Funky Pelican – Brunch on the Pier
The Atlantic was alive with color that morning—deep turquoise rolling against weathered pilings, the salty air lifting the American flag at the end of the pier so that it snapped crisply in the breeze. From their high stools at the outdoor bar of the Funky Pelican, Kelley, Scott, Denise, and Damon had front-row seats to the show. The horizon stretched forever, and the occasional pelican coasted low across the waves, wings catching sunlight like polished bronze.
The outside bar was bustling. Locals in flip-flops leaned against the rail with cold beers in hand, a sunburnt fisherman argued cheerfully with his buddy over the size of the redfish they’d seen that morning, and a young couple shared shrimp and fries at one of the nearby picnic tables, laughing with their heads close together.
Rachel, the bartender, worked with smooth rhythm, dropping a wedge of lime into Denise’s vodka cranberry before sliding it across the bar. Kelley and Scott had Bloody Marys, each crowned with stalks of celery and skewered olives, while Damon was content with a cold Coors Light sweating in his grip.
The bar buzzed with a mix of locals and visitors. A group of fishermen in ball caps compared stories about the one that got away, their laughter carrying on the wind. Two cyclists in bright jerseys leaned their bikes against the rail before ordering iced teas, and an older couple sat side by side at a picnic table, sharing a plate of fried shrimp and gazing out at the surf.
Rachel leaned on the bar, resting her elbows as she gave the foursome a sly smile. “You guys look like you’re here for fun. Ever played Never Have I Ever?”
The group exchanged blank looks. Kelley shook her head. “Sounds familiar, but no. Enlighten us.”
Rachel grinned. “It’s simple. One person starts with, ‘Never have I ever…’ and then adds something they haven’t done. If anyone else has done it, they take a shot. It’s part confessional, part comedy, and a guaranteed way to make friends or enemies real fast.”
Scott chuckled, lifting his Bloody Mary. “So basically a drinking game that makes you spill your secrets.”
“Exactly,” Rachel said. “You all should play. One round at each bar down the strip—you’ll have stories for days.”
Denise’s eyes lit up. “I love that idea. A whole bar crawl with a game woven in.”
Damon took a pull from his beer and grinned. “Count me in. But only if I can keep drinking these. Shots aren’t my thing.”
Rachel raised a brow. “Coors Light counts. You’ll just be the steady one while everyone else unravels.”
The four of them laughed, clinking glasses to the new plan. The game wasn’t starting yet—that would be saved for the next stop. But already the idea gave the day a new kind of energy, like they’d just signed up for an adventure none of them could quite predict.
For a few moments, they let the breeze and the view do the talking. Kelley pointed out a pelican diving headfirst into the water, surfacing with a flash of silver in its beak. Scott leaned back to watch the waves roll under the pier, the crash and retreat echoing below. Denise leaned on the bar, chatting lightly with Rachel about Flagler Beach’s best happy hour spots, while Damon sat with his elbows wide, his grin lazy, taking it all in.
“This,” Kelley said finally, raising her glass, “is the perfect start.”
Scott nodded. “Agreed. A little sun, a little salt, and a bartender who just handed us our marching orders.”
Rachel laughed, already mixing a margarita for another guest. “You’ll thank me later—or maybe curse me. Either way, it’ll be a good time.”
The four clinked glasses again, sealing the pact.
The day was just beginning, the pier behind them, the line of beachside bars ahead like an open invitation. And with a new game hanging in the air, they were ready to see where Flagler Beach would take them.
Johnny D’s – Never Have I Ever,
Round One
Johnny D’s sat just off State Rd 100 a low-slung bar with salty wood siding that looked like it had soaked up decades of beer-soaked laughter, jukebox thumping, and cigarette smoke. The neon beer signs in the windows cast a hazy glow out onto the sidewalk, and the muffled beat of music and chatter leaked through the heavy front door. Inside, the place smelled faintly of beer, fried food, and that warm worn-in leather that comes from decades of barstools meeting denim.
Kelley pushed through first, with Scott holding the door open behind her. Damon trailed in, heading directly to the bar to put in an order and Denise walked with a bounce, scanning the room with curious eyes.
The bar itself, an island in the middle of the room, was surrounded by bar stools and polished from years of sliding pint glasses. Behind it stood the bartender—a man in his late fifties with a graying beard, Harley Davidson T-shirt, and a look that said he’d seen everything from bar fights to wedding proposals in this very room. He leaned into the bar with an easy smile, sliding a couple of beers down to two regulars perched at the far end.
“Locals’ place,” Damon muttered approvingly, giving the room a once-over. “I like it.”
After getting their drinks from the bartender, the four of them found a table near the pool tables where a couple of regulars—two men in ball caps and sleeveless shirts—were finishing their game. Denise slid into a chair and set her vodka cranberry on the table, Kelley and Scott placed their Bacardi and Diets down, and Damon kept his Coors at the ready.
“Alright,” Denise said, stirring the ice in her glass. “Who’s going first in this little game?”
Kelley leaned back, grinning like she’d been waiting all day for this. “Oh, I’ve got one.” She let the pause hang for dramatic effect before saying, “Never have I ever climbed out of a window.”
Scott immediately groaned. “Oh, come on. That’s unfair.”
Damon chuckled and raised his beer. “Yeah, that’s me too.” He tipped the bottle back with a long pull.
Denise hesitated, eyebrows knitting as if replaying her past in fast-forward. Then her face softened into a guilty smile. “Ohhh, yeah. That one time in high school—sneaking out of my friend’s house when her dad came home early.” She raised her hand and sighed. “Guess I’m drinking too.”
The group burst into laughter as Scott flagged the bartender over. “Two shots, please. Make ‘em something strong.”
The bartender, beard twitching with amusement, poured out a couple of golden whiskeys and brought them over. “Window stories, huh? You don’t wanna hear mine.”
Kelley laughed. “That sounds like a good one.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Statute of limitations isn’t up yet.”
That got the locals chuckling, a low ripple of camaraderie through the room. One of the men at the pool table called over, “Better watch it with those shots—game’ll get sloppy quick.”
“Game’s already sloppy,” Scott called back, lifting his glass. “But cheers to that.”
Denise winced dramatically as she downed her shot, and Scott followed suit with a cough and a thump on the table. “Ugh. That’s got some teeth.”
“Good whiskey,” the bartender said, grinning. “Or bad. Depends how you look at it.”
The group wandered over to the pool table as it opened up. Damon, beer in hand, leaned against the wall with the kind of casual confidence of someone who had no intention of taking the game too seriously. Denise racked up the balls while Kelley and Scott bickered over who was going to break.
“You always break crooked,” Scott teased.
“And you always scratch,” Kelley shot back, laughing.
Sure enough, when Scott finally leaned in to break, the cue ball rocketed forward, clipped the racked triangle, and promptly spun into the corner pocket.
“Called it!” Kelley shouted, pointing like she’d won the lottery.
“Doesn’t count,” Scott protested, but even the locals nearby were laughing.
The game carried on with friendly jabs and sips between shots. Denise managed a couple of solid hits, Kelley sank a lucky ball and celebrated with exaggerated flair, and Damon—true to form—mostly leaned back, sipping his Coors and acting as commentator.
“You know,” he said, “if you all play bad enough, I might actually win.”
The bartender strolled by, grinning as he refilled a couple of glasses. “You folks aren’t half bad. For tourists.”
“Hey, we’re blending in just fine,” Denise replied, twirling her cue like a baton.
By the time the last ball dropped, the game was less about competition and more about laughter echoing around the smoky little bar. Damon polished off his beer, shook his head, and walked back to the bar for another.
“You’re gonna lap us if you keep that up,” Scott called.
“That’s the plan,” Damon said with a grin, raising the fresh bottle.
The four regrouped at their table, drinks nearly gone, cheeks flushed from both alcohol and laughter. Kelley checked the time and stood up. “Alright, crew. One round down. We’ve got more bars waiting. Next stop—Finn’s.”
They all pushed back from the table, gathering themselves to leave. As they headed for the door, one of the locals at the bar raised his glass. “Hey! Y’all come back when you’re ready to lose at pool again.”
Denise laughed and blew a playful kiss. Damon raised his hand in salute.
Just as Scott opened the door to the hot afternoon air, Kelley froze mid-step, looking back over her shoulder with wide eyes.
“Uh… guys?” she said, voice half-laugh, half-concern. “Tell me that wasn’t my purse hanging on the lights over the bar.”
Everyone turned. Sure enough, there it was—her purse dangling from the lights like some kind of trophy, with the grizzled bartender standing beneath it, grinning mischievously.
“You forget something?” he called.
The whole bar erupted in laughter as Kelley slapped her forehead.
“Guess we’re not blending in as well as we thought,” Scott said, holding the door while Kelley stomped back to retrieve her purse.
Finn’s Rooftop
Round 2
The wooden stairs creaked under their sandals as Kelley, Scott, Denise, and Damon made their way up to Finn’s rooftop deck. The smell of saltwater drifted over the railings, mixing with the tang of sunscreen and grilled seafood. A light ocean breeze tugged at Kelley’s hair as she paused halfway up to glance out across the Atlantic, the waves rolling in steady sets toward the golden strip of sand.
“Not bad for round three,” Scott said, running his hand along the worn wooden railing. “Best view yet.”
They reached the top and stepped onto the open-air deck. High-top tables filled the space, with sun-faded umbrellas in shades of teal and yellow casting scattered pools of shade. The bar stretched long and wooden beneath the tin roof, etched with names and doodles carved by years of patrons. A handful of bikers in leather vests leaned against it, sipping longnecks, while a young couple in swimwear clinked cocktail glasses under an umbrella nearby.
Kelley pointed toward a rail-side high-top with a perfect ocean view. “That’s us.”
They slid onto the tall chairs, the wood warm from the sun. From this vantage point, the Flagler Beach pier jutted into the ocean, a scattering of surfers bobbing just beyond the breakers. Onshore, kids dug trenches in the sand while sunbathers sprawled under bright beach towels.
A waitress approached with a bounce in her step. Her name tag read Shelly. She wore a turquoise Finn’s T-shirt knotted at the hip, shorts, and a smile that looked like it belonged to someone who spent half her life laughing.
“Welcome to Finn’s, y’all. You picked the best seat in the house. What can I get you started with?”
Scott glanced at the others before speaking. “We’ll keep it easy—same round we had at Johnny D’s. Bacardi and diets for me and Kelley, vodka cranberry for Denise, and—he nodded at Damon,“a Coors Light for him.”
Shelly laughed, raising an eyebrow at Damon. “I like a man who seems to know what he likes. Draft or bottle?”
“Bottle,” Damon replied, already leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Cold as you can get it.”
“Got it. Be right back.”
As Shelly disappeared into the bustle of the bar, Denise tapped her fingers against the table. “Alright, who’s up?”
“I’ve got one,” Damon said, grinning mischievously. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”
Groans erupted instantly from the other three. Kelley rolled her eyes, raising her arm to reveal the nearly completed sleeve of tattoos. Scott knew he didn’t even need to move to show the mermaid the covered his forearm or the octopus tentacles that reached out from beneath his sleeve. Denise tilted her wrist, showing a delicate infinity symbol and slyly glanced down towards her shin where her puppy paws delicately climbed her shin.
“That’s a cheap shot,” Scott muttered.
“Total cop-out,” Denise agreed.
Damon just sat back, smug. “Hey, I didn’t make the rules. Take your shots like good sports.”
Just then, Shelly returned with their drinks, placing them one by one on the table. “Here you go—Coors Light, vodka cranberry, and a couple Bacardi and diets. You folks celebrating something?”
“Kind of,” Kelley said with a grin. “We’re barhopping our way through town, playing ‘Never have I ever.’ Each stop, someone throws out a question.”
Shelly’s eyes widened. “A barhop version? I’ve seen people play it at a house party, but never at a lineup of bars.” She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s brilliant. And dangerous.”
“We prefer to think of it as a challenge,” Scott said, raising his glass.
Shelly leaned on the back of Damon’s chair. “So what was the question this time?”
“Never have I ever gotten a tattoo,” Kelley answered, rolling her eyes.
Shelly smirked. “And let me guess… he was the only clean slate?” She jabbed a thumb at Damon.
“You got it,” Denise said. “Now we’re on the hook for three shots.”
“Well then,” Shelly said with a chuckle, “let’s make it official. I’ll get those shots lined up.”
As she walked back toward the bar, Scott glanced over the rail at the water. A surfer caught a wave and rode it toward shore, arms out like wings.
“Better than we did yesterday,” Scott muttered.
Kelley laughed. “Don’t remind me. I lost two balls in the water hazard, and Damon still hasn’t stopped talking about his birdie on the third hole.”
“Hey, I earned that birdie,” Damon said, puffing his chest. “And you’re just mad because the gator on the eighth hole spooked you.”
“That thing was huge!” Denise chimed in. “And it hissed at me.”
Their laughter carried on the breeze just as Shelly returned, balancing a tray with three clear shot glasses brimming with golden tequila. She slid them onto the table with a practiced flourish.
“Alright, here’s to bad tattoo choices—or good ones, depending on how you look at it,” she said with a wink.
The group clinked glasses and downed the shots, grimacing in unison. Damon slapped the table laughing at them. “Now that’s how you start a lunch break.”
Shelly lingered a moment. “So what’s next after here?”
“Pizza,” Kelley answered. “Rocky’s, just up the street.”
“Good choice,” Shelly said approvingly. “Best crust in town. Save room, though—the slices are as big as your face.”
Conversation drifted between golf misadventures, surfer commentary, and playful banter with Shelly. The deck buzzed with other voices—locals in flip-flops, bikers trading road stories, and a group of college kids taking selfies with the ocean as their backdrop.
Eventually, Kelley drained the last sip of her rum and diet and pushed back her chair. “Alright, pizza time.”
They gathered themselves, pushing away from the high-top. Damon adjusted his sunglasses. Scott slipped a couple bills under the edge of his glass. Denise looped her purse strap over her shoulder and started toward the stairs.
Halfway down, Kelley stopped short. “Hold up.” She spun, darted back to the table, and scooped her purse from where it dangled off the back of her chair. She held it high like a prize.
“Would’ve been a short barhop if I left this behind,” she called out, grinning.
The others laughed, shaking their heads as she rejoined them. Together, they descended the wooden stairs, the sounds of Finn’s rooftop fading behind them as the scent of pizza—and the promise of Rocky’s—pulled them up the road.
Rocky’s Pizzeria & Restaurant
The striped red-and-white awning of Rocky’s Pizzeria & Restaurant rippled in the Flagler Beach breeze as the four of them walked along A1A. The smell hit them before they even reached the window — garlic, hot dough, oregano, and melted cheese drifting out onto the sidewalk.
Behind the little service window, a girl in a black Rocky’s cap leaned forward with a bright smile. “Afternoon, folks. What can I get for you today?”
Scott squinted at the menu taped up beside the glass. “We’ll take one large Three Cheese pizza.”
“Excellent choice,” she said, tapping the order into the register. “And drinks?”
“Four Coors Lights,” Damon chimed in without hesitation, almost like he’d been waiting his whole life to answer that question.
“Perfect. That’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. I’ll bring the pizza out to you. Beers I can hand you now.”
She turned, reached into a frosty cooler, and came back with four cold bottles. Condensation already beaded down the sides. They each grabbed one and clinked the glass together before carrying them to a long wooden picnic table just off the sidewalk. The table had been sun-bleached nearly gray, initials carved into it — K.B. + M.L. ‘08 on one corner, and a wobbly heart in the center that looked like it had been scratched in with a car key.
From their seats, they had a full view of the sidewalk traffic. A jogger in a neon tank top breezed past, earbuds bouncing. A kid lugging a skimboard trailed behind his dad. A couple of tourists in floppy hats paused near the sign, sniffing the air and debating whether they had room for pizza after “that ice cream cone.”
Denise twisted the cap off her beer and leaned back. “So are we playing another round of the game here?”
Kelley shook her head. “No shots, no game,” she said, smirking. “But I’ve got a joke.”
The others perked up. Kelley leaned in and began:
“So it’s Christmas time, and a wife asks her husband, ‘Honey, what should I give the mailman for a tip?’ The husband’s sitting on the couch, watching the game. Doesn’t even look up. He just shrugs and goes: ‘Ah, fuck him, give him a dollar.’”
Denise giggled already. Kelley pressed on.
“The next morning, the mailman shows up. The wife greets him in a sexy little negligee — all lace and silk — and says, ‘Merry Christmas, come inside.’ He follows her upstairs, they do the deed, and afterwards she cooks him a huge breakfast: bacon, eggs, pancakes, everything. The mailman’s sitting at the table, stuffing his face, and finally he asks, ‘This is amazing, but… why?’
“She smiles sweetly and says, ‘Well, I asked my husband what to give you for Christmas. And he said, “fuck him, give him a dollar.”’”
Kelley paused for effect, then added: “Breakfast was my idea.”
The table erupted. Denise slapped her hand against the wood, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Damon tilted his beer back, choking on a laugh halfway through a sip.
“That’s terrible!” Denise gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Terrible but brilliant,” Scott added.
Damon set his bottle down with a grin. “Alright, I got one too.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“A guy walks into a bar with a paper bag. He sets it on the counter and says, ‘Bartender, I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I can show you something you’ve never seen before.’ The bartender says, ‘You’re on.’
“The guy pulls out a little piano, then a tiny stool, then finally a twelve-inch-tall man who sits down and starts playing Mozart flawlessly.”
Kelley’s eyes widened. Damon went on.
“The bartender’s jaw drops. ‘Where the hell did you find him?!’ The guy sighs. ‘Magic lamp. But the genie’s hard of hearing.’
“‘Hard of hearing?’ the bartender asks.
“The guy just shrugs. ‘Yeah. You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?’”
The laughter rolled again, so loud that a couple walking a dachshund in a pirate costume turned to grin at them. The guy raised his hand in mid wave salute as they passed.
Scott wiped his eyes. “Alright, my turn.” He leaned back, delivering it with a straight face.
“A naked man walks into a bar wearing only a scarf and balancing a duck on his head. Bartender looks at him and says, ‘Harry, something looks different about you today.’
“The duck looks at the bartender and says, ‘Carl, you would not believe the day that I am having.’”
Kelley nearly spit her beer out laughing. Even the man at the next picnic table chuckled into his Coke. “That’s a good one!” he called over.
The door swung open then, and the Rocky’s girl appeared balancing a steaming pizza pan on her hand. The scent hit them immediately — mozzarella bubbling into pools, ricotta melting at the edges, parmesan crisped golden brown across a blistered crust.
“Large Three Cheese, hot out of the oven,” she said, sliding the pan onto their table. “And sounds like y’all are having more fun than half the bars around here.”
“We try,” Denise said with a grin.
The girl noticed their empties and nodded. “Another round of Coors to go with this?”
“Yes, please,” Scott said without hesitation.
She ducked back inside and returned a moment later with four fresh bottles, setting them down with practiced ease. “There you go. Don’t make me laugh too hard on my way back in, or I’ll drop somebody’s calzone.”
“Fair enough,” Damon said, raising his bottle.
They each pulled a slice, strings of cheese stretching until they snapped. Damon bit into his first. “Now that’s pizza.”
Denise dabbed her mouth with a napkin and smirked. “Alright, my turn.” She launched into her joke.
“A golf pro finds a magic lamp, rubs it, and out pops a genie. The genie says, ‘You get three wishes.’ The pro thinks. ‘First wish: I want to be the greatest golfer in the world.’ Poof! Done. Second wish: ‘I want endless money.’ Poof! Done. Third wish: ‘I want to be irresistible to women.’ Poof! He turns into a box of chocolates.”
The groans and laughter overlapped. Kelley shook her head. “That’s straight out of a dad-joke manual.”
“Still works,” Denise said, grabbing another slice.
Around them, the sidewalk show continued: two kids racing each other barefoot, a biker wobbling by with a surfboard under one arm, and an old man in a Hawaiian shirt pausing just long enough to mutter, “Smells better than my wife’s kitchen.”
By the time the pizza was down to its last two slices, the group was stuffed and their second round of beers nearly empty. Scott leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “That hit the spot.”
Kelley nodded. “Alright — Golden Lion next?”
“Golden Lion,” Damon confirmed, draining the last of his beer.
“Perfect,” Denise said. “We’ll get back to Never Have I Ever there.”
They stacked their bottles and the pizza pan neatly on the counter near the window for the girl inside, wiped their hands clean, and stepped back onto the sidewalk, still laughing as they headed down the block toward their next stop.
Golden Lion Café
Round 3
The group strolled up A1A, the salt air heavy with fried fish and sunscreen, until the yellow awnings of the Golden Lion Café came into view. The sound of a steel drum floated down from the rooftop bar, mingling with gull cries and the steady roll of waves only steps away. Bright umbrellas dotted the courtyard, each shading picnic tables filled with families, sunburned surfers, and barefoot locals who looked like they hadn’t worn shoes since the Reagan era.
They picked an open spot near the bar, a wide wooden table beneath a red umbrella that leaned slightly with the ocean breeze. From here, they could see the tiki-trimmed bar, the open kitchen window where platters of fried fish and shrimp baskets sailed out every minute, and the rooftop deck crowded with beachgoers chasing yet another round in the afternoon heat.
Kelley set her purse down, gave the group a grin, and made her way toward the bar.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her early forties, tan lines etched into her shoulders like badges of honor. Her blond hair was pulled into a high ponytail, a pair of sunglasses perched permanently on her head. She had the look of someone who’d poured ten thousand drinks and could size up a table before they sat down.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?” she asked, voice warm but edged with the kind of attitude that dared anyone to test her patience.
Kelley leaned an elbow on the bar. “Coors Light for my friend Damon, vodka cranberry, and two Bacardi and Diets.”
“Simple enough.” The bartender snapped the cap off the bottle, poured the drinks with quick precision, and slid everything onto the bar with one hand. “Tell your boy Damon he’s drinking the ‘breakfast beer.’ Coors Light is practically a multivitamin around here.”
Kelley laughed, tipped her, and carried the drinks back to the table, weaving around a few locals clustered in chairs at the bar. One man in particular caught her eye—a wiry guy with tattoos crawling down his arms, chest, and bald head. A skull inked across the side of his scalp seemed to grin every time he turned his head. Black lines ran across his jaw and cheekbones like tribal war paint, framing his wide grin. He wore a hot pink tank top tucked into equally pink running shorts, completed by neon-pink Crocs. He leaned on the bar chatting up two college kids, his laugh loud enough to carry across the courtyard.
Back at the table, Kelley distributed the drinks like a dealer at a poker table. Damon raised his bottle with a nod of thanks, already leaning back into his seat. Denise took her vodka cranberry with a smile, stirring it with the tiny straw, while Scott clinked his Bacardi and Diet with Kelley’s and then around the rest of the table.
“So,” Denise said, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Who’s up?”
Scott straightened in his seat, smirking. “I’ve got one.” He took a slow sip, then set his glass down dramatically. “Never have I ever… missed a flight.”
He looked directly at Denise.
Her jaw dropped. “Oh, come on.” She tried to glare but it melted into a sheepish grin. “That was one time!”
“One time?” Kelley raised an eyebrow. “Try three. And if memory serves, the Vermont disaster was absolutely your fault.” She lifted her own hand reluctantly. “So I guess I’m guilty too.”
“Does it count if Denise’s chaos made it my fault?”
“Yes!” the rest of them shouted in unison, the courtyard catching a ripple of their laughter.
Denise sighed, waving Wendy, their young server, over. Wendy couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties, with sun-lightened hair pulled into a messy bun and a smile that felt genuine.
“Shots, huh?” she asked knowingly.
“Two,” Denise admitted, her grin crooked. “One for me and one for my friend Kelley here. Tequila.”
While Wendy ducked inside, Damon leaned on the table, beer bottle twirling between his fingers. “For the record,” he said, “I’ve never missed a flight. But I do like to be at the gate early. Makes me less twitchy about travel.”
“Yeah, the guy’s there before the crew even shows up,” Denise teased. “Probably memorizes the safety pamphlet.”
“Better than sprinting through terminals like you two,” Damon shot back.
The bartender passed by, overhearing. “Better to miss a flight than end up in the Keys on a plane with no air-conditioning,” she said, pausing with a tray balanced on her hip. “Happened to me once. Felt like we were being slow-roasted. People were peeling off clothes like it was spring break. Never again.”
She winked, carried on, and left the table laughing.
At the bar, the tattooed man in pink stood out like neon against driftwood. He had one foot hooked on the bar rail, Crocs tapping to the beat of the music. His booming laugh seemed to punctuate every other sentence, and even from a distance it was clear the college kids weren’t sure whether to be impressed or unnerved.
When Wendy returned with two shot glasses on a tray, she leaned in close. “That’s Dave,” she whispered. “Every weekend like clockwork. He swears he once swam with a tiger shark off Daytona Beach. But considering he can’t swim straight after two rum runners, I’m not convinced.”
Denise and Kelley clinked their tequila glasses with mock solemnity, then threw them back. Denise slammed hers down like a champion, but Kelley grimaced, shaking her head with a shudder.
“That’s why I stick to rum,” she muttered, chasing it with her Bacardi and Diet.
The courtyard filled with more laughter as a band started setting up on the small stage in the corner. Cables snaked across the ground, amplifiers hummed, and the lead singer in a Hawaiian shirt tested the mic with a long “check, check.”
As the sun sat high above, its yellow glow painted the umbrellas and tiki-trimmed rooflines in vibrant light. Families shifted from lunch into dinner, kids still sandy from the beach picking at baskets of fries while their parents leaned back with margaritas.
The group’s table grew louder with each sip, their banter bouncing between stories of botched vacations, the eternal debate over the best fish tacos in Flagler, and the possibility of challenging Dave in pink Crocs to a dance-off once the band kicked in.
By the time Wendy dropped off another round—two more Bacardi and Diets, another vodka cranberry, and Damon’s faithful Coors Light—the stage lights flickered on and the first notes of Jimmy Buffett rippled across the courtyard. The whole café felt like the heartbeat of Flagler Beach: relaxed but buzzing, familiar yet full of characters who made it unforgettable.
Scott leaned back, raising his glass toward Denise with a sly grin. “Still think missing that flight to Vermont was worth it?”
She laughed, clinking his glass. “Absolutely. If only for the stories.”
And as the band kicked into their set, Scott caught a glimpse of Kelley from the corner of his eye.
“My purse!” she cried out.
Next Door Beach Bistro
Round 4
Kelley shot upright in her chair, pointing toward the entrance.
“Hey!” she shouted.
Scott whipped his head just in time to see a golden Labrador calmly trotting out the door with Kelley’s purse clamped firmly between its jaws. The dog’s tail wagged lazily, as if this was all in good fun.
They were out of their seats in an instant. Kelley half ran, half stumbled through the tables, while Scott pushed chairs aside to keep up.
From the table over by the sushi window, an older gentleman lurched to his feet, fumbling with his napkin.
“Duke!” he bellowed, his voice a mix of authority and embarrassment. “Duke, get back here!”
The chase spilled onto the sidewalk, laughter and gasps trailing behind them. The lab was steady, not frantic—like he had done this before. He padded north along A1A and then he turned in towards the entrance of the very next restaurant. Duke calmly approached the hostess stand, set Kelley’s purse neatly at the young hostess’s feet, and then sat down, gazing up at her with hopeful eyes as though waiting for a treat.
The hostess blinked, startled, then broke into a laugh. Kelley, panting, bent to scoop up her purse just as the old man arrived, red-faced but chuckling.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, placing his hands on his knees. “He’s harmless. Just… overly friendly.”
Kelley crouched low, both hands cupping Duke’s thick neck, rubbing him behind his ears. “You’re a thief, you know that?” she teased, her tone softened by the dog’s calm eyes.
Scott clapped the old man on the shoulder. “No harm done. Purse is back safe.”
A few moments later Denise and Damon strolled up, both laughing so hard they were nearly doubled over.
“That was great!” Denise said between fits of giggles. “Kelley, you were about to tackle that poor dog!”
“Don’t tempt me,” Kelley replied, still kneeling with Duke’s big head under her palms.
Damon raised a Coors Light, the condensation dripping down the bottle. “Bill’s covered back at the Golden Lion. They let me take this one to go.”
The old man gave Duke a gentle tug. “Come on, boy. Back we go.” Duke wagged happily and followed, the small group exchanging smiles and good-natured apologies before parting ways.
Kelley brushed herself off and grinned at the others. “Since we’re already here…” She gestured to the glowing sign above the door. “Next Door Beach Bistro it is.”
Inside, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Gone was the raucous beachfront sprawl of the Golden Lion. The bistro glowed with a modern, coastal elegance—white marble counters, hanging pendant lights, and neat rows of wine bottles displayed behind the bar. The hum of conversation was lower, steadier, like everyone was leaning in closer to talk.
There were no sandy-footed surfers or sunburnt families here. Most patrons wore collared shirts, sundresses, or stylish shorts paired with crisp linen shirts. A couple in their forties swirled glasses of red wine while splitting a charcuterie board, while at the far end, two women clinked stemmed glasses filled with something pale and bubbly.
The four friends slid into the corner of the bar, Damon and Denise taking one side of the “L,” Scott and Kelley the other. Immediately a bartender—a tall guy with rolled-up sleeves and a quick smile—approached.
“What’ll it be, folks?”
“Coors Light,” Damon said automatically, handing him the empty bottle that he had drained outside and then brought in.
“Vodka cranberry,” Denise followed.
Scott looked at Kelley with a grin. They spoke in unison: “Dirty martinis.”
“Good choice,” the bartender said, already reaching for the shaker.
The drinks came quick—Damon’s beer frosty, Denise’s cranberry glowing ruby red, and Kelley and Scott’s martinis smooth and icy, each crowned with plump green olives.
Kelley raised her glass and smirked. “This is why we came. Best dirty martini on the beach.”
As the four of them sipped, the bartenders rotated behind the counter—three in total—each stopping to chat briefly with the group. One shared a quick joke about Duke being a better tipper than some tourists, another asked how they were enjoying Flagler, and the third offered suggestions on the seafood specials, though the group was just in for drinks.
About halfway through, Denise leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Alright, my turn for Never Have I Ever.” She paused dramatically, drawing their attention. “Never have I ever dined and dashed.”
Damon nearly spit his beer. Scott let out a laugh that turned heads, and Kelley pressed her martini glass against her lips, trying not to snort.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Scott said.
“What?” Denise asked, pretending innocence.
“You just watched us chase my purse down A1A!” Kelley protested. “We dined. Duke dashed.”
“Exactly,” Scott added. “If anything, the dog owes the bill.”
Damon shook his head, chuckling. “So technically, none of us have. Guess you’re on your own, sis.”
Denise’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—what does that mean?”
“It means,” Kelley said with mock solemnity, “you owe a shot.”
The bartender overheard, grinning as he slid a chilled shot glass toward Denise. “House rules,” he said, topping it off with tequila.
Denise groaned dramatically but lifted the glass. “To Duke,” she toasted, downing it in one smooth motion. The others erupted in laughter, clinking glasses against the bar.
Around them, conversations drifted. A man in a navy blazer at the far end was telling the bartender about his boat slip in St. Augustine. A young couple debated whether to order the seafood risotto or the filet mignon. Two friends at the opposite corner compared notes on wine flights, swirling and sniffing like professionals.
The group soaked it all in, the upscale energy feeling different from the rowdier stops earlier. Kelley leaned back, martini glass dangling from her fingers. “I really do like this place,” she admitted.
Damon flagged down a bartender for a second Coors Light, shrugging. “Nice joint, but as long as they’ve got cold beer, I’m good.”
By the time the martini glasses were drained and Denise had finished her cranberry, the group was content. No rush, no dog chases, just laughter lingering in the cool air-conditioned room.
Scott set his empty glass down. “Alright—ready to see where the night takes us next?”
“Just as long as it doesn’t involve another dine and dash,” Denise teased, licking salt from her hand.
“Or a golden retriever getaway driver,” Damon added.
Kelley slipped her purse back onto her shoulder, patting it once as if to reassure herself it was still there. “I’m keeping my eye on every dog in town from here on out.”
They all laughed again as they stood, weaving past the bar’s neatly dressed crowd, ready for the next stop on A1A.
Tortugas – The Upstairs Bar
Round 5
The four of them settled onto tall stools at a high-top along the railing of Tortugas’ upstairs bar, the Atlantic rolling out endlessly before them. The day was bright, the sky a perfect, cloud-smeared blue, and a salty breeze lifted napkins and teased Denise’s hair. From their vantage point, they could see everything—umbrellas the color of turquoise shells shading the tables below, cars nosed up along A1A, and beyond them the wide, restless shimmer of the ocean.
Down across the street, the Flagler Beach boardwalk had its usual flow of foot traffic. A couple strolled lazily with a golden retriever tugging at its leash, its paws padding against the planks with a rhythmic clop. A young woman in jeans and a bikini top walked near them, tattoos curling across both arms and shoulders like seaweed tangling in surf. A bright green parrot perched on her hand, bobbing as she spoke to it in a one-sided conversation that sounded serious enough to be a debate. The bird tilted its head, blinking back at her, as if it were considering its rebuttal. Kelley nudged Scott and pointed, laughing.
The upstairs bar was lively but not crowded. The back wall stretched with shelves of liquor bottles, rows of Bacardi, Absolut, and Tito’s lined up like soldiers, watched over by mounted televisions playing muted sports highlights. A mounted marlin leapt forever from the wall, frozen mid-strike. At the bar itself, a girl who couldn’t have looked older than twenty-one nursed a White Claw, tapping distractedly at her phone. The bartender, a middle-aged guy with a thick beard, leaned close and teased her gently.
“White Claw again, huh? I thought you were a margarita girl last week.”
She rolled her eyes and grinned. “I was. But the Claw hits different on beach days.”
“Hits lighter, you mean,” he shot back, wiping the bar.
The gang grinned at the exchange as their waitress appeared—a sun-kissed blonde with an easy smile.
“Hey y’all, I’m Sandy. What can I get you?” Her accent carried a California lilt under its Florida polish.
Denise perked up. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Nope,” Sandy said, balancing her tray against her hip. “Sacramento originally. Moved east a couple years ago. Figured the Atlantic breeze was better than the valley heat.”
Denise’s eyes widened, and she glanced at Damon. “Did you hear that? Sacramento!”
Damon chuckled, taking off his ballcap. “No kidding. We grew up not far from there. I’m out in the mountains now, Avery, east of Sac.”
“Shut up!” Sandy laughed. “I’ve actually been through Avery—tiny little town, right? That’s wild.”
And just like that, Denise and Damon were off, talking about foothill summers, mountain snow, and how the rivers smelled after rain. Sandy listened with genuine interest, and the familiarity of home in her voice softened Damon’s usually gruff edge.
Scott leaned toward Kelley with a grin. “See? Small world. All it takes is a bar stool and a drink menu.”
“Speaking of,” Sandy cut back in, pulling out her pad. “What’ll it be?”
Damon answered first. “Coors Light. Gotta stick with tradition.”
“Vodka cranberry,” Denise chimed in.
Kelley and Scott traded a look before saying in unison, “Bacardi and Diets.”
Sandy scribbled, winked, and disappeared into the bustle.
As they settled, Denise leaned forward. “Okay, it’s Kelley’s turn again for ‘Never have I ever.’”
Kelley tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. Her gaze drifted back toward the girl at the bar, who had just pulled another White Claw from the bartender. She smirked. “Never have I ever used a fake ID.”
The reaction was instant. Scott groaned and lifted his glass. “I’m drinking.”
Damon gave a sheepish shrug. “I’m in.”
Denise threw her head back, laughing. “I don’t think I’ve had a single round of this game where I haven’t had to drink.”
They all laughed as Sandy returned with their first round. “What’s funny?” she asked, sliding drinks onto the table.
“Just old sins resurfacing,” Damon said, tipping his can in a mock toast.
“Then I better get you another ready,” Sandy teased.
“Actually,” Scott said, pointing at himself and Denise, “we’re gonna need shots of Jameson for these two sinners.”
Denise threw him a mock glare, but Sandy just scribbled it down. “Two Jamesons, one backup Coors. Got it, hun.”
True to her word, she was back quickly, placing the shots in front of Denise and Scott. Damon cracked open his fresh can and took a long pull.
Sandy raised a brow. “You’re dedicated. I like that.”
“I’m just efficient,” Damon replied with a grin.
Scott and Denise clinked their shots together and downed them. Scott wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to Kelley. “What the hell is it with you and that purse today?”
Kelley’s hand flew instinctively to the back of her chair where the bag hung. She peeked down, half-expecting it to be missing again. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “It’s been crazy all day long with this thing.”
The others burst out laughing, and Scott launched into a series of golfing jokes—how his clubs were safer than Kelley’s purse, how even the parrot lady across the street could probably guard it better. Damon added one about Kelley needing a caddie for her handbag.
As the laughter died down, Sandy returned, this time bending low behind Kelley. “Speaking of purses…” She lifted Kelley’s bag from the ground and held it out. “You don’t want to leave this behind.”
Kelley blinked, her face blank with surprise. “It was hanging just fine a minute ago” she said. The rest of the group roared with laughter.
“See?” Scott said between chuckles. “It’s cursed.”
Even Sandy joined in, shaking her head as she set the purse safely on Kelley’s lap.
The group lingered, ordering a second round. Damon knocked back his third, then a fourth, savoring the cold simplicity of Coors as the sun angled lower. Around them, conversations buzzed—the bartender still bantering with the White Claw girl, the parrot-woman now drawing a small crowd of amused pedestrians, and the couple with the golden retriever stopping to let people pet the dog.
Eventually, Sandy drifted back. “You guys staying for dinner, or moving along?”
Scott leaned back, glancing at the others. “Think we’re ready to keep the crawl alive.”
Denise nodded. “What’s next on the list?”
“Cajun Beach,” Kelley answered, slinging her bag over her shoulder with exaggerated caution.
Sandy grinned knowingly. “Good luck keeping that purse safe.”
The group stood, waved their goodbyes, and headed down the stairs, still laughing as the breeze lifted around them. Tortugas faded behind, its open-air laughter and clinking glasses giving way to the anticipation of their next stop.
The Cajun Beach – Gumbo, Boil, and a Little Corn Hole
Round 6
The Cajun Beach sat low and wide along A1A, its sandy courtyard dotted with picnic tables, umbrellas tilted against the late-afternoon sun. From the street, it looked like the kind of place that had been pulled straight off the Gulf Coast and dropped onto Flagler’s edge—a mash-up of seafood shack, biker bar, and beach hangout. The smell of Old Bay seasoning drifted on the air, mixing with char from the grill and salt off the ocean.
The group stepped into the sand, brushing past a hand-painted sign pointing toward places like Bourbon Street, Biloxi, and “Solitude.” The bar sat beneath a weathered awning, and behind it stood Hank, the bartender. Long hair streaked with gray framed his sun-worn face, and his beard hung low, brushing the faded black t-shirt that still proudly read Bike Week 1999. His forearms, inked and scarred, moved with surprising grace as he polished a glass.
“Well, hell,” Hank greeted, voice gravelly but kind. “Four new faces. What’ll it be? Let me guess—rum runners for the ladies, Bud heavies for the boys?”
Damon chuckled and leaned an elbow on the counter. “Close. Coors Light for me.”
“Vodka cranberry,” Denise added.
“Bacardi and Diet for us,” Kelley and Scott said together.
Hank pointed with the rag. “Nice little mix. I like it. Drinks coming right up.”
He slid their orders across with practiced ease, adding with a smirk, “A beach bar is the only place where getting sand in your drink still feels refreshing.”
They laughed and took their drinks over to a picnic table shaded by a wide blue umbrella. Scott snagged a few menus from the bar on the way and dropped them on the wood with a satisfying slap.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, flipping his open, “but I’m starving again.”
“You’re always starving,” Kelley teased.
But she was right there with him, skimming the menu. The offerings read like a Cajun love letter—gumbo, jambalaya, boils, po’ boys, fried catfish, and even sushi for the adventurous.
Damon tapped his finger against one listing. “Ozella’s Louisiana gumbo. That’s calling my name.”
Kelley leaned toward Scott. “Wanna split the Biloxi Blues Boil?” The picture beside it showed a glorious mound of crab legs, crawfish, shrimp, corn, and potatoes.
Scott’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s happening.”
Denise, meanwhile, closed her menu with a snap. “I don’t care what state we’re pretending we’re in, I’m getting sushi. California roll.”
When Hank swung by, they rattled off their orders. He jotted them down with a stub of pencil, his lips quirking. “A boil, gumbo, and sushi. Y’all must be the United Nations of eating.”
As he walked away, Damon leaned back and grinned. “Alright, my turn. Never have I ever… laughed so hard I pee’d my pants.”
The table erupted. Kelley clutched her stomach, nearly spitting her drink. “Oh God—I’m drinking. And if we keep this up, I might have to do it again.”
Denise groaned but raised her glass. “I can’t believe I’m doing yet another shot.”
Scott shook his head. “Nope. Looks like I’m in the clear on this one.”
Damon raised a hand to Hank as he stood and moved towards the bar. “Hey, bartender! We need two shots of tequila.”
Hank snorted. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He poured with a heavy hand, slid the glasses across the bar, and watched as Damon carried them back.
Setting them before Kelley and Denise, Damon grinned. “Bottoms up.”
They both shot him dagger looks, then downed the tequila like seasoned pros.
By the time their food arrived, another round of drinks had landed on the table. The boil came out in a steaming tray that smelled of garlic, pepper, and the bayou itself. Bright red crawfish tumbled around clusters of snow crab legs, corn on the cob glistened with butter, and smoked sausage hunks peeked out between new potatoes.
Damon’s gumbo came in a deep bowl, the roux dark and rich, studded with shrimp, chicken, and sausage, with rice mounded in the center like a small island. The spice hit the air before he even dug in.
Denise’s California roll looked almost dainty compared to the others’ platters—tight little rice cylinders with crab and avocado inside, topped with sesame seeds. She ate with chopsticks, ignoring the jokes Scott muttered about needing a fork for his crab legs.
“Holy hell,” Scott said, cracking open a claw and dunking it in butter. “This is unreal.”
“Don’t talk,” Damon said through a mouthful of gumbo. “Just eat.”
They did just that, sharing bites, trading corn for crawfish, sushi for gumbo, until their plates were nothing but shells and smears of seasoning.
Leaning back, Kelley dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Okay, I want to play corn hole.”
The others groaned, but when she stood, they followed her to the sandy court set up off to the side, boards painted with bold stripes.
“Boys versus girls,” Denise declared, already scooping up a bean bag.
Scott and Damon traded a look and smirked. “Done.”
The first few rounds were messy—bags flying wide, one even hitting a picnic bench with a loud thud. Hank leaned over the bar and shouted, “It’s not horseshoes, darlin’s!”
By the third round, though, the boys found their rhythm. Damon landed one square in the hole, and Scott followed with another when his turn arrived. The girls groaned.
“Ringers,” Kelley muttered.
Denise stepped up, tongue sticking out in concentration, and tossed. Her bag arced beautifully… and hit the very edge of the board, sliding off into the sand.
From behind the bar, Hank hollered, “That bag’s got stage fright!”
Even Denise cracked up as the boys claimed victory, throwing their arms in the air like Super Bowl champs.
“Best two out of three?” Kelley suggested hopefully.
“Nope,” Scott said, brushing sand off his hands. “Win’s a win.”
Laughing, they trailed back toward their table. Denise plopped down and drained what was left of her vodka cranberry. “Alright, time to move on. Oceanside next.” She jabbed a finger at Scott. “And it’s your turn for Never have I ever.”
Scott grinned like a fox. “It is. And I’ve got a doozy.”
They decided on an Uber since it was more than a few blocks away and Denise, in particular, was feeling the tequila. As the car pulled up, Kelley glanced back at the picnic table they’d left. There sat her purse, quiet and unassuming. She smiled, walked back, and scooped it up before joining the group.
Oceanside Beach Bar & Grill – Flaming Cheese and Sunset Skies
Round 7
The Uber pulled to a stop in front of Oceanside Beach Bar & Grill just as the sun was starting its descent, bathing the coast in warm gold. The restaurant’s sleek sign glowed with its green wave logo, polished and inviting. Compared to the rough edges of Cajun Beach, Oceanside had a more modern feel—bright white trim, clean lines, and an upstairs bar that offered sweeping views of the Atlantic.
As the four climbed the steps, the air shifted—salt spray mingled with the faint aroma of grilled seafood and baked bread. The upstairs patio hummed with a lively energy. Couples leaned into one another at high tops, groups of friends clustered around pitchers of beer, and families shared plates at the larger tables. The TVs over the bar flickered with sports highlights, and laughter rolled easily across the open space.
They snagged stools at the upstairs bar rail. Behind it, the bartender introduced herself with a broad, genuine smile. Kate was petite, her ponytail swinging as she moved, and she radiated a kind of contagious optimism. “Evenin’, y’all! What can I get you?”
Damon, already half-draining the last of his Coors Light from Cajun Beach, grinned. “Another one of these.”
“Vodka cranberry,” Denise added, as if reading from a script.
“Bacardi and Diets,” Kelley and Scott echoed together.
Kate’s grin widened. “Perfect. And how about some food to go with it? I promise you don’t want to miss the flaming cheese.”
“Flaming cheese?” Scott arched a brow.
“You got it. They light it right at the bar. Trust me, it’s a show.”
The group exchanged glances, then Kelley shrugged. “Bring us one to share.”
While Kate busied herself with their drinks, the group looked up just as the TVs replayed a highlight of a pro golfer sinking a hole in one earlier that day. The sportscasters’ voices, even muted with closed captioning on, carried the excitement.
Scott pointed up at the screen. “Now that’s how you earn a drink.”
“Sure,” Damon said, “but I bet he wasn’t four Coors Lights in when he hit it.”
Kate reappeared with their drinks, setting them down with a flourish. “You all look like you’ve got some golf opinions brewing.”
Scott laughed. “Let’s just say my game looks nothing like that highlight reel.”
Kate leaned in conspiratorially. “I think golf’s just walking real far to disappoint yourself. But the outfits are cute.” She winked, earning laughs all around.
Denise tapped her glass. “Okay, Scott, your turn.”
He smirked. “Never have I ever… worn someone else’s underwear.”
The group froze. Denise’s head dropped almost immediately, and she raised her hand like a student caught red-handed. “God help me, but yes. Drinking.”
The table erupted in laughter.
Damon tried to wriggle out of it. “Does accidentally count? Laundry got mixed up once on vacation.”
“Counts!” Kelley and Scott shouted together. Damon sighed and raised his Coors.
Kelley tilted her head thoughtfully. “Wait, does it cancel out if someone else has worn my underwear?”
The table turned to Denise, who threw up her hands. “It was one time! That golf trip. My clothes got soaked in the storm!”
Scott leaned back, laughing. “Nope, no canceling. Drink, Kelley.”
She groaned but tipped her Bacardi anyway.
Right on cue, Kate returned with their appetizer—a sizzling pan of saganaki. Flames leapt up dramatically as she set it down, the blue-orange flare reflected in her bright eyes. “Opa!” she cheered, and several patrons at nearby tables clapped.
Kelley eyed it nervously. “I’m not sure I should. I’m on a diet.”
Kate didn’t miss a beat. “Honey, a diet’s just when you watch what you eat and wish you could eat what you watch.”
The line cracked them all up, and Kelley finally gave in, tearing off a piece of warm pita and dipping into the gooey, golden cheese. “Okay, you win.”
As they ate, the sky outside transformed into watercolor—orange bleeding into pink, then into soft purples. Lights strung along the railings flickered on, casting a gentle glow over the bar. The ocean below caught the last shards of sun, each wave rolling in with a glint of copper.
They lingered, savoring both food and view. Damon ordered another Coors, draining the one in front of him before the fresh can even landed. Denise and Kelley clinked shot glasses when Kate brought them over, shaking their heads at themselves but laughing all the same.
The TVs shifted highlights to baseball, but none of them were watching anymore. The vibe at Oceanside had a way of slowing you down—encouraging you to just sit back and let the day’s edges blur.
Finally, as the flaming cheese dwindled to a few crusty edges and empty glasses dotted the bar, Denise straightened up. “Alright, folks. Time to move on.”
Kelley looked wistfully at the last piece of pita but nodded.
“Where to next?” Damon asked.
“Beach Front,” Denise said. “And it’s my turn for Never have I ever.”
Scott chuckled, leaning into his stool. “Better make it a good one. You’ve been on a streak tonight.”
Kate slid their check across with a sunny smile. “Thanks for hanging out with me, guys. Next round’s at Beach Front, huh?”
“Definitely,” Kelley said, sliding Kate her credit card.
After settling the check they all rose together, stepping into the glowing twilight, ready for whatever Denise’s “Never” had in store at the next stop.
Beach Front – Denise’s Revenge
Round 8
The four of them slipped onto a high-top table tucked against the wide windows, the Atlantic nothing but a black shimmer beyond the glass. A faint glow from the bar lights caught the surface of the water, and every time the front door opened a thread of briny air wandered in, mingling with the rich scent of fried seafood drifting from the kitchen.
The place hummed with casual nighttime energy. A couple sat near the far wall, working steadily through a platter of oysters on ice, their conversation punctuated with laughter. At the bar, a row of regulars in ball caps leaned over longnecks, eyes fixed on a game playing across three TVs. One table had a basket of wings stacked high, the tang of hot sauce sharp in the air.
Before the group could settle in, Pepper appeared. She had the kind of easy confidence that came from years of waiting tables in a town where everyone eventually knew your name. Her sun-streaked ponytail swayed as she set coasters down in front of each of them.
“Evenin’, y’all. What can I get you to drink?” she asked, tacking her order pad from her apron pocket.
Denise went first. “Vodka cranberry.”
Kelley followed. “Bacardi and diet.”
“Same for me,” Scott added, tapping the table.
Damon grinned, already leaning back in his chair. “Coors Light.”
Pepper jotted quickly. “Got it. Anything else—food, appetizers?”
They all shook their heads.
“Just drinks tonight,” Denise said.
“Alright then, I’ll be right back.” Pepper disappeared into the current of bar chatter.
The four exchanged mischievous glances. Denise leaned in, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Okay, my turn. Never have I ever eaten an entire pizza by myself.”
The response was immediate—groans and guilty chuckles from the others.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kelley said, rolling her eyes.
Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Yep. You got me.”
Damon held up a hand in surrender. “Alright, fine. Guilty too.”
Denise leaned back, triumphant. “Finally. I don’t have to do another shot.”
The laughter was still spilling around the table when Pepper returned balancing a tray. She slid the drinks onto the table with practiced ease. Ice clinked against glass, the beer bottle sweating in Damon’s hand almost before it touched the coaster.
“Y’all are in good spirits tonight,” Pepper said with a grin, glancing from face to face.
Scott pointed at Denise. “She’s been torturing us with this game—Never Have I Ever—at every bar we’ve hit today.”
“Oh lord,” Pepper said, shaking her head. “That explains the giggling.”
“And the shots,” Damon added. He pointed at Kelley and Scott. “Better add two Bacardi shots to that order. They’re up this round.”
Pepper scribbled quickly. “I’ll get those going.”
When she walked away, Kelley and Scott raised their glasses and tapped them together. “To bad ideas,” Kelley declared.
“To worse ones,” Scott replied, and they both laughed before taking long sips.
As the laughter settled, Scott’s gaze wandered to the empty chair next to Kelley. “Hey… where’s your purse?”
Kelley blinked, looked down by her feet, then glanced behind her. “Damn. I don’t know.”
“You had it at Oceanside,” Scott said. “You paid the bill with it.”
“No,” Kelley corrected him, shaking her head. “I didn’t. My wallet’s in my back pocket. Always is.”
Scott frowned. “Then what’s in the purse?”
“Nothing,” Kelley said flatly. “It was empty.”
For a moment, silence. Then Damon snorted into his beer and Denise slapped the table, bursting out laughing.
“You mean,” Denise said, wheezing between laughs, “we’ve been baby-sitting that bag all day for no reason?”
“Making sure it wasn’t lost, stolen, or trampled…” Damon added. “And it was empty?”
Kelley shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Pretty much.”
Scott threw his hands up. “Why even carry it then?”
“Matched my shoes,” Kelley replied, sipping her drink without missing a beat.
That broke them all. The four of them laughed so hard that the couple at the oyster table turned to look. One of the guys at the bar leaned back on his stool to see what the commotion was about, then nudged his buddy and muttered something that made them both chuckle.
The shots arrived just as their laughter peaked. Pepper slid the glasses onto the table, raising her brows. “Alright, what’s the joke? Y’all are about the loudest table in here.”
Scott wiped his eyes. “You really want to know?”
Pepper crossed her arms, smirking. “Always.”
Kelley gestured lazily. “Apparently, I lost my purse.”
Pepper tilted her head. “And that’s funny because…?”
“Because,” Denise jumped in, “we’ve been chasing that thing around town all day like it held the Crown Jewels and it was empty the whole time. Nothing in it.”
Pepper burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. “Oh, honey. That’s a first. Usually folks panic over their cash, phones, or sunglasses. But an empty purse?” She shook her head. “That’s Flagler for you.”
The group raised their glasses in mock salute.
“To empty purses,” Damon said, holding up his Coors Light.
“And full drinks,” Denise chimed in.
The toast was met with clinks and another round of laughter.
Pepper lingered a moment longer, still grinning. “Y’all are trouble, but I like it. Holler if you need food to soak all that up. Kitchen’s running a mean shrimp basket tonight.”
“We’ll think about it,” Scott said, though none of them looked convinced.
As Pepper walked away, Damon leaned back. “So we’ve been living this entire day’s drama over a purse that had nothing in it.”
“Not drama,” Kelley said calmly. “Adventure.”
That set them off again.
Around them, the bar carried on—TV screens flashing highlights from earlier games, the smell of garlic butter wafting in as servers passed with trays, a group of locals singing along faintly to a song on the jukebox. The couple with oysters called for another dozen, and a basket of fish tacos landed at the table beside them with a sizzle of lime juice.
By the time Pepper circled back again, the group was still chuckling about Kelley’s purse, their voices carrying above the hum of the bar. She shook her head, half amused, half exasperated. “Y’all are gonna close this place down with laughter alone.”
For a moment they thought maybe they would but then Damon said, “I think we need one more stop.”
Outside, the waves crashed steadily, the sound faint but ever-present, as if the ocean itself was laughing with them.
High Tides at Snack Jack
The Sweet Goodnight
Crossing A1A at night always had its thrill. The highway wasn’t exactly bustling at this hour, but headlights from the occasional passing car made the four of them pick up their pace as they darted across. The sound of the waves was louder now, filling the spaces between engine noise and laughter, promising the ocean was only steps away.
High Tides at Snack Jack sat perched over the sand like a weathered sentinel of Flagler Beach nightlife. Strings of colored bulbs glowed against its red siding, and the murals of mermaids and sea turtles along the decks flickered in the shifting light. A carved surfboard pointed the way with big painted letters: Good Vibes @ High Tides. The salty wind made the place smell equal parts ocean spray and fried fish.
They climbed the sandy steps and pushed inside. Instantly, they were swallowed by the bar’s wild, eclectic soul—license plates blanketed the ceiling, surfboards hung at angles overhead, neon signs buzzed in rainbow tones, and a jukebox hummed quietly in the corner. Every table was stocked with baskets of condiments, paper towel rolls, and salt-sprayed menus. It was part dive, part surf shack, and part living scrapbook of everyone who had ever stumbled in for a beer.
The night crowd was mellow. A trio of locals, still in their fishing shirts and caps, sat at the far end of the bar talking about the one that got away. A couple in a booth by the window whispered over plastic baskets of fried shrimp, leaning close in the dim glow. Near the doorway, a man in a Hawaiian shirt nursed a glass of wine, occasionally laughing too loudly at his own phone screen.
Carlos was behind the bar, rag in one hand, bottle in the other, multitasking with the ease of someone who had been doing this long enough to anticipate his customers before they even asked. He looked up as the four slid into a table near the open windows, the faint roar of the ocean spilling in with the night air.
“Evenin’, folks,” he said, flashing a grin as he made his way over. “What can I get started for you?”
“Coors Light,” Denise said before Damon could speak, and then nudged him. “Joining you on this one.”
Damon’s face lit up as if she’d just sworn allegiance. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
Carlos nodded and scribbled. “Two Coors. And for you?”
“Corona Light for us,” Scott said, pointing at himself and Kelley.
“Got it.” Carlos pivoted away with an easy stride, weaving between the tables like a man who could do this job blindfolded.
When the beers arrived, condensation already slick on the glass, they raised them high.
“To the day,” Damon declared.
“To the day,” they echoed, bottles clinking, laughter bubbling before the first sip even touched their lips.
The conversation unraveled naturally, like it always did after a long day together. They recapped the “Never Have I Ever” disasters, Denise’s victorious pizza confession, the flaming cheese at Oceanside, and the infamous empty purse that had somehow defined their whole adventure.
“I still can’t believe it,” Scott said, leaning his chair back. “An empty purse. We stressed ourselves stupid today over something that was literally full of air.”
“I told you,” Kelley replied, unfazed. “It matched my shoes. That’s reason enough.”
“Matched your shoes,” Denise repeated, doubling over in laughter. “Oh my god.”
Even Damon, who rarely strayed far from his calm mountain-town demeanor, was chuckling so hard he nearly spilled his Coors Light.
Carlos, drawn by the noise, wandered over, towel draped over his shoulder. “Alright, what’s got this table sounding like a comedy club?”
“She lost her purse,” Scott explained, grinning. “Whole day we’ve been keeping tabs on it, trying to keep it from getting lost, chasing it around town as dogs made off with it.”
“And?” Carlos asked, one brow cocked.
“It was empty,” Damon said, shaking his head. “Not a single thing in it.”
Carlos broke into a laugh that seemed to come from deep in his chest. “That’s a new one. I’ve seen wallets, phones, sunglasses—even a prosthetic leg once—but never an empty purse fiasco.”
The table went silent, blinking at him. “Wait,” Denise said slowly. “A prosthetic leg?”
Carlos leaned on the edge of their table, grinning. “Guy left it propped against the bar after too many beers. Didn’t notice ‘til he was halfway down the beach. Came back hopping mad—literally.”
That set the group off again, tears in their eyes as they laughed.
“Flagler Beach needs a book,” Kelley said between gasps. “Someone should be writing this stuff down.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Carlos replied, standing upright again. “Maybe I’ll do it when I retire. Memoirs of a Bartender: The Things I’ve Seen.”
“You’d be a bestseller,” Scott said.
The group lingered over their beers, stories rolling one after another. They teased Damon for his unwavering loyalty to Coors Light.
“You know,” Denise said, poking at him, “you’ve had the same drink at every single place today.”
“And you’ve had the same vodka cranberry,” Damon shot back.
“That’s different,” Denise replied smugly. “Mine has class.”
Kelley held up her Corona. “We’ve been flexible.”
Scott nodded. “Adaptable. Adventurers of taste.”
Damon shook his head, lifting his bottle. “Consistency is king. I’ll thank me in the morning.”
Another round of laughter followed, their voices carrying through the otherwise quiet bar. The fishermen glanced over, smiling, before returning to their conversation about bait sizes and weather fronts.
Eventually, Carlos circled by again, stacking stools at the far end of the bar. “Last call’s coming up soon, folks.”
“We’re good,” Scott said, patting the table. “Think we’ve reached our limit.”
“Limit?” Kelley teased. “Speak for yourself.” But even she looked content, her bottle nearly empty.
They finished the last of their drinks, still laughing, still replaying their favorite moments of the day. The purse joke had become a chorus line, popping up every few minutes, each time somehow funnier than the last.
Denise flagged Carlos down so she could pay the check. “You’ve been awesome,” she told him.
“You guys aren’t so bad yourselves,” Carlos replied, tucking the bills into his apron. “Come back soon—next time with a purse full of something worth losing.”
That line got them all laughing one more time as they slipped back out into the night.
The air was cooler now, the roar of the Atlantic steadier, heavier, as if it too was winding down for the night. Their Uber pulled up, headlights cutting across the sand-dusted steps. They piled in—Damon in the front, Denise squished between Kelley and Scott in the back.
As the driver turned slightly to greet them, there was instant recognition.
“We know you!” Denise said, pointing.
The same driver from earlier grinned, lifting something from the floor near his feet.
“Looking for this?” he asked.
The streetlight glinted off the familiar straps.
Kelley’s eyes went wide. “My purse!”
And the car erupted with laughter, the sound blending with the crash of the waves behind them as the Uber pulled away into the night.
Such a great story!!!!