“Order up!” I cry, sliding the six steaming paper boats over to Marlene.

She grabs them without looking, bundling each with napkins and plastic cutlery. Then she hands them down through the service window to a gaggle of attractive women, already tipsy despite the early hour, each wearing a bright sash over their shoulders and tiaras in their hair. A bachelorette party, if I had to guess, which is about as common in this city as air.

“Thanks, Killer Chef,” one of the ladies says to me, twirling her colorful beaded necklaces around her finger. She adds with a coy giggle, “It sure looks … yummy.”

Most of our customers come to us for the incredible food. Can I help it if a few also want to flirt? And truth is, all sweaty, covered with food stains and smelling of cooking oil, I love the attention.

But before I can respond, Marlene answers for me—with a blatant eye roll.

“Oh, honey,” she says, her voice dripping with experience and sarcasm. “Don’t let Caleb’s two hundred pounds of hunkiness fool you. That man’s a lot like the sun. Plenty hot when he shines on you, but try to get close and he’ll burn you to a crisp. Believe me. I know.”

Good old Marlene. Opening this truck with her was one of the best decisions I ever made. But walking down the aisle with her? Eh, not so much.

I’m just about to tell these gals how my ex-wife is a lot like a lemon—sweet-looking but truly bitter—when something outside catches my eye.

And chills me, despite the sweltering heat inside my truck.

Down the block, four white boys in their mid-twenties are leaning against the hood of a black SUV, a Ford Explorer with new, shiny chrome rims. They’re passing around a bottle of liquor in a paper bag. Whispering among themselves. Watching the traffic go by. Watching the morning tourists stroll past.

But most of all, watching me.

I don’t recognize their faces, but I do recognize their clothes. Each is wearing something yellow. A yellow bandana. A yellow baseball cap. A yellow hoodie.

Gang colors.

They’re part of the Franklin Avenue Soldiers, an up-and-coming crew based out of the St. Roch neighborhood, a good four miles from here. I wasn’t expecting to see any of them this far from their turf. In fact, I was hoping that working this busy brunch shift would distract me, would help keep all that bullshit out of my brain for a few hours.

I should have known they’d find me.

Especially today.

“Hey, fall asleep at the stove again?” Marlene barks, jolting me back to reality. “I need four waddles, two shakes, and three scoops!”