After a few moments of silence, I see that Everett looks stuck in his head as he takes another painfully slow sip from the water bottle. He used to do this when we were little, too—begin to overthink shit until he freezes up. The poor fucker will be here for the next three to five business days unless someone snaps him out of it. "You know what? Just shrimp it up because it's not like you'll ever outshine me in the bedroom anyway, Popsicle Prick," I tell him cheerfully. Then I frown, a thought crossing my mind. "Hold up. Is your jizz cold? Like a sperm Icee?" That does the trick. Everett does
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