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Summary
He’s probably paying them too much. Maybe if he reduced their wages by a few hundred bucks an hour, they’d stop fucking asking him to come hang out with them.
He does no such thing, of course, and so the invitations keep rolling in. Pizza party at the roller rink, bingo night, two-for-one bowling, something called a ‘Paint N’ Sip’ pottery class—an endless deluge of trendy evening affairs, each somehow more inane than the last. Cesare always bows out, sometimes gracefully—“Can’t make it, I’ve got, er, hot yoga at eight. Yeah, yeah, too bad, maybe next time.”—and sometimes less so—“So help me god, Conrad, if you invite me one more time to go apple picking with you, I will put grilled onions in your protein shake!”—but inevitably, invariably, they always let it drop.
Until today, that is.
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Alternately: Cesare is, despite his best efforts at deflecting the Zomburger crew's social invitations, finally persuaded into attending Frances’ twenty-fifth birthday party. An old-fashioned game of Spin the Bottle results in some unexpected developments between the four of them. (AKA my shamelessly indulgent Zompolycule kissfic)