”

“The good old days.”

We both stared at our plates.

“I miss you, dude,” Cade murmured. “Like, when we used to hang out without the added drama …”

I nodded. “One hundred percent.”

“We’re the new Barbie and Ken,” Clive sang from above our heads, startling us both. Before we could react, he had doled out noogies to each of us.

Cade scooted away from Clive’s assault. “What’s with the special ops sneak-up?”

“I’m just that good,” Clive crowed.

Settling my chin on my palm, I asked him, “Has anyone ever told you that you could totally pass for a Prince Harry impersonator? Not the kind that gets paid gigs and shizz, but the kind that trolls British Takeover meetups at liquidated bookstores.”

Cade choked on a mouthful of noodles, nearly spraying a fragrant stream of garlicky goodness across the table.

With a withering glare, Clive countered, “Has anyone ever told you your face sends out the subliminal message to curb stomp you?”

“Ginger, please.” I waved him away. “My diss ate.”

“Facts. Better luck next time Clive.” Cade stared his bowl. “I mean, Your Royal Highness.”

We both snickered.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I said after I’d gotten myself under control. “I thought you guys were eating at Wing Dings.”

“A little bird told me you were here.” With that, Clive flipped me the bird.

I heehawed despite myself.

“I texted Lash about our plans,” Cade explained.

My Spidey senses tingled. “Why?”

He gave me a duh look. “So he’d know why I wasn’t going to dinner with the rest of the bros.”

“And why didn’t you go to dinner with them?” I folded my arms across my chest, ready to be insulted.

Reaching forward, Clive ruffled my hair. “Because you’re a sad, sad baby and Cade took pity on your wobbly chin.”

“Fuck off,” I growled. “My chin’s firmer than your wood.”

“It’ll take time for the bros to get over what you did,” Clive said, steamrolling over my dig, “And no offense, but we all like Lash better than you, so …”

Prematurely ripping open my fortune cookie, I glowered at him. “I’m the singer, buttmunch. The fans like me better than all of you combined.”

Cade burst out laughing; a piece of what might have been chicken (or maybe it was egg) flew out of his mouth and landed on the back of my hand. A loony idea occurred and I ran with it. Looking him dead in the eye, I lifted the soiled hand to my mouth—and ate his partially chewed-up meat.

Clive bounced so fast I didn’t realize he was gone until Cade, covering his face in his hands, whispered something about how that was the sickest shit he’d ever seen and now they’d both need therapy. Anticipating Clive’s smart-ass remark about my gag, I looked at the space his body had occupied less than ten seconds ago—all I got was a faint whiff of need-to-shower wafting around the table like Pigpen’s cloud.

Mission accomplished. Yet again, I had Cade all to myself.

“What do I have to do to get Lash to hate me less?” popped out of my mouth before I could stick more food in it.

Sighing, Cade wiped his fingers with a napkin and sipped his Dr. Pepper. “I’m not the right person to ask about this.”

“And why not?” Indignantly I sniffed. “You’re the one who knows him best.”

“Yeah, but I’m not prepared to be the go-between.” He raised a brow. “You gotta own up to your crimes.”

“My crimes?” I scoffed. “The crime of not feeling some type of way for him?”

“The crime of being a bad friend,” he said, opening his fortune cookie. “Although technically, being a selfish prick isn’t a crime.”

“Oh, okay.” I smirked. “This is rich. You expect me to ‘own up to my crimes’”—my air quotes were lethal—“but you want to conveniently forget about your own accountability.”

“Whatever I did or didn’t do is separate from what you did to Lash.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, man.” He pushed his fortune across the table so I could peek at it. “The writing’s on the wall.”

Against my better judgment, I plucked the paper strip off the Formica. “Do not involve yourself in the misfortunes of others—pah!” I blew a raspberry. “Lame. What about when others involve you in their misfortunes? Don’t have much choice about that. do ya?”

Cade put his elbows on the table. “Is that how you justify your actions?”

I slid my own fortune to him. “Maybe our messages got mixed up.”

After taking another slurp of soda, Cade glanced at my fortune and read aloud, “What you are avoiding will find a home in you.” He rolled his eyes. “This restaurant needs to hire a new cookie company.”

“You gotta admit though”—I rapped the table with my knuckles—“your elephant and my elephant are rubbing their trunks together in the jungle of our spank banks.”

He groaned and slapped his forehead. “Bro, I was wasted!”

“True.” Biting my lip, I said, “So I guess we have nothing further to discuss.”

He harrumphed. “I guess not.”

“Did you tell Lash?”

“No!” he yelped, self-consciously scanning the restaurant once he realized his voice was louder than he’d likely intended. “And I don’t plan on it.”

I fluttered my lashes. “And why not?”

“Because he doesn’t need to know.”

“Your BFF doesn’t need to know you hooked up with his former fuckbuddy.” I pursed my lips. “That doesn’t sound like a healthy friendship dynamic.”

Fumbling for his wallet, Cade avoided eye contact. “It wasn’t a hookup. It was a mistake.”

“You can’t just change the terminology because you regret it, ya big sexy hypocrite.” I tried to keep my tone light, but it came out aggro.

He released a scallion-scented breath, contradicting my assessment of his sexiness. “Whatever.” Standing up, he snatched the bill. “It’ll be easier if I just use my card, but I still expect you to pay for your half. Put the cash on the nightstand when you get back to the room. I’m gonna go see if the bros are still at Wing Dings.”

“So I’m a hooker now?” I joked, but he was already walking away. Wham bam thank you ma’am. You’d think I’d be discouraged, but quite the opposite. If a challenge was an aphrodisiac, Cade was an oyster—and I was damn sure that with a bit of subliminal messaging, I’d get him to pearl before the end of the tour. To keep ’em wanting more, you gotta withhold (stringing people along was kind of my specialty). Now that he’d had a taste of my ambrosia, he’d be a repeat customer, no matter if initially he denied himself the pleasure of my cum-pany. If I could salvage anything from this shitshow, it wouldn’t be my friendships—the dudes had basically proven they cared about each other more than me. If I was going down, I’d first go down on Cade. What’s a little dick-sucking between soon-to-be-former friends?

“Might as well go out with a bang,” I said to my invisible seatmate.

Next stop: the liquor store. Cade may have been on his high horse, but his weakness for spirits was something we had in common. The mere suggestion of a booze buffet would be enough to tempt him. After scrounging up my singles and change, I scooted off to the corner store, and purchased my secret weapons. When I returned to the hotel, I lined them up one by one on the coffee table beside a stack of plastic-wrapped cups and a fresh bucket of ice. Taking a page from Clive, I stripped off my shirt, stuck it in my baggy back pocket, and headed to the rooftop for my long-lusted-after inaugural cigarette of the evening. Watching the weaving cars and foot traffic below, I hoped to catch a glimpse of Cade returning from Wing Dings. Fifteen minutes passed—then twenty. No sign of him.

Bored and annoyed, I headed back to the blissfully air-conditioned room and uncapped the first half-pint. Wild Turkey, here I come. Gobble, gobble, glug, glug; I chugged and slugged it like I was Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. So much for seduction, forget about restraint—I was in it to win it, and the prize was a blackout. At one point I collapsed onto the floor and emptied my bladder where I lay. Through a squinty fog, I rolled off the damp carpet and zombie-shuffled to the bathroom ... then I lost my balance and tumbled into the tub, whacking my head on the wall. Is this how it ends, I wondered as oblivion descended, Orpheus in the underworld?

A lyre answered me.