In a banal twist of fate, Inferno, the latest stop on Rim Shot's tour, wasn’t ablaze; however the combination of last night’s bout of binge drinking and the aftermath of my performative stage-prancing had kindled a sense of urgency in my beleaguered bowels, so I separated from my bros. Fleeing the venue's evacuation site, I waddled to the kitty-corner pizza joint, hurriedly ordered a slice of pepperoni, then monopolized the bathroom for a sitcom-episode chunk of time. The pizza was morgue cold when I picked it up.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” the chin-pubed cashier snarked, aiming his gaze in the direction of the one-stall john, “but try ordering after popping a squat."

“Or there's option number two,” I sniped back, “Serve me a piping-hot slice in the name of good customer service to keep your three-point-seven-stars rating on Tripadvisor.”

The persnickety pizza pusher sailed the Styrofoam plate across the counter. “If I were you, I’d take it to go.”

Too tired to argue, I snatched up my slice and flicked him the bird over my shoulder.

“Have a nice night,” he called in a mock-sweet tone. “And maybe consider a consult with a gastro doc.”

“As long as you consult with your mom’s gyno,” I retorted through gritted teeth, pitching the pizza in the trash can outside the door.

Rem was waiting for me. “What took you so long? I was worried you’d fallen into a black hole!”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “If I had, that would’ve resolved the issue of the severance package you have yet to offer me.”

He tsked. “I do not desire to oust you from the band. I’m simply doing my damndest to scare you straight.”

Snorting, I quipped, “Pretty sure you can’t scare away my love of cock.”

“Edan!” he hissed, eyes darting at the passersby. “Don’t say the C word in public.”

“Which one?” I raised my voice. “Cock, cunt, or cunnilingus?”

A few gents in Panama hats stopped in their slacks-wearing tracks. A gaggle of gals of questionable legal-drinking age giggled, swaying on their stilettos. An elderly couple wagged their fingers in sync, silently shaming us.

“Aw, Dad!” I nudged Rem, who was cowering under the weight of minor public humiliation. “Your cheeks are so red they make tomatoes look pink.”

(Don’t tell anyone, but Rem’s low-key adorable; if I were a straight girl, I’d peg him till the cows came home while he fucked a cherry pie.)

Somehow my best efforts to embarrass Rem didn’t result in his calling off our impromptu “movie night.” The rest of the bros chilled in Lash’s larger suite while the drummer and I took up residence in the sardine box I shared with Cade.

“We haven’t hung out in a while.” I side-eyed Rim Shot’s leader. “Just the two of us, I mean.”

“True. This is long overdue.” Rem settled into the two-seater sofa and crossed one leg over the other. “Jujubes?”

“Is that Pig Latin?” Frowning, I glanced at his outstretched hand. “I don’t know this handshake.”

“Candy.” He indicated the coffee table. “Have some.”

Noticing the bright green box parked behind the two-liter of Sunkist, I asked, “What the fuck kinda candy?”

“Chewy. Sugary. Guaranteed to rot your teeth.” When I handed him the box, he winked at me. “I thought you’d appreciate my homage to you.”

I threw my hands in the air. “And what aspect of my individual personhood are you honoring?”

“Jujubes are fruity.” Ripping open the box, Rem added, “And so are you.”

I pouted. “Is that a slur?”

“No!” Nearly choking on a red gummy-looking thing, he said, “You’re fruity in a crazy way. Like, nutty. Batty. Wacky.”

After a long pause (Always let them linger in their discomfort when you want to gain the upper hand), he offered me a piece, which I emphatically declined. When he suggested popcorn, I gave an apathetic shrug. “Whatever.”

“Hey!” He poked my bicep. “I’m making an effort here. The least you can do is try to enjoy my company.”

“What does enjoying your company have to do with eating snacks during a movie?”

“Eating junk food is wholesome!” His face was turning red again. “It’s what people do when they spend quality time together in front of a screen!”

After another one of my impassive stares, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

I licked my teeth. “Are you teaching me how to breathe, or are we watching a movie?”

“Joseph, husband of Mary!” Rem whisper shouted. Then, in a calmer tone: “Fine. I won’t peer pressure you to eat. But please give this film a chance. Some of its thematic elements mirror our current situation.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of escapism?” Narrowing my eyes, I griped, “The current situation is bad enough as it is—I don’t need a narrative reminder of it.”

“Just watch the potty-word movie,” he said under his breath.

“Fine!” I gave a melodramatic sigh. “But I don’t have to goddamned like it.”

And I didn’t—not even a little bit. I will admit to loling at the unintentionally funny scene in which our tragic hero Chester accidentally slashed his femoral artery in an implausible barbequing accident and then spent precious minutes spurting blood in stunned silence. When he finally sucked up his pride, admitting he’d carelessly injured himself, he immediately fainted and a bunch of vacant-eyed losers who looked like psych-ward escapees surrounded him in a circle, staring down at him, saying nothing as he bled out for no discernible reason other than to further the plot.

Next came a random voiceover from the omniscient narrator: “I love you like I love the broken-winged bird dying on the sidewalk. As he gazes up, eyes glazing over, all I want to do is help him return to the sky. Instead, I watch him die.”

Pausing the film, Rem turned to me. “Ring any bells?”

I crossed my arms. “Is this your roundabout way of confessing your kink for snuff films?”

“It’s my straightforward way of telling you I don’t think you’ll last much longer. None of us do.” He leaned in. “We’re all watching you die.”

Stroking my chin, I faux ponder, “Physically or metaphorically?”

“You’re not stupid, but you do stupid things. I’m worried about you—we all are. It seems like you’re trying to commit career suicide.”

“Career?” I scoffed. “This is the first year I’ve gotten paid enough to be eligible to file taxes!”

“Do you have a second job?”

He knew I didn’t; clearly, he was asking just to rile me up. I refused to take the bait. With a one-shouldered shrug, I said, “I guess I’ll have to get one soon, since my parents cut me off last month.”

“So, you’ll lay off the sauce?”

“Who said anything about that?”

“You can’t drink as much as you do and hold down a steady job.”

“Incorrect.” I held up five fingers, putting one down per profession. “Karaoke host. Retirement-center DJ. Late-shift bartender. Sugar baby. Goodwill ambassador.” After a pause I added, “I mean, have you ever seen the way the intake dudes toss around the donations? No finesse required. I could be a fifth in and no one would bat an eye.”

Rem gulped. “Are you actively planning how to succeed in day drinking?”

“No, I’m passively planning how to terminate the conversation,” I sassed. “Not that I’m complaining about cutting short this illustrious bit of filmmaking.” Jerking a thumb at the screen, I asked, “Did you find this in the DVDs-under-a-dollar section of the after-school-special rejects bin?”

Rem pursed his lips. “Clive recommended it.”

“That explains so much.”

With an exasperated sigh, he ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “What must I do to get through to you?”

“Fret not.” I held up my palms in a warding-off gesture. “Message received.”

“What’s the message, Ede?” He tapped his foot in the rhythm of Rim Shot’s ode-to-exes anthem “Scarred for Life.”

I huffed out a put-upon sigh. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes. I need to verify you’ve truly received my intended communication.”

“It’s like this.” Drawing my right index finger in a straight line across my throat, I said, “If I don’t shape up, I’m history. You’re gonna kick me out of the band even though I’m an original member.” I puffed up my chest. “The first, to be exact.”

Rem steepled his fingers. “‘First’? That’s point of contention. If you want to get technical, Ashley was—”

“Bah!” I swatted away his lawyerly mumbo jumbo. “If I don’t sing, who’s gonna do it? You?”

“In a pinch, I could assume the role of the understudy.” His eyes were anime sparkly as he undoubtably imagined pulling off heroic vocal acrobatics that would leave the rapturous audience salaaming his efforts.

I belly laughed. “Right! I forgot—your stellar background vocals have been silent all these years.”

“Respect for the holy creator of Little Earthquakes.” Rem bowed his head, likely envisioning a deified Tori Amos.

With a leering smirk, I razzed, “No homo?”

“There you go, challenging my sexuality to distract from the main issue.” Rem curled into a ball. “I won’t get lost in your circular word maze.”

Kneeling on the couch, I hovered over him. “It’s an honest question.”

He took the bait, as I knew he would. (Sucka!) “Who says hetero-identifying men can’t enjoy lyrically provocative music penned by feminist icons?”

“Well, I’ve never witnessed you listening to Tori Amos or even humming her songs, so you must be doing it on the sly. What else are you doing behind closed doors?” An evil grin broke across my face as I put my hands on his shoulders. “Clive?”

He flipped me off him and straddled me to prevent my escape (which might have led to nude wrestling if we were hot for each other, but the spark between us was as platonic as neutered cats when they cuddled). We spent a few minutes going back and forth about his straightness before Rem realized he’d fallen for my manipulative tactics yet again.

“No!” he shouted, leaping off the couch as if avoiding freshly dribbled jizz. “You won’t get away with this!”

“Where’re you going? The movie’s not over.” I affected a pout. “Don’t you want to find out what happens when Calvin’s ghost enters the body of his father’s canary?” My upside-down frown deepened. “Besides, you said you wanted to hang with me.”

“And now I see why I don't do it more often,” he snapped, practically foaming at the mouth. “Be on time for sound check tomorrow.” With that, he vanished behind a slammed door, presumably to commiserate with my bros about his failed attempt to rehabilitate me.

“You’re leaving?” I yelled after him. “Aw, shucks. Just when things were getting good.”

After a sitting in my own company for a spell, regret needled at me. I guess I could’ve been nice—or at least, not badgered Rem about his straightness, which I’d never doubted in the first place. But his threat to kick me out of the band I fucking started was too much! I was fuming.

Since this might be my last tour, I figured I’d drop the proverbial dynamite and blow the roof off this rinky-dinky joint. “There’s nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose,” said someone somewhere once, so I’ve heard. Hunting through the drawers for the room service menu, I found the item I craved: spirits. (Thankfully not the walking-through-walls type: I'd gone no contact with the paranormal crowd ever since my childhood specter sightings got me trouble with my grandma's Bible study group and they'd booted me off to Christian rehab camp ... but Scheherazade will have to save that tale for another night.)

Deplorably unobservant Brayden likely wouldn’t notice the room’s extra charge. And if I managed to make it through the tour without the bros voting me out, I could always say the order was a mistake. Or maybe I could pay off the bill before we left Miami—busking for bucks wasn’t out of the question. Being cute, charming, and blessed with a powerful set of pipes, I knew I could sing acapella with the best of ’em.

Of course, I’d have a better chance at making bank if I could convince one or more of my bros to provide instrumentals during my hypothetical street serenade, but I didn’t need them. I didn’t need anyone—I could be a one-man show. The fans’ voracious response to Rim Shot's social media posts had already proven I was the one who gave them something to talk about. Good, bad, or somewhere in between, their opinions of me ran the gamut: they loved revering and/or roasting me in the same breath. The die-hard stans would follow me across the Euphrates if I asked them to. Mob mentality could work to my advantage …

“Fucking right!” I shouted to my reflection, embracing the wall mirror as well as I could with my arms pressed flat against it. “You’re the VIP, the MVP, and the BMOC!” I kissed myself in the smeary glass. “All we have is each other,” I whispered to him.

Eye to eye, we exchanged appraisals; and I saw something I didn’t like—his fear. Doubt. Uncertainty.

“Bah!” I heaved myself away from my twin. “You’re your own worst critic. Time to carpe diem and seize the stage!” I imagined myself wearing a cape. “Abracadabra! I’m a god among men. Tomorrow the mortals will bow down to my innate superiority and beg me to rule them!”

Okay, that was OTT, but can you blame me? I’m fucking amazing and anyone who says I’m broken and in need of fixing is a petty wisenheimer. I couldn’t be blamed for my alcohol abuse any more than you could blame Clive for his gaudy taste in movies, Rem for his default-unsatisfied micromanaging, Lash for his resting bitch face, or Cade for his dullest-tool-in-the-shed approach to romance. Clearly I was an innocent victim of circumstance and the shoddy decisions of others. Cry my pardon, motherfuckers!

Making excuses was one of my many talents; by the time I’d ordered a round of drinks for me, myself, and I, I’d already off written my actions as “Oops! … I Did It Again” and pushed my secretive guilt down to the bottom of my chest of hidden wonders, along with the truth about who had really stolen my mom’s ruby necklace (pawned it for a keg of Bud Light and a carton of cancer sticks, then pinned the theft on my friend Carson); the actual size of my dick (five and a quarter inches rock hard, but rounded up to six and a half on my Grindr profile); and the bottom-line amount of my credit card debt (seventeen thousand dollars, eleven of which were already in collections). Oh! And the real culprit of the infamous bathroom clogging incident at a certain Tampa Bay venue (I swore up and down Clive had been the last one to drop a deuce in there, but it was me—and if you cross-examined me under oath, I’d claim you’re full of shit.)

Luck was a lady, not a dragon, tonight. (Fuck you and the General Tso's chicken you rode in on, Luck Dragon.) I streamed a true crime series about a femme fatale and her faithful henchman after Rem texted about his "spontaneous sleepover" in Cade's room with the rest of the boys. Thanks for the invite, I texted back. Sleep tight, hope the bed bugs bite!

A documentary about brutal murderers wasn’t my usual turn-on; however, a gun in a garter was a visual boner … and since I had carte blanche to self-obliterate, I pulled the trigger until my round was spent.