Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 24: Life Goes On
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 24: Life Goes On - The ninth book in the long-running Intemperance series finds Jake Kingsley balancing family, music, and media chaos as his world grows stranger—and more fiercely loyal—by the day. With fame fading and life deepening, the Kingsleys and their inner circle face new challenges in love, trust, and the price of peace.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa BiSexual Fiction
Oceano, California
November 4, 2004
They got remarried on their original anniversary. That had been the plan all along. It was a farce. Everyone present knew it. Jake and Laura Kingsley had never really stopped being married—not in any way that mattered. The paperwork had been filed, sure. The legal fiction maintained for the sake of the long game. But the truth had remained as solid as ever: they had a kid, a co-wife, a house, and a morning bathroom routine. If that wasn’t marriage, what the fuck was?
This was just fixing the paperwork.
The ceremony took place out on the cliffside deck. The sun was down but the sky still held color. A mild Thursday evening with just enough breeze to make it feel like something was happening.
Sean had gotten ordained online for the occasion—some crash course in California officiant law that cost $49.99 and included a downloadable certificate and a printable sermon template he had immediately deleted. He wore dark jeans, a collared shirt, and a solemn expression made less solemn by the fact that he kept sipping from a glass of white wine between declarations.
Jake wore jeans and a Harley-Davidson sweater. Laura wore jeans and a green sweater. There were no suits. There was no ring exchange. Laura had never taken hers off. Celia still wore hers, too. That part had never really ended either.
So Sean went through the motions. He made them stand next to each other. He made Jake say “I do,” which he did while cracking his knuckles. He made Laura say “I guess,” which got a snort from Tif and a head shake from Sharon. And then, without breaking stride, he turned to Celia and raised his eyebrows.
She nodded. “Might as well seal the whole deal.”
So Sean married her to Laura, too. And then he remarried Jake to Celia.
Not legally. Not on paper. But in the eyes of whatever deity gave a shit, as Sean put it—just in case there was one, lurking in the coastal breeze with a clipboard and a backlog of soul-claims.
And then he raised his glass and declared the farce complete.
They kissed. Laura and Jake. Just once. Just because.
Celia took a few pictures. Nothing formal. Just a couple of quick snapshots on the cliff with the light going gold behind them. They would email them to Pauline and have her release them to the media. Probably to Jen Collins at the SF Chronicle. She had earned the right for special consideration regarding all things KVA back during the Judge Olson clusterfuck.
In one of them, Jake’s hand was on Laura’s hip and her head was tilted just so and they looked—just for a second—like people getting married for the first time.
But they weren’t.
They were getting married again.
And then everyone went back inside. No cake. No speeches. No drama.
Westin put on water for tea. Owen and Tif disappeared somewhere. Kelvin stole a cookie off the platter without asking. Aurora clapped for no reason.
And that was that.
They were married again.
Not that anything had changed.
The media printed the story two days later, including the photos, but it did not turn into a circus this time. By now, weird marriages and divorces in the Kingsley cult were too common. Nobody gave a shit anymore.
Oceano, California
December 3, 2004
Caydee Kingsley had turned seven years old two days before and was in first grade now. That meant she no longer needed a teacher escort to the pickup line, no longer had to wait for “eye contact with a grown-up” like some baby in freakin’ kindergarten. She and Carlos were big kids now—with classroom jobs, real homework, and the unspoken privilege of walking themselves out of Room 14 when the bell rang.
Daddy had called it “time to GTFO.” Mom said that was the number three best acronym in the world. She wouldn’t tell Caydee what number one or two were, but Caydee suspected it had something to do with Mom, Daddy, and See-Ya private time, which occurred very frequently in the Kingsley household. She didn’t know exactly what went on during private time, but her parents always smelled funny after it.
Caydee instinctively understood that private time, though mysterious, was an adult thing. She’d learn about it someday, whether she wanted to or not. GTFO, though? That she understood perfectly.
Get the fuck out.
And as much as she loved school, she loved to GTFO even more. Especially on Fridays.
She liked Room 14. She liked her desk, her cubby, and most of all, she liked Mrs. Beech.
Mrs. Beech was older than the other teachers—her hair was gray at the edges and her wrists were thin like Caydee’s abuela’s—but she had the nicest voice in the world. She never yelled, never forgot your name, and always smelled like cinnamon gum and fabric softener. She called Caydee and Carlos her “reader-leaders,” and told them almost every week that they were polite, mature, and wise beyond their years.
Today was no different.
The bell rang at 2:45 and the room erupted into polite chaos—zippers, chairs scraping, lunch boxes being stuffed back into backpacks.
“Don’t forget your homework, my smarties,” Mrs. Beech called out, tapping the whiteboard. “One book, one drawing, due Monday. And remember—Cozy Day! Slippers allowed, stuffed animals allowed, pets not allowed. I don’t care how quiet your turtle is.”
There were giggles.
“And you may bring a special snack, but it must fit inside your lunchbox and require zero adult assistance. If it needs to be refrigerated, microwaved, or blessed by the Pope, it stays home.”
More giggles.
Caydee zipped up her hoodie and grabbed her backpack, the strap already slung expertly over one shoulder like she was headed for a flight. Carlos did the same, giving Mrs. Beech a quick wave.
“Bye, Mrs. Beech!”
“Bye, Carlos. Bye, Caydee. Have a great weekend, you two!”
“We will!” they said in unison, then shared a quick grin before heading for the door.
Outside, the sun hit them full in the face—low afternoon light, warm and slanting, not quite golden hour but close. Their shoes made little thuds on the concrete walkway as they stepped past the sea otter mural and out into the pickup zone.
“So,” Carlos said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at your birthday?”
Caydee nodded. “You better. Mom says you’re bringing the flan.”
“We are. Mama made two of them this morning. They’re in the fridge. And we’re not allowed to even look at them.”
“That’s because you’re flan-stealers,” Caydee said.
Carlos shrugged. “They were never able to prove that.”
They passed the low fence that separated the walkway from the parking lot. No one was monitoring them. No yard duty. No classroom aide. No sign-in clipboard. It was Friday. Everyone was coasting.
“Daddy’s grilling tri-tip,” Caydee said, like it was just casual information and not the best possible thing a dad could do. “And mushrooms. And grilled asparagus. And baked potatoes. Mom’s doing salad.”
Carlos made a face. “Asparagus?”
Caydee made a sour face. “Yep. Real asparagus. With black marks from the grill and everything.” She had never told her parents or anyone else in the house that she really didn’t like asparagus. It had a weird texture, a weird taste, and it made her pee smell funny. But she always dutifully ate it with a fake smile on her face. Asparagus feedings were, in fact, how she learned how to do a passable fake smile.
“I already know what Mama’s gonna say,” Carlos said. “I have to eat at least three. One for politeness, two for respect, and a third for the starving kids in Guadalajara who would kill for asparagus.”
“She already said that?” Caydee asked.
“No,” Carlos said, “but she will. She always does. One time I said I didn’t want green beans and she said, ‘There are niños in Guadalajara who would cry tears of joy for one spoonful of these green beans.’”
Caydee giggled.
“I didn’t even know you could cry joy tears over green beans,” Carlos added.
“You can if you’re polite,” Caydee said.
Emilia emerged from the side path near the fourth-grade wing, backpack bouncing against her spine like a tail.
“What are you guys talking about?” she asked, falling in beside them.
“My birthday party,” Caydee said. “You’re coming, right?”
“Duh,” Emilia said. “You said asparagus? At a birthday party?”
“Yep,” Caydee said with a frown. “Grilled.”
Emilia made a gagging noise. “Ugh. Why do grownups always want to ruin parties with vegetables?”
“Everyone else says Daddy’s grilled asparagus is the fuckin’ bomb!” Caydee said. “I just don’t get it.”
“Your padre is very good in the cocina,” Emilia said, “but it’s asparagus. Gross.”
Carlos nodded solemnly. “You better eat three.”
“I know,” Emilia said. “Mama’s gonna say there are starving kids in Guadalajara who would love some asparagus.” She pondered this for a moment. “What if we tell her to send the asparagus to them?”
Carlos stopped walking and looked at her like she’d just declared war on a saint. “You go ahead and tell Mama that. You’ll see how fast your butt gets paddled with the kitchen spoon.”
Emilia’s mouth dropped open in delighted horror. “I hate that kitchen spoon.”
“Hate’s a bad word,” Caydee said. “You’re not supposed to say shit like that.”
Carlos let out a slow, dramatic sigh. “Only your family would let you say shit and fuck all you want but make hate a bad word.”
Caydee blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Carlos said, “you can drop f-bombs at breakfast but if you say you hate asparagus, everyone freaks out.”
Caydee furrowed her brow. “But ... you shouldn’t say you hate things. That’s just mean. It’s like calling someone stupid. That’s a bad word too.”
Carlos opened his mouth to argue but realized, wisely, that there was no point.
They reached the edge of the pickup line, where the crowd of waiting parents and siblings had thickened. Just ahead, Mama Ramirez (as Caydee had been instructed to call her about a month before) stood tall in her navy sweater and dark jeans, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid, eyes scanning the exit gate like a hawk tracking her offspring.
“Mama!” Carlos called.
Her head turned instantly, softening the moment she saw them.
Emilia broke into a trot and reached her first, dropping her backpack so she could throw both arms around her mother’s waist. Carlos followed, slightly more composed but still beaming. Mama Ramirez hugged them both with practiced ease—tight, quick, and warm, then gave each of them a little once-over to make sure they hadn’t been injured, muddied, or detained.
“Hola, mi amor,” she said softly into Emilia’s hair.
Caydee approached a bit more slowly. She didn’t want to interrupt the family bubble, but Juanita had already spotted her.
“Caydee!” she said, opening one arm without hesitation.
Caydee stepped into the embrace and got a warm squeeze for her efforts—the kind of hug that only Mexican mamas gave. It didn’t matter that Caydee wasn’t hers. She was one of the niños, and that was enough.
“Hola, Mama Ramirez,” Caydee said, polite and cheerful but careful with her words.
She didn’t cuss around anyone who had the word “Mama” or “Papa” as part of their title. Or Yami. Or her own grandparents. Not even the fake grandparent that was Mom’s female parental unit. Ever.
“Hola,” Juanita said with a smile.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Caydee added, stepping back. “Don’t forget the flan.”
“We won’t,” Mama said. “You have a good evening, mija.”
“You too!”
Caydee turned and headed toward the curb, where the Kingsley minivan was waiting in the pickup line, door already slid open. Yami sat in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, calm as ever, watching everything through the side mirror like she always did. She gave a tiny nod as Caydee approached.
Caydee climbed into the second row without being asked. She was old enough to know the law said kids her size didn’t get to sit in the front, even if the airbag had been turned off and the passenger seat had the best view. Daddy had explained it last year. Legal minimums aren’t the same as good ideas, he’d said.
So she slid into the right-hand captain’s chair in the second row, clicked her seatbelt, and gave Yami a thumbs-up.
“Buckle secure,” she announced.
Yami smiled faintly. “Roger that, co-pilot.”
Caydee leaned back in the seat and watched the sun play off the windshield as the last of the kids were herded off campus. She could already feel the weekend stretching out in front of her like a lazy cat. Tomorrow was her birthday party. There would be tri-tip and mushrooms and potatoes and maybe—maybe—she’d even eat six or seven asparagus just to impress Carlos and Emilia.
As Yami pulled out of the school lot and headed toward the coast road, Caydee leaned forward and asked, “Are Grandma and Grandpa Kingsley at the house yet?”
“Nope,” Yami replied. “They’re over at the Nerdly place.”
Caydee flopped back in her seat with a small sigh. Figures.
The Nerdly compound—now officially called the Nerdly Compound by everyone, including the Nerdlys—had officially become move-in ready two days ago. Construction wrapped early, the furniture install had gone smoothly, and the system checks had all passed. The place was fully furnished, fully secured, and had water pressure so even Uncle Nerdly couldn’t complain. Caydee hadn’t seen it in person yet, but that would change soon.
The family was moving in on Sunday.
Not just the Nerdlys, but Tif and Owen too. Everyone who currently lived in the Nerdly wing of Kingsley Manor would be packing up and heading out to a new house up on top of a hill. Caydee had been volun-told that she was going to help. She didn’t mind. She was looking forward to seeing what an actual compound looked like.
In the meantime, both sets of grandparents—Tom and Mary Kingsley, Stan and Cindy Archer—were staying at the new compound together. The house had plenty of room, including a private guest wing with two full suites and a shared library that everyone insisted was just temporary storage but already had books sorted by genre and spine color.
Once the Nerdly crew cleared out on Sunday, Grandma and Grandpa Kingsley would move into the guest suite they’d just vacated at Kingsley Manor and stay there until it was time to fly to New Zealand on the 19th.
It was a temporary, rotating, grandparental housing shuffle that only made sense to people over fifty and under heavy stress. It was a fuckin’ shitshow. Still one of her favorite phrases. But she would not say that in front of Yami, even if Kira wasn’t in the car. Yami was not on the speak politely at all times list like Kira and her grandparents—biological and otherwise—but Caydee knew that Yami did not like it and she respected her enough not to deliberately upset her.
So instead, she gazed out the window and watched the street drift by—eucalyptus trees, power lines, a white truck full of surfboards, a hand-painted sign advertising pomegranates at four bucks a bag. The kind of Friday landscape that always made her feel like the weekend was officially in motion.
By the time they pulled through the gate and up the drive, the sun was well into its slow sideways drop toward the ocean. The Manor’s windows caught the light just right, throwing long gleams across the gravel and the front steps.
Caydee was out of the van the moment it came to a full stop, backpack slung over one shoulder and her sneakers already untied. She burst through the garage door, letting it slam shut behind her in that carefree way that would sometimes earn her a discouraging word from one of the adults in the house. In the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce and garlic slapped her in the face like a delicious welcome-home party.
Westin was at the stove stirring a bubbling pot. On another burner was another pot, this one smelling of cooking pasta of some sort. A tray of garlic bread was waiting for its turn in the oven. The chef was humming along to some song with a rhythm Caydee didn’t recognize. It wasn’t rock. It wasn’t classical. It might’ve been funk. Westin was complicated like that.
“Hi, Westin!” she chirped.
“Hey, kiddo. Why’d you slam the door on Yami?”
“She’s not coming in right away. She said she wanted to check on her begonias. Make sure they’re dormant like she wants them.”
“She does love her begonias,” Westin said. “Can’t believe your mom gave her that little flowerbed to play with.”
“Whatever,” Caydee said as she walked over to the stove. Flowers were Yami’s thing. Caydee didn’t give two shits about them. “What’s for dinner?”
“Lasagna. And garlic bread. Nothing gourmet—just survival food. Gourmet’s off-duty until we make it through this weekend without bloodshed.”
She leaned over toward the counter. “Can I have an end piece of the bread?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not cooked yet. It’s just raw bread full of potential energy.”
“You always let Daddy taste stuff.”
“You’re not Daddy.”
“But I’m related to Daddy!”
“Still no bread privileges.”
“You always let him at least taste the sauce.”
“That’s because your Daddy has a cute butt.”
Caydee flinched like she’d been hit with a taser. “What a rip!”
Westin smirked. “It’s not about fairness. It’s about aesthetics.”
Caydee made a sound that was part growl, part gasp, and part full-body moral objection. Then she spun on her heel and marched into the entertainment room to complain.
Sean was halfway through lint-rolling a couch cushion, Cap was pushing a toy train along the tile like he was laying a new railroad, and Kira was curled up in the corner of the couch with a book and a bag of jellybeans she was clearly not planning to share.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get your school clothes into the hamper,” Sean said, not looking up, “or they don’t get washed this weekend.”
“But I just got home!”
“You also just tried to filch uncooked garlic bread.”
“I’m starving!”
“Nope. You’re arguing.”
“Same thing!”
“Try again.”
Caydee flopped onto the couch dramatically—just long enough to glare at the ceiling like it owed her restitution—then pulled herself back up.
Sean added casually, “Your little feathered friend was here, by the way.”
Caydee looked up at him. “Pa-Ho?”
“Landed on the deck railing about ten minutes ago. Cawed once, stared at me, then started yelling your name.”
“If he comes back, tell him I’ll feed him in a minute. He gets grumpy if I’m late.”
Sean nodded solemnly. “I’ll let him know. I’ll pour him some water with a lemon slice and set out a few beetle grubs as an appetizer while he peruses the wine list.”
Caydee giggled. “You’re so weird sometimes.”
“I’m not weird,” Sean said. “I’m cultured.”
“Pretty sure that’s the same thing.”
“Get your clothes in the hamper or I’ll tell Pa-Ho you’re thinking about selling him to the zoo.”
Caydee gave a long, theatrical sigh and marched off down the hallway, muttering to herself about injustice, favoritism, and bread-based betrayal.
She stepped into her room, tossed her backpack onto the rug, and pulled off her school clothes—today it was jeans and a long-sleeve tee with sparkly letters. Both went into the hamper. She would keep on the same underwear. There was nothing wrong with them. She had pooped for the day before putting them on.
She changed into play clothes—leggings, a long-sleeve tee that said NOT YOUR PRINCESS, and a hoodie with thumbholes that made her feel extremely powerful. Yes, the sun was out and the sky was blue and it looked warm out there, but it was winter in a few more weeks and that made it cold. Not Chicago cold—Grandpa Kingsley had explained that nightmare once and Caydee still thought he was exaggerating—but it was definitely Central Coast on a cliff with wind off the fuckin’ ocean cold.
She pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck and headed for the back deck.
The pool was covered, as it always was during the off-season. A big vinyl shield stretched over the water like a flat, boring trampoline that did not bounce. Somewhere under there was the little robot cleaning thingy and the inflatable ring she’d left floating back in October.
She stopped at the glass doors and stared at it. The sun was out. The sky was beautiful. And yet ... no swimming.
That was some fucked up shit.
She could swim. She wanted to swim. The water was right there. The pool even had a heater. She knew it had a heater.
Once, she’d asked Daddy why they didn’t just keep it warm all year. And Daddy—while plugging in his guitar pedals—had said, “Because if we ran the heater all winter, Jill would murder us all in our sleep and end up in the nuthouse rooming with Owen’s dad.”
Caydee didn’t understand the exact mechanics of that answer.
She knew Jill was the accountant. She knew Jill was always “on Daddy’s ass” about money, which Mom and See-Ya said was Jill’s job. But she didn’t understand what one had to do with the other. If you could heat the pool, why not do it? What did freaking money have to do with it?
No one had explained that pool heaters used propane like thirsty dragons and that propane was not free.
So instead, they let the pool sit there, all covered and chemical-y, and let the pool guy—who had a ponytail and didn’t talk much—come once a week to lift the cover, squint at the water, test some things with a stick and a bottle, pour in some weird smelling shit from bottles that looked like milk jugs, and then cover it back up like a secret no one wanted to tell.
And Caydee? She was left to stand on the deck and glare at the cover like it had insulted her lineage.
She didn’t even know the pool guy’s name. She called him Ponytail Guy. In her head.
One time he’d nodded at her on the way out and she’d said hi and he’d said ’sup, which she considered a major social victory.
She reluctantly took her eyes off of the pool and reached into the large jar that now had a permanent place of honor next to the sliding glass door. It was Pa-Ho’s popcorn. Westin made sure it was always full for her. This from a man who constantly said he was going to catch that feathered menace, pluck him clean, and stuff him with lemon couscous and rosemary until he stops judging me from the railing like a tiny sky butler. He said he kept the popcorn stash going because he didn’t want Caydee “fumbling around” in his kitchen trying to pop kernels herself—and there was certainly truth there—but she strongly suspected that Westin secretly liked Pa-Ho. If nothing else, her crow buddy gave him something to grumble about. Daddy said chefs like nothing more in life than having something to grumble about.
Caydee grabbed a handful of popped corn and slid the glass door open just wide enough to squeeze through and stepped onto the deck, hoodie zipped. The wind hit her immediately—cool and sharp and tangled with the scent of salt. The kind of wind that made your hoodie hood flap around like it had somewhere better to be.
She had barely taken two steps when the air above her shifted and a black shape dropped out of the sky like it had been waiting for this exact cue.
“Kay-dee! Kay-dee! Kay-dee!”
The crow landed on the deck railing with a thump and a flutter, wings flaring, feathers settling into place like a magician’s cape. He looked right at her, head cocked slightly, eyes bright.
“Pa-Ho!” she said, grinning. “What’s the haps, my brother?”
Pa-Ho gave a short, sharp caw in response. Not quite a word. Not quite not a word.
“I know you were here earlier,” she said, walking slowly toward him. “Sean told me. You showed up early, you drama bird.”
Pa-Ho answered with a different caw—lower, with a kind of impatient rasp to it—then repeated, “Kay-dee! Kay-dee! Kay-dee!”
She snorted. “Well maybe you should learn to read the sun better,” she said. “Or get a fuckin’ watch.”
Another caw. A shuffle. He didn’t like being chastised.
“Well, I have popcorn for you,” she said, holding up the jar. “So maybe be nice.”
He made a softer sound this time, almost a croak. Then went silent, but didn’t fly off.
She walked past him, crossing the main deck, then stepped off the far edge and onto the footbridge that connected it to the pool deck. It wasn’t long—maybe ten feet—and there were no railings. Just weathered redwood planks and a two-foot drop onto the dirt if you slipped off either side. But Caydee never slipped. She knew every board.
She walked to the exact center of the bridge, turned, and sat cross-legged, facing back toward the house. The wind was stronger down here, funneled slightly by the slope of the land and the shape of the house behind her.
The ocean was a gentle, rhythmic breaking of waves. It was low tide. She could tell by the sound alone. Low tide made smaller sounds—slushy, rumbly, sucking sounds. High tide meant water smacking into the base of the cliff like it was trying to pick a fight.
She loved both sounds equally because they were the sounds of home.
Pa-Ho had moved. He was now perched on the end railing closest to the bridge, just a few feet from her, body turned slightly sideways, wings twitching occasionally like a coiled spring deciding whether to jump.
His head tilted. Her fingers curled slightly around the popcorn.
She had been doing this for a week now. Same spot. Same time. Same number of kernels—never more than ten. Always on the bridge. And every day, Pa-Ho had come a little bit closer.
Today, he landed right away.
She didn’t speak. Just held her first kernel and tossed it underhanded, about six feet in front of her.
Pa-Ho hopped down from the railing, cautious but unbothered, and snapped it up with a crisp, practiced motion. One crunch, one gulp, gone.
She waited a beat, then threw the second kernel—this one a foot closer.
Another hop. Another snatch. Another crunch.
Kernel three landed even nearer. Just over halfway to where she sat cross-legged on the bridge. He paused this time—just a blink—and then moved forward again. One hop. Then another. Then—crunch.
Caydee felt her heartbeat slowing. She wasn’t scared. Not really. But there was something big in this. Like opening a birthday gift where you already knew what was inside—but it still made your stomach flip.
She tossed the fourth kernel. It landed about three feet out.
He didn’t even pause now. He went straight for it. Scooped it up. Swallowed.
Then stopped.
Kernel five stayed in her hand a second longer. She watched him carefully, then gave it a little toss—just a few inches closer than the last.
This time, he didn’t eat it.
He picked it up in his beak, turned without a sound, and took off with a soft whoosh of feathers. He banked hard to the left and disappeared into the tight V where the two wings of the house came together—tucked behind the far edge of the eaves.
Caydee didn’t follow with her eyes. She didn’t need to.
That was where he stashed things.
She knew now that he had a hiding place there—a little shadowed corner only visible from the bridge. She’d seen him carry off popcorn before, maybe two or three pieces each feeding. It had only become obvious when she changed her feeding spot. On the deck, she couldn’t see where he went. But from here—she could watch his flight path perfectly.
She had never gone near it. Not even once.
It was his place. And that meant it wasn’t hers.
She hadn’t told anyone. Not Kelvin, not Kira, not even Daddy. It didn’t feel like something you shared.
It felt like something you respected.
Pa-Ho came back quickly. He landed in the same spot on the railing, feathers rustling as he adjusted. Caydee tossed kernel six, just a few feet from where he stood.
Again, he picked it up without eating it. No sound. No performance.
He turned and flew off once more—same trajectory, same destination.
She watched him disappear, then looked down at the last four kernels in her hand.
When he returned, he perched silently and waited.
Caydee gently tossed the seventh kernel, landing it only three feet away.
Pa-Ho didn’t hesitate. He hopped forward, scooped it up, and crunched it down like it was nothing.
And then he stayed there. He didn’t turn. Didn’t fly off. He looked at her. Was he nervous? Was he curious? This was the closest the two of them had ever been to each other.
And softly—almost like he didn’t want to scare the air around them—he said:
“Kay-dee. Kay-dee. Kay-dee.”