Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 6: You Can’t Always Get What You Want
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 6: You Can’t Always Get What You Want - 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
June 4, 2004
It was a beautiful spring afternoon on the central coast of California. At 12:45 PM, the temperature in Oceano was a perfect 72 degrees, with a soft onshore breeze floating gently across the town. But Jake, Laura, Celia, and Sean the housekeeper—each dressed in slacks and a polo shirt because society said they had to be—weren’t enjoying any of that breeze. Instead, they were packed into the cafeteria/multipurpose room of Nicholas Elementary School, sweating in the underpowered air conditioning, their butts sore from the cheap folding chairs, waiting to witness Caydee’s “graduation” from kindergarten.
Somehow, against all odds and with what must have been a truly heroic effort, their six-year-old had managed to complete the grueling academic gauntlet that was public school kindergarten. She had fought, scraped, and—by her own account—possibly sold her soul to the devil, but by God, she’d made it. And in 2004, that meant there would be a ceremony.
The dress code was “business casual,” a phrase open to wide interpretation. Jake, the ladies, and the housekeeper were all playing it straight: slacks, polo shirts, clean shoes, no fuss. But many of the other parents had chosen to treat this as if their child were about to walk across the stage at Harvard. A good chunk of the dads were in full suits and ties. The moms and girl siblings wore dresses that likely only saw daylight for Easter Sunday or the occasional funeral. Hair was immaculately styled. Shoes were polished to a mirror sheen. Fingernails were perfectly color-matched to dresses that had no business being anywhere near a public elementary school cafeteria. These people took their kindergarten graduations pretty fuckin’ seriously.
“Tell me again why you wanted to come with us to this farce?” Laura asked Sean, who was sitting next to her in one of the too-small folding chairs on the auditorium floor. “I mean ... we’re her parents so it’s required. You could have escaped this whole charade with no questions asked.”
“Don’t be so cynical,” Sean chided. “This is a very special day for Caydee. She’s excited about it. And she asked me to be here for her because I help her with her homework when she gets home from school. She did not ask Westin to come. She didn’t even ask Yami. She asked me. I could not say no to her.”
“That’s very sweet, Sean,” said Celia, who was sitting on the other side of Jake.
“I know,” he said with a smile. “And look at how everyone is staring at us while pretending they’re not. I haven’t had this much attention since the time I decided to sing karaoke while I was still sober.”
Jake looked around. Sean was right. The auditorium had maybe two hundred parents and children in it and most of the parents were peeking over at them, sometimes aiming their digital video cameras in their direction as if they were just checking the lighting. Most of the available seats were now full—except for an obvious perimeter of emptiness around the Kingsley family. No one else had taken a seat for two rows in front of them and three rows behind them.
That was fine, though. It left plenty of room for the Ramirez family—who, when they arrived, would likely draw just as many stares as the Kingsleys. Different reasons, same awkward attention. They might as well all sit in the same island of discomfort.
Jake spotted them first: Jose in pressed slacks and a short-sleeved button-up, Juanita in a conservative blue dress with her hair neatly done, and Emilia looking crisp and slightly nervous in a white blouse and navy skirt. No flashy jewelry. No overcompensating. Just appropriate, respectful attire—an obvious outlier among the blow-dried, French-manicured pageantry of the other guests.
“There they are,” Jake murmured, nodding toward the entrance. He stood and gave a small wave.
Jose spotted him, acknowledged with a nod, and began to lead his wife and daughter in their direction. Their youngest was graduating too. And afterward, they’d be coming to visit Kingsley Manor. Jake and Celia had extended the invitation earlier that week, when they picked Caydee up after her playdate with the Ramirez kids. The Ramirezes had seemed hesitant at first—but Caydee really wanted Carlos to visit, and Carlos really wanted to come. So, Jake made the offer. Jose and Juanita had shared an almost comically long session of silent marital telepathy before Jose finally nodded and accepted.
Both families ignored the stares, pointed fingers, whispered conversations, and intruding home video cameras. All stood up and greeted each other. Jake and Jose shook hands. Laura smiled at everyone. Celia actually hugged Juanita (much to her obvious surprise), a genuine Celia hug. It was appropriate. Celia knew Juanita. She liked her. She had met her more than twice. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she had last seen her. Such people, particularly if they were women, got Celia hugs whether they wanted one or not.
The babbling of excited gossip whispers continued all around them as Jose, Juanita, and Emilia took their seats in the row directly in front of the Kingsleys. Laura introduced Sean to them, explaining that he was one of their employees and he helped Caydee with her homework so Caydee had invited him. She then had to explain that Sean’s entire job was not helping Caydee with her homework, but just something he did on his own time. He didn’t even have to do it.
“What do you do in the castle then?” Juanita asked him.
Sean chuckled. “I guess it does seem like a castle sometimes. Anyway, I’m the housekeeper. I keep the place clean, do the laundry, make the beds, all the day to day stuff.”
“I see...” Juanita said slowly. It was clear she was trying to equate in her mind that a happy, smiling white guy with a bit of a beer belly and a balding head was a housekeeper for a rich family who lived in a castle. She had never even heard of a white housekeeper before. Or a male one, for that matter.
“Are we still on for dinner?” Jake asked them.
“Si,” Jose said. “We are looking forward to trying your chef’s American food.”
“He’s been working on it all day,” Jake said. “His famous lasagna. You’ve never had better.”
“Lasagna?” Juanita asked, raising her eyebrow. “I thought that was Italian.”
“Yeah, they make it there too,” Jake said with a smile. “I’ll put Westin’s lasagna up against that Italian stuff any day of the week.”
“That’s a bold claim, sweetie,” Laura told him.
Juanita looked sharply at Laura Kingsley. A picture had just been published that very morning in the National Watcher. It was a picture that showed Jake and Laura Kingsley walking hand in hand near the ocean and looking at each other meaningfully. She had seen it on the television. And now she had just called him “sweetie”, which was an American term of endearment. Would it be rude of her to bring that up?
She didn’t pause to think that question over too much. “I saw your picture in the paper, Laura,” she said. “The one of you and Jake near the ocean.”
“Yeah,” Laura said with a shrug. “That’s what it’s like to be us, unfortunately. We were just taking a walk on the beach to kill time while Caydee learned how to make cookies from Celia’s mama. Apparently some paparazzi followed us. We weren’t expecting them to be so aggressive and actually follow us down the trail.”
“It must be madness living like that,” Jose said.
“Yeah, but it pays well,” Jake said with a shrug of his own.
Juanita gave a silent glare at her husband for inadvertently blocking her avenue of information gathering by inserting a question of his own. Not that she would tell anyone what she learned—who would she even tell?—but she was interested. The dynamic between Jake Kingsley and the two women in his life was very strange to her. And it was not just strange in an American sort of way. It was strange in a human being sort of way.
Jose did not pick up on her thoughts. All he knew was that she was displeased with him about something. Not majorly displeased, but at about the level of leaving the toilet seat up displeased. And he had no idea what he had done. Par for the course.
Jose took a moment to look around the auditorium. There were two black families among the visitors. There were no other darker skinned people at all. Everyone except his family and the two black families was as blanco as blanco could be. And here they were, sitting in front of the Kingsley family, the hands-down richest and most eccentric family of them all. The world was a strange place.
Jose actually liked Jake and Laura and Celia. He liked Caydee as well; she was a wonderful playmate for their two ostracized children and Mondays had become something special for all three of them. But now school was out for the summer and they were going over to the Kingsley’s house on the cliff. The word around town was that it was a huge castle like something out of a horror book. It was said that satanic rituals were carried out there and that some of the servants were being held there against their will.
Jose did not believe most of this drivel. Like his wife, being the subject of vicious, untrue rumors himself (not he personally, just his entire people) made him very aware how “truth” was revealed in this culture. Mere rumors were considered fact if they matched with what the listener wanted to hear. But still ... they were the Kingsleys. They were very rich and obviously peculiar. But they were not dangerous, right?
He was also a little nervous about the activity that was going to take place at the Kingsley house—it was, in fact, the driving motivation in Carlos’ mind for the visit. The Kingsleys had a swimming pool (Juanita had heard it was attached to a moat that encircled the house). The kids wanted to play in that swimming pool. They had never played in a swimming pool before. As such, they did not know how to swim.
Jake had assured Jose when they had discussed this last Monday that the pool was perfectly safe. It had a large shallow end with steps leading into water that was only one meter deep. There were no waterfalls or currents. The deep end could be roped off. And all of the adults would be sitting just feet away in case something went wrong. This all made perfect sense and was logical, but his fear was not a logical fear.
The ceremony finally began. They presented it as if it really was a graduation from a major accomplishment instead of just being proclaimed sufficient in the alphabet, the numbers to 100, and basic mathematics involving sums and differences less than ten (the amount they could count on their fingers if all else failed). Speeches were given by the principal, the vice principal, and one of the kindergarten teachers (that was Ms. Kenerson herself this year and she outdid herself in syrupy pride in the accomplishments of her students). They did not allow any of the children to make a speech, which was a pity. That likely would have been the most entertaining part of the production.
Jake and Laura both took the obligatory pictures of Caydee walking across the stage to receive her “diploma” from Mr. Meeker, the principal. Juanita did the same, using a disposable 35mm camera she’d picked up at the grocery store.
Once all the names were read and all the diplomas handed out, there was one final speech by Margaret McGregor, one of the class moms—a woman who had once taken Juanita aside and asked, in the most patronizing tone imaginable, how much her husband charged his “friends” (like her and her family, for instance) for weekly lawn service.
After that, the party broke up. It was just a few minutes before two o’clock. The former kindergarteners and their families filed toward the parking lot in small, noisy clumps. Jose and his family walked with the Kingsleys, the two units forming a single column of awkward camaraderie. Everyone else gave them a wide berth, but continued to stare.
“Are you in the BMW?” Jose asked Jake. The plan was to follow them to the castle.
“We’re in the SUV,” Jake said, nodding toward a forest green Lexus parked amid the more pedestrian vehicles. “That one over there.”
“How many vehicles do you have?” Jose could not help but ask. He and Juanita struggled just to keep one battered old Toyota Corolla running and fueled.
Jake did not take offense to the question. Nor did he dismiss it. He actually thought about it for a few seconds and said, “Six of them. The SUV, the Beemer, the Navigator, and the cursed minivan. Those are the SLO cars. We also have an F-150 and a Lexus sedan in LA for when we have to do business there.”
“I see,” Jose said, nodding softly. He had actually thought it would be more than that. Only six cars? And not one of them was a Bentley or a Rolls Royce?
Jose and his family climbed into their battered Corolla while the Kingsleys got into their SUV, Jake behind the wheel. The vehicle pulled out of the parking lot and Jose stayed close behind. They wound their way out of Oceano proper and were soon cruising along the PCH, the dunes and the ocean within touching distance.
Just after the highway curved inland, the SUV’s turn signal came on. It turned off onto a narrow, paved road marked with a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign. NO BEACH OR CLIFF ACCESS, it advised. The road itself was nondescript. Jose realized, with mild surprise, that he had driven past this spot hundreds of times and never noticed it.
He followed.
The road began to climb. It twisted and switched back, flanked by more sternly worded signs warning visitors to turn around. Jose felt it then—this wasn’t just a nice house on a cliff. This was somewhere. Somewhere private. Exclusive. Somewhere people didn’t get invited unless they belonged.
He wondered if he and his family were the first Mexicans to ever visit the place—not to do the landscaping or clean the moat or pour concrete—but to walk through the front door as guests.
There was a large wrought iron fence surrounding the property, guarded by a gate that slid open as the SUV approached. It passed through, and Jose followed. Jake stopped just beyond the gate, his brake lights still glowing. Jose eased the Corolla to a stop behind him, confused.
“What are we doing?” Juanita asked.
“Maybe he needs to look at a map because the place is so big,” Emilia offered. She’d heard rumors about the Kingsley clifftop castle at school, and they’d all been dramatic.
The gate slid shut behind them. Once it latched, the brake lights on the SUV went out and the vehicle continued up the hill.
Jose understood then. Jake had been making sure no one slipped in behind them. Paranoia? Or was security really that important in the Kingsley world?
“Where’s the castle?” Juanita asked, peering out as they crested the hill. “Shouldn’t we be able to see it by now?”
Jose spotted the structure a second later—and blinked.
It wasn’t a castle. It wasn’t even a mansion. It was a single-story home with a tile roof, painted in muted tones to blend into the coastal landscape. Sprawling, yes—but almost disappointingly ordinary. The ocean view behind it was magnificent. The house itself ... was not.
Was this really where they lived?
Or was this just the servant’s quarters?
It was not the servant’s quarters. It was the main house. As they reached the top of the hill, the driveway curved into a wide circle—a polished loop of stone that surrounded a clean gravel island and led directly to the front of the house. At the near end stood a massive, five-car garage. Jose’s eyes flicked over the construction zone beside it: exposed framework, piles of neatly stacked lumber, sawdust drifted in little curls along the pavement. The crew had clearly packed up for the weekend, but the scale of the expansion was obvious. Jose wondered if any of the workers on the project attended La Esperanza Catholic Church on Sundays—same as his family. It seemed likely.
Jake pulled the SUV straight into the garage without pause. A moment later, Laura stepped out from the passenger side and waved them forward.
“Go ahead and park in front of the garage,” she called out. “We’ll come in this way.”
Jose nodded, guiding the Corolla carefully into place. The cracked bumper and faded paint job felt louder than usual in this space. He eased the engine off and stepped out.
The air smelled different here. Cleaner. Sea-salted. Faint traces of cut wood and fresh paint drifted on the breeze. From where he stood, he could hear the thrum of the ocean beyond the cliff. The whole property seemed to hum quietly with isolation. Not loneliness—just intentional distance.
They didn’t head for the main front doors.
Instead, Laura led them through the garage—a transition that caught Jose slightly off-guard. No grand entryway. No formal presentation. Just concrete underfoot and racks of tools and surfboards lining the walls. A few child-sized bikes leaned neatly near the door.
This, apparently, was how family entered the house. Jose felt an odd sense of honor at the realization.
Laura opened the door at the back of the garage and led them inside. “Welcome to Casa Kingsley,” she said.
They stepped into a kitchen. A large kitchen. Bigger than any Jose had ever seen in a private home. A six-burner stove with two separate ovens took up good portion of one wall (but not all of it). A massive granite island dominated the center. Two full refrigerator-freezer units hummed quietly in opposite corners.
The air was thick with the smell of garlic and oregano.
At the stove stood a tall, handsome white man in jeans, a t-shirt, and an apron. He was stirring a pot of red sauce—slow, careful circles. That was the source of the savory scent.
It was the sauce for the lasagna, Jose realized. He’d never tried lasagna before and had been privately skeptical of the meal. But now, as his stomach rumbled, he found himself ... curious. Maybe even excited.
The man at the stove looked up and smiled as they entered.
“You must be the Ramirez family,” he said warmly, setting down his wooden spoon and wiping his hands on the apron. “Welcome. I’m Westin. I’m the chef, but don’t let that intimidate you. I promise I’m not one of the temperamental ones.”
Jose shook his hand. So did Juanita. The greeting was firm, friendly, and completely unpretentious.
“It smells amazing in here,” Jose said, not out of politeness, but because it was simply true.
Westin nodded seriously. “Yes, it does,” he said.
“It’s like a restaurant,” Emilia whispered to her mother in Spanish.
“Better than some restaurants I’ve worked in,” Westin said, grinning, letting them know that he spoke Spanish as well. “Go ahead and make yourselves at home. Jake said you’d be swimming before dinner, so if you brought suits, the guest room down the hall is yours to use.”
That was all Carlos needed to hear. His eyes lit up.
“Caydee, do we get to see the pool now?” he asked, practically bouncing in place.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm. “We’ll get changed later. You gotta see it first. It’s epic.”
“Don’t go near that pool until the adults are all out there,” Juanita said quickly.
“We won’t!” Carlos and Emilia promised in unison.
A brown skinned young woman appeared from around the corner just then, holding a fresh towel and a floaty under one arm. She was dressed in a one piece swimming suit with a large wrap over her torso and upper legs. There were flip-flops on her feet. Her toenails and fingernails were painted mustard yellow. A little girl, maybe four years old or so, was with her. She was dressed in a one piece swimming suit as well, though she had no wrap covering her. Her skin tone was lighter than the woman’s but still darker than a white person’s skin. This, plus the facial resemblance, told Jose she was the woman’s daughter.
“Hey, Yamster,” Caydee greeted the woman.
“I told you not to call me that,” the woman said, though she did not seem upset.
“Is Yamstarooni better?” Caydee asked with mock seriousness.
“Cadence Elizabeth Kingsley,” the woman said with mock seriousness of her own.
“Uh oh,” Laura said with a little giggle. “You made her go full name on you, Caydee girl. You’re on your own for this one.”
“Abandoned by my own madre,” Caydee said with a shake of the head. “What a rip! Come on, Carlos and Emmy. Let’s go see the pool.”
They rushed off.
“Jose, Juanita,” Laura said. “This is Yami, Caydee and Cap’s nanny. And this adorable little girl is Kira. She’s Yami’s daughter.”
“I go swimmin’!” Kira said excitedly. “Mummy said so!”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Yami said shyly.
“It’s nice to meet you two as well,” Juanita said. She looked down at Kira and smiled. “Aren’t you the most beautiful chiquita in the world?”
Kira giggled at this and thanked her.
“Can I have a taste of the sauce, Westin?” Celia asked the chef.
“You may not,” he said firmly.
“Prude,” Celia accused.
“I am not,” Westin sniffed.
“Are too.”
The chef shook his head a little. “Everybody, out of my kitchen,” he said, shooing them with his spoon like an aristocrat chasing pigeons. “There’s a whole house waiting for you. Go be in it.”
Laura led them out of the kitchen and into a large dining room with a polished mahogany table that would seat sixteen people with room for everyone’s elbows. Currently, the table was completely empty except for a vase of fresh cut flowers in the exact center. A huge chandelier hung over the table, the lights currently on and reflecting in the surface of the wood. On two of the walls of the room were large wooden wine racks bolted to the walls. The racks were about three quarters or so full of bottles, reds in one rack, whites in the other. The floor was of polished hardwood, dark in color to contrast the table. There was not so much as a smudge to be seen anywhere.
From there, they followed a wide hallway, turned right, and entered a family room—though family room didn’t quite seem like the right word. Jose had never seen anything like it.
A massive television dominated one wall, currently showing a Roadrunner cartoon, its colors vivid and bouncing off the sleek black frame. That was just one corner of the room.
In another stood a full wet bar, complete with a mirrored backsplash and racks of stemware hanging from above. There was a pinball machine tucked neatly between a dartboard and a pool table, their surfaces spotless and clearly well cared for.
And then there was the strange, gleaming piece of furniture near the far wall: a long, narrow wooden table—maybe seven yards long, maybe half a yard wide—with numbers and lines etched in black across its glossy surface. Jose had seen one before, in a bar, surrounded by white men shouting good-natured insults as they slid metal pucks back and forth. He didn’t know what the game was called, but the gringos had seemed to be enjoying it. And now here was that same table game, just another part of the room.
But what was in the room paled in comparison to what was beyond it.
One entire wall was made of glass—a picture window and a sliding door that opened onto a wooden deck. On the other side sat a granite patio table surrounded by heavy-duty outdoor chairs and recliners, all positioned to take in the view.
A sturdy railing ran along the far edge of the deck, interrupted only by a small opening and a short set of steps that led to an ornate cement path. That path curved gently across the plateau to a second, smaller deck perched closer to the cliff’s edge, where a massive circular hot tub sat beneath its cover.
And beyond that—stretching out past everything—was the Pacific Ocean. Wide. Endless. Bluer than the sky and twice as deep.
They weren’t a thousand feet up, as Juanita had assumed Castilla Kingsley would be, but they were several hundred feet above the surf. That was enough. The view went on forever. It was a clear day, and Jose could see all the way to the horizon.
Far out, a loaded container ship moved steadily north. Scattered sailboats and fishing vessels dotted the water like flakes of white against the blue.
It was breathtaking.
They get to see this every day, he thought in amazement. They live here! This is where they have their coffee in the morning and their wine at night. And they can go out to the edge of the cliff and sit in a hot tub by themselves whenever they want! He took a moment to wonder if they sat out in that hot tub naked—just Jake and whatever woman he was currently married to—and then chided himself for such a ridiculous thought. The Kingsley family was accused of all sorts of things, but public indecency was not one of them.
“It’s beautiful,” Juanita said, staring out the window in awe. Sure, it wasn’t what she had imagined—no battlements, no moat, and they were only a few hundred feet up, not a thousand—but there was no denying the magnificence.
“It is,” Jose agreed quietly.
“That view is what I always dreamed of when I was scrapping my way up in the music world,” said Jake.
Jose turned toward the sound of his voice.
Jake had disappeared into the house before Jose and his family had even gotten out of the car. Now he was sitting casually on the couch, a toddler with fuzzy black hair perched on his lap. The child had to be Cap—Caydee’s little brother. Celia and Jake’s son from their marriage. That much Jose remembered. What he couldn’t recall was the boy’s full name—something long, Italian-sounding, and impossible to pronounce on the first try.
“You chose wisely, Jake,” Jose said.
He stepped further into the room, and the view opened up.
A second deck was visible now, connected by a short footbridge to the main one. This was where the swimming pool sat—rectangular, simple, built right into the deck structure. The far end of it faced the ocean directly, with no visible edge—just water, then air, then sky.
An infinity pool.
Jose had heard of such things before, but he had never seen one in person. And now here one was, calmly shimmering on a private clifftop deck, part of someone’s home.
The Kingsleys lived like this. And they had invited his family to join them, at least for an afternoon and evening. He was still trying to process this.
“I like to think so,” Jake said, standing, keeping the toddler in his arms as he did so. He walked a little closer. “Jose, Juanita, this is Capriccio, but we call him Cap. Say hi to the nice people, Cap.”
“Bleah!” Cap bleated, unimpressed so far. He had been enjoying sitting on Daddy’s lap and did not want to be trucked around right now.
“That’s how he says hi,” Laura said, obvious affection in her voice. “Do either of you need to use el bano?”
“Si,” his wife said. Jose nodded as well.
“It’s right down that hallway,” she said, pointing to another hall that led off at a ninety degree angle from where they had entered. “First door on the right.”
She did not guide them to the rest room. Jake did not offer to give them a tour of the house. Jose did not find this rude. It actually made him feel more like a welcome guest.
Juanita stepped out of the bathroom, drying her hands on a guest towel, and gave Jose a small nod. “Muy bueno,” she whispered, smiling faintly.
Jose nodded back and slipped inside.
It was not a large room—no window, no tub or shower, just a single ventilation fan whirring quietly in the ceiling. But even before he shut the door behind him, he could tell: this wasn’t just a bathroom. It was like a guest bathroom in a fancy hotel room.
The floor was tiled in clean, high-end ceramic—expensive, but not flashy. The sink was a curved marble basin with brushed nickel fixtures, set into a built-in vanity with recessed lighting. Above it hung a mirror framed in driftwood, shaped to resemble the hull of a ship.
The walls were painted a calming seafoam blue, and little nautical touches were scattered here and there—a polished brass compass on the counter, a starfish sculpture on a shelf. The toilet was modern and sleek, with a discreet control panel beside it. A bidet, he realized. He’d never used one. He wasn’t about to start now.
The air smelled ... good. Clean. Not chemical-clean, like bleach or fake citrus, but subtly pleasant. A hint of eucalyptus, maybe. Maybe mint. Maybe something else entirely. He couldn’t quite pin it down. He looked around for the source but could not see anything that looked like it was designed to emit fragrance. Where was the smell coming from? And what was it? And how could he get Juanita to put some in the bathroom the kids used at home?
He used the toilet—quick, polite, no exploration of unfamiliar bidet features—and then washed his hands thoroughly, taking a moment to appreciate the soft, folded hand towels laid out beside the sink. Not paper. Not terry cloth. Something in between.
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