Chapter 8: Chicken, Coke, and Cold Shoulders

Back at the apartment, I cracked open an icy Coke and watched the gold price soar. My brokerage app flashed green—I’d made more in a week than most people saw in a year. I celebrated with my roommates, offering to treat everyone to dinner.

We all voted for the new Nashville hot chicken spot. “Eight pieces of extra-hot, two sides of mac and cheese, a pile of fries, and enough sweet tea to drown in,” someone joked, tossing a chip in the air.

Brandon glanced around. “Where’s Derek? He’s not answering.”

Matt nudged me. “You’re closest with him—give him a call?”

Before I could, Derek limped in, pale as a ghost. He looked like he’d lost a fight with a SEPTA bus. The room fell silent, everyone staring.

Matt stepped up. “Derek, dude, you okay? Want to hit the ER?”

Brandon let out a low whistle. “No way—did you actually go through with it?”

Derek bristled, thinking everyone was mocking him. “No need. When I’m recovered, we won’t even be in the same league. You guys don’t have to pretend to care.”

Brandon shrugged. “Fine. Caleb’s treating us to hot chicken tonight, so you don’t need to come.”

Derek’s eyes went wide, panic flickering. “Caleb, you knew I had surgery—why pick today to treat everyone? If you don’t want me there, just say it.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing my keys. I wasn’t letting him guilt me this time.

Derek wasn’t done. “Fine, just give me the cash for my share. I usually eat eight pieces, two macs, fries, drinks—let’s call it ninety bucks.”

Matt snorted, Brandon nearly choked. The audacity was wild.

I grinned. “You want me to pay you for food you’re not even eating? Dream on.”

Derek panicked. “Who says I’m not going? I’m coming!”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You just had surgery down there, and you want extra-hot chicken?”

He grinned, eyes greedy. “If you don’t take advantage, you’re a fool. Besides, that place is fancy—the cheapest meat is fifteen bucks.”

He limped to get his coat, ready to chase a free meal no matter the pain. The rest of us just shook our heads, half-amused, half-exasperated. Typical Derek—never letting a handout slip away.