Initially she'd been flattered by Tony's surprise appearances at the restaurant, particularly since the other waitresses thought he was so handsome – quite the hunk! Amber never let on that Tony couldn't keep a job, mooched shamelessly off his parents, hadn't finished a book since tenth grade and wasn't all that great in the sack. And ever since he'd started the workout binge, he'd become moody and rough. One time he'd dragged her dripping wet from the shower to the bed, by her hair. She'd considered leaving him, but nothing better had presented itself. Tony didlook good (at least in a sleeved shirt), and in Amber's world that counted for something.

Yet she wished he'd stop dropping in at work. His presence was not only distracting, it was a drain on her income. Amber had been keeping track: Whenever Tony was there, her tips fell off by as much as a third. Therefore the sight of her hulked-out sweetheart swaggering through the door on this particular Wednesday evening – Wednesday already being a slow night, tipwise – failed to evoke in the alternate Miss September either gladness or affection. The frisky ambience of Hooters brought out Tony's demonstrative side, and at every opportunity he intercepted his tray-laden princess with an indiscreet hug, smooch or pat on the ass.

Tony's boisterous possessiveness was meant to discourage other patrons from flirting with Amber, and it did. Unfortunately, it also discouraged excessive gratuities.

Amber's only hope on this night was the icky-looking pair of rednecks at table seven, the same two who yesterday had left her a hundred-dollar tip on a credit card. The shorter man had arrived in a fresh suit of camouflage, while his ponytailed companion – the one who'd tried to buy her shorts – appeared not to have changed clothes or even shaved. Affixed across the orbit of his left eye was a new rubber bicycle patch; Amber tried not to imagine what was behind it. The faces of both men still bore the scabs of savage cuts, as if they'd gone at each other with razors. Amber could not dismiss the possibility.

But for her purposes, the rednecks could not be crude and spooky and disgusting. They were handsome and sexy and sophisticated; Mel Gibson and Tom Cruise, sharing a plate of chicken wings. That's how Amber treated them. It wasn't easy, but a hundred bucks was a hundred bucks.

"Honey," said the ponytailed one, "you's right about the White Rebel Brotherhood. They's a damn rock band."

"You should see 'em live," Amber said. She set two cold Coronas on the table.

The stumpy one in camouflage asked her if the name of the group was some kind of joke. "Considering all the Negroes they got," he added.

Amber said, "I think it's meant to be funny, yeah."

The ponytailed one, lathering his palms with the condensation from the beer bottle: "Well, Bode don't think it's so funny. Can't say I do, neither."

Amber's poster-quality smile didn't flicker. "The music's killer. That's all I know."

Then she glided away with their empties and an order for more onion rings. Her path to the kitchen took her directly past Tony's table, and of course he snatched her by the elastic waistband of her shorts.

"Not now," she told him.

"Who're those dirtbags?"

"Just customers. Now let me get to work," Amber said.

Tony grunted. "They hit on you? That's what it looked like."

"You're going to get me in trouble with the boss. Let go, OK?"

"First a kiss." With one arm he pulled her close.

"Tony!"

"A kiss for Tony, that's right."

And of course he had to slip her some tongue, right there in the middle of the restaurant. Out of the corner of an eye, Amber noticed the rednecks watching. Tony must have seen them, too, because he was beaming by the time Amber pulled free.

A few minutes later, when she delivered the onion rings to the table, the ponytailed one said: "People ever tell you you look zackly like Kim Basinger."

"Really?" Amber acted flattered, though she'd always seen herself in the Daryl Hannah mold.

"Bode thinks so, too, don'tcha?"

"Dead ringer," said the camouflaged man, "and I'm the better judge. I still got both good eyes."

Amber said, "Well, you're sweet for saying so. Can I get you anything else?"

"Matter a fact, yes you can," the ponytailed man said. "How 'bout one a them red-hot kisses like you give that other guy?"

Amber blushed. With a moist leer the camouflaged man said, "Yeah, I didn't see that on no menu!"

The ponytailed one observed that Amber wasn't too keen on the kissing idea. He cocked his face upward and tapped a dirty fingertip on the bicycle patch. "Mebbe it's me. Mebbe you prejudiced against handicaps."

Amber, sensing (as all good waitresses can) that her tip was in jeopardy: "No, oh no, I can explain. That's my boyfriend."

In unison the men twisted in their chairs to reappraise Tony across the restaurant. He returned their stares with a belligerent sneer.

The ponytailed redneck said, "No shit. The hell is he, Cuban?"

Amber said no, Tony was from Los Angeles. "Sometimes he gets carried away. I'm sorry if it upset you."

Through a mouthful of onions, the one called Bode said: "Meskin, I'll bet. They're all over California is what I heard."

On the way back to the bar station, Amber stopped at Tony's table and curtly related what had happened: "Thanks to you, they think I kiss all the customers. They think it's part of the service. You happy now?"

Tony's eyes darkened. "Those dirtbags – they wanted a kiss?"

"Do us all a favor. Go home," Amber whispered.

"No fuckin' way. Not now."

"Tony, I swear to God ... "

He was flaring his nostrils, puffing his chest, flexing his arms. All that's missing, Amber thought, is the workout mirror.

Declared Tony: "I'll straighten those shitheads out."

"No you won't," said Amber, bitterly surveying the suddenly empty table. "They're gone."

She hurried back, hoping to find some cash. Nothing – they'd skipped on the tab. Shit,she thought. It would come out of her pay.

Suddenly she was enveloped by Tony's cologne, as subtle as paint thinner. She felt him looming behind her. "Goddamn you," she said, retreating to the kitchen. Predictably, Tony stormed out the door.

Two hours later, Amber's redneck customers returned, anchoring themselves at the same table.

She tried not to appear too relieved. "Where'd you fellas run off to?"

"Jest needed some fresh air," said the ponytailed one, lighting a cigaret. "You miss us? Say, where's that kissing-machine boyfriend a yours."

Amber pretended not to hear him. "What can I get for you?"

The camouflaged man ordered four more beers, two apiece, and a fresh heap of wings. "Add it on our bill," he said, flashing the Visa card with two stubby fingers.

Amber was waiting for the drink order when the barmaid handed her the phone. "For you, honey," she said. "Guess who."

Tony, of course. Screaming.

"Slow down," Amber told him. "I can't understand a word."

"My car!" he cried. "Somebody burned up my car!"

"Oh, Tony."

"Right in my fucking driveway! They torched it!"

"When?"

"During wrestling, I guess. It's still on fire, they got like five guys tryin' to put out the flames ... "

The barmaid came with the tray of Coronas. Amber told Tony she was really sorry about the car, but she had to get back to work.

"I'll call you on my break," she promised.

"The Miata, Amber!"

"Yes, baby, I heard you."

When she brought the beers and chicken wings to the two rednecks, the one named Bode said: "Sugar, you're our rock 'n' roll expert. Is there a band called the White Clarion Aryans?"

Amber thought for a moment. "Not that I ever heard of."

"Good," Bode said.

"Not jes good," said his ponytailed friend, "fan-fucking-tastic!"