By: H.J. Bellus

“Well, nice to meet you, Blue.”

“Same at ya, Lane.”

Mr. Sex on a Stick finally turns around to catch up to his teammates. Thank you, Jesus, my ovaries were about two seconds from imploding.

I hang back for a little bit, allowing two new parties to cut in line as a tactic of putting space between me and the testosterone tribe. After their lingering scents have faded, I’m able to focus on the menu hanging above the counter. It’s a large black chalkboard with your typical burgers, chicken strips, and salads scrawled all over it.

As I study the menu, I fan my face with my cellphone. Yeah, not the best tool for the job, but the tiny flow of air hitting my face begins to lightly cool me. The over-crowded diner is humid and hotter than Hades. And just my luck, the line stalls out a bit with the two new parties in front of me.

Booths and tables pepper the joint, along with an eclectic collection of artwork and black and white photography. There’s a catchy vibe floating in the small area, and I try to take in as much artwork as possible to distract myself from the sweat beads forming on my forehead.

A lone customer catches my attention, and he only does that because he’s dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt with a backward ball cap placed on his head. Craning lower, I also notice he’s wearing workout pants and not shorts. I wonder if it’s the Bionic Man. How in the hell is he not having a heat stroke dressed like that in one hundred degree weather?

“The Tuck Jones,” Lane calls loudly as he strides to the corner booth. I watch as he slides into the booth with the clothed man. They do the bro shake and hug and whatever else men do. It’s clear Lane is deep in conversation with the man. Several moments later he nods in my direction and points. The man pulls his attention from his food up to me, and I’m busted. Yes, busted beyond a shadow of any doubt. I try to casually look away as if nothing just happened, but I’m fucked.

“Ma’am.” A voice draws my attention from the embarrassing situation.

Looking forward, the two parties are gone and there’s a gap the size of freakin’ Texas between me and the counter. Yep, fucking busted.

I try to order my food, but the look on the man’s face haunts me. His face is so chiseled, and even at a distance his masculine beauty is overpowering. There is something about his deep, dark brown eyes that flips my tummy. Unlike the other men who nearly caused me to piss my panties over their good looks, he is different, and different in a way my brain can’t comprehend.

The lady behind the counter clears her throat, showcasing her irritation with me. I hurry up and order that burger I’ve been craving, along with a large order of fries, and, of course, a soda. I mean, why stop short when you’re going to splurge? I’ll be running later tonight when it’s dark, that’s for sure.

Plucking the red tray of greasy food from the counter, I find a booth, and not just any one, but the one furthest away from the group of men. As I pull out the chair, I hear someone holler my name, and I’m not shocked to see Lane standing up and holding a chair out for me.

“Join us.” He puts his arm over his chest as if I were breaking his heart.

I shake my head, knowing it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Don’t make me cause a scene, Blue.”

I keep shaking my head, and then finally sit down in the lone seat at my table.

“Don’t go breaking my heart,” he belts out, and I think he’s trying to sing, but I’m not quite sure. He throws my name in about every other word, and before I know it, the whole diner is staring at me.

“Asshole,” I say to myself as I pick up my food and head his way. “Happy?”

I plop down in the open chair, dying from embarrassment, and completely out of lust with Lane. His ‘come fuck me’ eyes no longer have any power over me after his obnoxious show.

“Blue, meet my boys, and boys, meet Blue.” He pauses for a moment. “I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Probably because I didn’t offer my last name.” I plop a ketchup soaked fry in mouth.

“Feisty one.” He takes a bite of his burger and talks around it. “I guess you didn’t like my singing.”

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