Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 8: Caught in a Landslide
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 8: Caught in a Landslide - 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
Friday, June 11, 2004
KVA Records HQ – Santa Clarita, California
Pauline Kingsley walked from her office to the reception area of KVA Records with her usual calm stride, a printed itinerary in one hand and a mental to-do list already ticking. Barb Macready was manning the desk, two phones before her, one on each side of the computer screen, which was currently showing a game of Hoyle Casino 2004. Barb, it seemed, was a fan of Pai-Gow poker. Pauline understood. That was one of her favorite table games too.
She did not care that Barb was playing fake casino games using the high-speed DSL line that provided wi-fi to the office. She did not care that the front door was closed and locked, the blinds shut, and the CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign was in place. All she cared about at this moment was that Barb showed no signs of cracking in her first week on the job. In fact, she actually seemed to be thriving in the position.
Barb must have sensed her coming—whether from a faint shift in light across the blinds or some preternatural sixth sense, Pauline couldn’t say. She minimized the poker game with one quick flick of the mouse and straightened in her chair just as Pauline pushed the door open.
“Afternoon, boss,” Barb said, voice dry, expression unreadable. “Office remains secure. No breaches. No fatalities. Just got off the phone with a Jesus freak with a stutter who wanted to ask Jake if he has repented yet for corrupting the youth of America.”
“And?” Pauline asked.
“I told him to keep an eye on the sky for the second coming and then hung up. Also, four or five people have knocked on the door. All media people.” She shook her head a little. “All this attention just because some sleazebag paparazzo got a shot of Laura Kingsley sitting in the front seat of a car with Jake Kingsley driving? Who gives a fiddler’s fuck?”
“They give a fiddler’s fuck,” Pauline replied. “They see Laura sitting up front as some kind of profound sign from God or something. They’ve noticed that Celia usually sits up front with Jake on the morning commute. All of a sudden it’s Teach up there now. It has to mean something.”
And it did mean something. It was another phase of Operation Phoenix, the plot to publicly get Jake and Laura back together. Greg Oldfellow was still in the driver’s seat, obsessing over every little detail. The switch from Celia in the front to Laura was part of his master plan, the next, minor operation to follow up on the successful ‘meaningful look while holding hands on the bluff’ moment of the previous week. And, Pauline had to admit, it was working out just like planned.
“Does it mean anything?” Barb asked. “It almost seems to me that y’all are running a scam of some kind. Not a money scam, but a scam full of bullshit to keep the media fucks guessing.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Pauline said with a smile. “You’re not cleared for information on that level of the tower.”
“Understood,” she said. “Just keep telling them ‘No comment’ until told otherwise.”
Pauline set the itinerary folder on the front desk, ready to let her know that Jake would be arriving soon with Caydee in tow. There was to be a meeting at Jake’s house over dinner. Greg would be there and they would discuss the next steps in Project Phoenix. Tabby was away at a summer camp on Catalina Island and Obie was in Nashville, working on some Blake Family Records business.
Before she could speak, however, the phone rang.
Barb glanced at the number. A look of anger and disgust immediately appeared on her face.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said, venom in her voice. She picked up the phone and jabbed down on the button. “Jenkins! You’ve got the testicular persistence of a horny raccoon in mating season.”
Pauline halted at the threshold, one eyebrow lifting.
Barb was in full posture now—straight spine, headset slightly crooked, mug of Hacienda La Esmeralda perched within reach. She was locked in, like a fighter pilot about to drop bombs.
“You called at nine-thirty. You called at eleven-fifty. And now you’re back again at—” she glanced at the desk clock “—three-oh-seven? You think maybe if you catch me at just the right moment, I’ll have a brain aneurysm and say something useful?”
A pause. Barb tilted her head, listening.
“Yes, you told me you saw the picture. I’m aware of that particular fact. How fucking lucky for you. You and every other gasbag parasite with a zoom lens and a prepaid cell plan saw that picture. I saw it this morning while I was in my fuckin’ throne room taking a post-Mexican food shit. It was playing on the TV by my bed. Yes, Laura was in the front seat. Yes, she usually rides in the back. No, I don’t know why. Maybe her fucking knees hurt, Jenkins. In the great scheme of sleazy, innuendo-based journalism like you and all the other fuckin’ leeches practice, this ain’t shit! Why are you even wasting my valuable time with this shit?”
Another pause.
“No, I’m not connecting you to Pauline. No, I’m not putting you through to Jake. No, I’m not giving you a fucking quote. I don’t have a fucking quote prepared because this is not fucking important! You know what I will give you? A suggestion.”
Pauline remained where she was, frozen in place, coffee forgotten in hand. The sheer poetry of the destruction unfolding in front of her was mesmerizing. It was like watching Einstein scribble equations on a napkin at Denny’s, like watching Mozart doing a pre-gig sound check with his band, like watching Picasso paint his fuckin’ house.
“My suggestion,” Barb continued cheerfully, “is that you take your Pulitzer-sniffing nose, shove it up your own ass, and inhale deeply until you pass out. Maybe by the time you come to, you’ll remember what ‘there is no comment at this time’ actually fucking means.”
A beat. A long beat.
And then Barb’s voice dropped—cool, calm, deadly.
“You will hang up this phone now, Jenkins. And when you do, you’ll think real hard about whether calling me a fourth fucking time today is worth the ass-peeling you’ll receive. Because the next round comes with teeth, baby. And I will bite.”
Another pause.
Barb smiled.
“Good decision.”
Click.
She hung up the phone with deliberate satisfaction and took a long, unhurried sip of her coffee.
Pauline walked little closer to her desk. “Was that who I think it was?”
Barb glanced over, perfectly unbothered. “Rob Jenkins,” she said. “That guy really doesn’t know when to quit. I wonder how many women he date-raped back in college.”
Pauline blinked. “You just dressed down Rob Jenkins—the Rob Jenkins—like he was a Burger King trainee who gave you decaf by mistake. That was... inspiring.”
“He called three times today,” Barb said, as if that were a capital offense. “Three, Pauline. I’ve put murderers on hold with more grace.”
Pauline set the folder down on the counter. “And he apologized?”
“Twice,” Barb said. “What a fuckin’ ass-monkey.”
Pauline just stared at her for a moment.
Then: “Jake will be here soon.”
Barb nodded. “Should I put on the white gloves and curtsy?”
“He’s bringing Caydee,” Pauline added, ignoring her. “His daughter. She’s six years old. She likes flying in the plane, so she’s tagging along.”
Barb blinked, amused. “That kid has better vacation perks than a fuckin’ senator.”
“Just wanted to let you know to let them in when they get here. Hard to mistake them for someone else. A tall, longhaired freak and a cute little redheaded six year old.”
“I’m on it,” Barb said. “Where you headed?”
“Oceano,” she said. “Gonna stay overnight at Jake’s pad. We got some KVA business to talk about.”
Barb shrugged, uninterested. “As long as the paychecks keep coming,” she said.
Pauline used the bathroom in the hall between reception and her door and then returned to her small, unassuming office. She shut and locked the door behind her. She was wearing a pair of business slacks and a white cotton blouse. Her hair had been neatly styled earlier in the day but now it was ragged and chaotic—a result of her running her frustrated hands through it frequently.
There had been two calls today that Barb had let through to her. One had been from Steve Crow over at National Records. The other had been from Joshua Flagg over at Aristocrat. Both had called and told Barbara they had business to discuss. Both had lied. The business they had wanted to discuss was the same business everyone wanted to discuss. They had seen the picture of Jake and Laura last week and now there’s a shot of Laura riding in the front seat with Jake. Were they really getting back together?
She pulled her travel bag off of the couch (yes, she was a record label executive with a couch in her office, and yes, she had fucked a certain country artist on that couch a time or two—stereotypes existed for a reason) and set it down on the desk. She quickly undressed down to her panties and bra, folding her work clothes neatly. She then put on a pair of blue jean shorts and a sleeveless pullover shirt that had a picture of a sailboat on it. Her business shoes were replaced by a well-worn pair of Nike cross trainers.
She zipped her travel bag shut, tucked her phone into the outer pocket, and gave herself one last glance in the mirror above the couch. Hair still a mess. She considered fixing it, then didn’t. Let Jake make a crack about it if he wanted. She was off the clock now—headed for the central coast, whatever gastronomical masterpiece Westin was making that night, and the ever-entertaining spectacle that was her brother’s domestic life.
And she was going to see Greg Oldfellow again. Talk about a blast from the past. She hadn’t seen him or talked to him in almost seven years. She was assured, by both Jake and Laura, that the man was just as arrogant and pretentious as always. She couldn’t wait. Nobody pulled off the snobby prick routine with the charm of Greg Oldfellow. A pity he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants very well.
She checked her watch. If Jake was on time, he’d be pulling into the lot any minute. And if Caydee was with him, the front office was about to be hit with six years of unfiltered chaos in the form of one tiny redhead.
Pauline smiled faintly, grabbed her bag, and headed for the lobby.
“You don’t even look like the same woman,” Barb said, looking at her in her civvies.
“Thanks ... I think,” she said, going to the blinds and peeking out between the slats. Sure enough, Jake was pulling in. He was behind the wheel of his Ford F-150.
He and Caydee made their grand entrance a minute later. The door opened and Caydee came in, followed by Jake. Caydee was wearing a pair of denim overalls with a yellow shirt beneath. Her hair was tied into pigtails and she looked adorably cute, like usual. Jake was in khaki shorts, a sleeveless baby-blue tank top, and had his aviator shades up high on his forehead.
“Hi, Aunt Paulie!” Caydee greeted cheerfully.
“Hi, Caydee girl!” she returned, smiling.
“Hey, overachiever,” Jake greeted, using a term he had called her since she was in high school.
“Brother dear,” she returned.
Hugs were exchanged, both from brother and sister and from aunt and niece.
“There were really badass bumpies going over the mountains today,” Caydee told them.
“Oh yeah?” Pauline asked.
“Fuckin’ A,” Caydee said. “That’s why Daddy wanted me to come along with him. He needs a copilot when he’s flying through shit like that. Right, Daddy?”
“You know it, Caydee girl,” Jake said.
“Members of my weird but not totally dysfunctional family,” Pauline introduced, “this is Barb Macready. Our new receptionist.”
“Straight from the bowels of the LAPD,” Jake said, stepping over toward her desk. “Jake Kingsley.”
“I recognized you,” Barb said. “You look almost like I expected.”
“Almost?” Jake asked.
“I thought you’d have a cigarette in your mouth and a can of beer in your hand.”
Jake looked at her for a moment, face unreadable. “I don’t drink beer that comes in a can,” he said. “Anyway, nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
And that was true, Pauline knew. She had given her brother a copy of Steve Masterson’s background report on Barb. They’d heard more about her than Barb likely knew about herself.
“None of it good, I hope,” she said with an evil chuckle.
“And this is Caydee,” Jake said. “She’s my daughter.”
“Hi,” Caydee said brightly, a smile on her face. She had been meeting new people her entire life and she was good at it. “I just graduated from kindergarten.”
And suddenly, Barb’s entire demeanor shifted when she started talking to Caydee. She instantly became warm, friendly, and personable. It was creepy as fuck, Pauline thought. Like watching a pit bull pause mid-attack to lick a toddler’s face. Sweet, sure. But unsettling.
“Aren’t you about the cutest kindergarten graduate I’ve ever seen in my life,” she declared. “Do you like candy bars?”
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Caydee replied, hitting her with a Matt-ism she had picked up in her dealings with the guitarist.
Barb laughed. “I like you,” she said. “Maybe you and I can be friends.”
Caydee’s look turned serious. “I don’t know,” she said. “Mommy told me once not to get too attached to the office ladies because they’re all ... what was the word... condemned. That was it. They’re all condemned for something they did in a previous life.”
“They were weak but I am strong,” Barb said. “And I plan to be here for two years at the very least. I will have those lifetime bennies. I will earn that.”
“Fuck yeah!” Caydee said enthusiastically. She did not have the slightest idea what Barb was talking about (any more than she knew what the Pope was and why he would choose to defecate in an arboreal forest), but she really liked to say ‘fuck yeah!’ and she had been briefed on the mission by Daddy, who had assured her that the new KVA receptionist was quite far from polite company.
“Anyway, I was talking candy bars,” Barb said, sliding open a drawer in her desk. “You want one? I got Milky Ways, Twix, and Paydays.”
Caydee looked over at Jake. “Can I have one, Daddy?”
“As long as Barb doesn’t mind, I’m fine with it,” Jake said with a shrug.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” Barb said. “Now ... which kind?”
“Paydays suck ass,” Caydee said thoughtfully, “but I like Twix. I like those a lot.”
“Twix it is,” Barb said, handing the confection over to her.
“Thank you, Ms. Macready,” Caydee said.
“You’re very welcome, little one,” Barb returned.
“Daddy, can I go to the break room and get a soda to drink with this?” Caydee asked.
“Sure,” Jake said. “Why don’t you bring me a bottle of water while you’re there?”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. And she was off like a shot.
The moment she was gone, Barb turned her gaze back to Jake. The affectionate smile for the antics of a child blew away like a fart in the wind, replaced by the cynical look they had been initially greeted with.
“So,” she said, “they say you snorted coke once out of some slut’s ass crack. Any truth to that?”
Jake brought them in for a nice, smooth landing at SLO Regional a little more than an hour later. He parked the plane in the hangar and he, his sister, and Caydee climbed into the Navigator for the trip to Kingsley Manor.
“I need a drink as soon as we get there,” Pauline said. “It’s been a shitter of a week.”
“It’s almost over now,” Jake said. “Well ... at least the deception part. I told Greg the next act needs to be the final act of Operation Phoenix.”
“The kiss?” she asked.
“The kiss,” he confirmed. “Once we get that out there in the world, the rest will just fall naturally into place.”
“Is he upset about shutting down production after this?”
Jake chuckled. “A little bit. He wanted to go on for another three or four staged encounters before the kiss scene. He’s just having too much fun doing this shit. I convinced him it wasn’t necessary. Or least C did.”
“See-Ya told him he was stroking his own ego like a teenager in the bathroom,” Caydee said. “I don’t know what that even means, but Greg looked like he was gonna cry when she said it.”
Pauline nodded her head a little. “I can imagine so,” she said. “What time are they going to be there?”
“They should be there when we get to the house,” Jake said. “His new girlfriend flew in this morning from Maine. He’s bringing her to dinner for everyone to meet.”
“What’s her name again?” Pauline asked.
“Rachelle,” Jake said. “She’s a ‘high value residential acquisition broker’.”
“I thought you said she was a real estate agent.”
Jake chuckled. “She is nothing as pedestrian as that,” Jake said, doing a spot-on imitation of Greg’s voice. As a professional singer with mastery of his voice, he was quite good at mimicry.
“Please don’t do that, Jake,” Pauline said, shuddering a bit. “It’s creepy.”
“Yeah, Daddy,” Caydee said. “Usually it’s funny when you make yourself sound like other people, but ... not with Greg.”
“Am I not doing it right?” Jake asked.
“You’re doing it too well,” Pauline said. “You should put that on the do not mimic list from here on out. Right up there with George W. Bush, Jack Nicholson, and pretending to be retarded.”
“What a rip,” Jake muttered, shaking his head at the travesty.
Greg’s rental Mercedes was indeed parked in the circular driveway when they arrived at Kingsley Manor. Jake parked in the garage and they entered through the kitchen. Pauline shouldered her travel bag while Jake and Caydee went in empty handed. Pauline was not a guest. She was family. As such, she could carry her own fucking bag and find her way to the secondary suite with it.
Westin was working in the kitchen when they entered. As always when Greg was over for dinner, he was going ‘full fuckin’ gourmet on his ass’. The smell was rich and wonderful.
“Hey, Wes,” Jake greeted. “What’s cookin’?”
“It smells like more of your hoity-toity shit,” Caydee said. She was on record of being a fan of his hoity-toity shit.
“I am preparing beef Wellington for tonight’s dinner with Greg and his charming lady friend,” Westin said. “The filet is currently resting in the refrigerator, swaddled in prosciutto and mushroom duxelles, wrapped tightly in puff pastry like a debutante in a sleeping bag. Oven temp is at 425. It goes in at five-twelve. Dinner is served at six. Not six-oh-one.”
“Of course it is,” Jake said. “As God intended.”
“Exactly,” Westin agreed with a smile. “It is good to see you again, Pauline. I am sure you’ll enjoy tonight’s cuisine as well.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Pauline said enthusiastically. She shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. “What’s the rest of the spread?”
“Roasted fingerling potatoes with garlic confit and herbed crème fraîche,” Westin replied. “Grilled asparagus with lemon zest and Maldon sea salt.”
Caydee wrinkled her nose just a little, but said nothing. She liked most of Westin’s food, and she wasn’t about to insult it, especially not in front of him, but asparagus was one of those things she had never quite developed a taste for—which was kind of a rip because Westin and the rest of the family were in love with the shit and it was served quite often.
“And dessert?” Jake asked.
“Raspberry tartlets,” Westin said. “With whipped mascarpone cream. And a hidden stash of triple chocolate cake in case the tartlets don’t deliver the dopamine hit you people require to process basic social interaction.”
Pauline raised an eyebrow. “That’s uncomfortably accurate.”
“I sit with this family for dinner and breakfast every day,” Westin said dryly.
Jake grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “Greg here?”
“He and his lady friend arrived just after four,” Westin said. “They’ve been out back drinking wine and fitting in disturbingly well ever since.”
Pauline made a face. “That sounds like bait for disaster.”
“Which, in this household, is synonymous with ‘Friday,’” Westin said, finally glancing up. “And now, if your dinner enquiries and societally sanctioned chit-chat with the help ritual is complete, I will thank you all to vacate my kitchen so I may continue my artistry in peace.”
They vacated the kitchen.
In the entertainment room, Kira and Yami were sitting on the couch watching Blue’s Clues on the television. Liz and Little Stevie were in there with them, the musicians both with glasses of wine in hand. Jake simply nodded at them since he had just seen them a few hours before. Pauline greeted both warmly, giving them one-armed hugs while she continued to hold her bag. After a moment or two of more idle, societally dictated chit-chat, Pauline peeled away to drop her bag in the guest suite.
From the outside, just beyond the sliding glass door, the sound of voices could be heard. Jake looked in that direction and saw Laura, Celia, and Greg sitting around the deck table, a bottle of white wine sitting in the middle. He could see Greg’s ‘lady friend’ but only her back side from the shoulders up. She had honey blonde hair and was wearing a pink blouse. That was as much first impression as he could get at the moment.
He went to the bar. It had been a long day, including a trip to nasty old LA and back, and he wanted something to wet his whistle before engaging in the meeting a new person ritual. What went well with pre-dinner conversation with Greg Oldfellow? Jake decided that a little Elijah Craig would fit the bill. After all, it was eighteen years old. Fully legal now.
“What are you pouring?” Pauline asked, coming back into the room.
“Elijah 18,” Jake said. “You in?”
“Hit me,” she said. “On the rocks, please. I don’t care if the rest of the civilized world thinks me a barbarian.”
“I concur,” said Jake, who preferred his whiskey on the rocks as well. Likely a holdover from his proletarian upbringing—or perhaps his early days when he thought that Chivas and Coke was high class drinking.
“Can I swim before dinner, Daddy?” Caydee asked.
He gave her a dad look. “Dinner is in less than an hour,” he told her.
“I’ll come in for dinner,” she promised. “I’ve been working on my backflips and I almost got it down.”
“You may not,” Jake said. “We have guests over tonight. Maybe after dinner.”
“Okayyy,” she said, disappointed but knowing better than to argue. “I’ll just go watch TV with Kira and Yami.”
“After you say hello to Greg and his guest,” Jake said.
“Do I hafta?” she asked, a hint of a whine in her tone.
“You hafta,” he said simply. “Let’s go do it now. Make nice like a reasonable human being for a few minutes and then you can quietly excuse yourself.”
“Fuckin’ A,” she said with a nod. “A reaz-a-ball hoom bean.”
Jake could not help but laugh as she used the phrase she had introduced her family to back when she was two years old. It was one of the precious few she still gave them from those days—along with ‘moo-zick for the peoples’, ‘Let’s pee in the corner’, and, of course, ‘See-Ya’.
Jake and Pauline grabbed their drinks. Caydee asked for and received permission to get a juice box. There were a few in the bar refrigerator so Jake pulled one out for her. It was apple juice. When he set it down in front of her she immediately noticed that the little plastic straw was missing.
“My straw’s gone!” she cried in dismay.
“That shit ain’t right, man,” Jake said solemnly, shaking his head.
“That’s the fuckin’ truth,” Caydee agreed. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Take a second juice box and used that straw on both of them.”
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Good idea, Daddy. You’re really smart.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Jake agreed.
He handed her a second juice box—the new one did have a straw on it—and they walked to the sliding glass door that led out onto the deck. Everyone looked up at them when they heard the sound of the door opening. But before anyone could say anything, the sound of a crow tearing someone a new asshole (figurately, not literally) pierced the quiet of the Friday afternoon. It was Pa-Ho and he was perched in the tree nearest the deck—his traditional staging area.
“Feed your freaking bird, Caydee,” Laura said, a bit of exasperation in her tone. “He has been cawing for you ever since we came out here.”
“Okay, Mom,” she said, then looked over at the tree. “Caydee’s here, Pa-Ho,” she called to her avian friend. “Sorry I’m late. Daddy needed a copilot to fly to nasty old LA.”
Pa-Ho expressed his opinion of that. It was not a favorable opinion.
“Yeah yeah, birdbrain,” she told him. “Life’s not always fair. I’ll get you your freakin’ popcorn in just a minute.”
“Are we talking to a bird now?” Pauline asked.
“It’s just Pa-Ho,” Caydee said. “He’s one of the crows that lives around here. He likes it when I feed him popcorn.”
“And now he screeches if you don’t give him any at 7:30 AM and 4:00 PM every day,” Laura said.
“Really?” Pauline asked.
“No shit,” Jake assured her. “He’s a smart little fucker.”
“He likes to listen to me play moo-zick too,” Caydee said.
“You’re fucking with me,” Pauline said.
“No shit,” Caydee said.
They stepped out onto the back deck into the bright, late-afternoon light. The ocean stretched wide and blue beneath the bluff, and the breeze carried the clean smell of salt and rosemary.
A small group was seated around the outdoor table: Laura and Celia with wine glasses in hand, Cap on Celia’s lap in his Cal Poly hat and baby-sized sunglasses, one leg swinging absently. And beside them, engaged in what sounded like casual conversation, was Rachelle.
She stood as they approached.
She was tall—not as tall as Celia, who was genuinely Amazonian—but tall enough to play beach volleyball if she wanted. Not that she looked like the type who would do something as pedestrian as beach volleyball. She simply oozed class and breeding. The kind of woman whose ancestors had probably arrived on the Mayflower to avoid religious persecution—and promptly founded a country club.
Her hair was a silky honey blonde, shoulder length, professionally styled with just the right amount of body. She wore beige dress slacks and a pink, short-sleeved button-up blouse. Her figure was athletic, fit, but well-proportioned, all clean lines and quiet curves.
She looked like the sort of woman who had never seen the inside of a Costco—or, God forbid, a Walmart.
Jake had no trouble picturing that face on a high-gloss business card under the title High-Value Residential Acquisition Broker.
She looked composed. At ease. Like she’d been here a dozen times before.
Jake didn’t know yet if that was impressive or suspicious.
Greg stood as well, giving them all a nod. “Welcome home,” he said. “Jake, Pauline, Cadence—this is Rachelle Dressler.”
Rachelle offered her hand to Jake first. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard ... enough.”
Jake took the handshake. “Likewise. And if Greg gave you the rundown, I’m sure some of it was fiction.”
“He mentioned your plane and your daughter’s taste in guitar music,” she said. “The rest, I figured out on my own.”
Jake smiled just slightly. Okay. Good tone.
“Hi,” said Caydee, stepping forward with her juice boxes. “I’m Caydee. Nobody calls me Cadence unless I’m in trouble. I just graduated from kindergarten.”
Rachelle crouched slightly. “Congratulations. Big milestone.”
“Are you Greg’s girlfriend?” Caydee asked.
There was the briefest pause.
“Possibly,” Rachelle said.
Caydee nodded solemnly. “You don’t look evil.”
“Thank you?” Rachelle replied.
“She means that as a compliment,” Pauline said.
“I figured.”
“Okay,” Caydee said. “I made polite small talk like Daddy said. I’m going to get Pa-Ho his popcorn now.”
Rachelle smiled at this. “Thank you for extending the customary social niceties to me, Caydee,” she said.
“No prob,” Caydee said. She then dashed back into the house, leaving her father shaking his head a little and her aunt unable to contain her chuckles.
Jake and Pauline sat down at the deck with the others. He avoided kissing either Laura or Celia as he normally would have done. Rachelle had not been briefed in on the Kingsley situation. It was as they were talking about her flight in that Caydee reemerged from the sliding door, popcorn in hand. Pa-Ho, seeing her, reacted immediately, unleashing another barrage of caws.
“No, everyone is not going to go inside so you can eat on the rail,” Caydee told the crow. “If you want the popcorn you’re gonna have to get it over by the pool.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.