Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 13: They Burned Down the Gambling House
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 13: They Burned Down the Gambling House - INTEMPERANCE X is the tenth and final novel in the main Intemperance series. As the band headlines its biggest moment yet, decades of music, loyalty, and hard-earned love converge on one unforgettable night—where everything they’ve built is tested in front of the world.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Fiction
Kingsley Manor
January 29, 2005
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon at Kingsley Manor, the kind of winter day that felt made for food, laughter, and friendly competition. The much anticipated salsa-off between Juanita Ramirez and Westin was fast approaching, the stakes nothing more—or less—than bragging rights for an entire culture and nationality.
The meat for tonight’s dinner sat on the counter in a Korean-French marinade blend Westin had thrown together that morning. Jake had come home from the meat market with three paper-wrapped tri-tips and announced he’d keep it simple—just vinegar, olive oil, salt, pepper, maybe some garlic.
Westin had looked at him like he’d suggested pouring ketchup on them and declared, “At least that’s a little better than using one of those packets.” He said packets the way other people said anal polyps.
He’d then taken over the marinade project, rummaging through the pantry and fridge, pulling whatever spices and herbs he found, and an hour later christened the result “multi-cultural marinade.” Nobody was quite sure why. Jake suspected Westin had been short on the ingredients he really wanted and improvised his way into a new recipe. He could do that. And it would taste good. Probably. Korean-French might just turn out to be a bridge too far for the talented chef.
Jake would handle the grilling later; Westin, though technically off duty, had volunteered to take care of every other dish on the menu.
The kitchen smelled of gochujang and thyme, sesame and shallots when the garage door swung open without a knock, as usual. Juanita Ramirez came in first, carrying a Tupperware container with both hands like it contained holy relics. Jose followed with a grocery bag, the kids at his heels.
Westin looked up from the cutting board. “Is that the stuff?”
Juanita lifted the container. “Fresh yesterday afternoon. It’s been in the refrigerator all night, just like I do it. Flavors blended. Perfect.”
“We said one hour in the fridge before judging,” Westin reminded her.
“One hour,” she agreed. “That way both are the same temperature. My salsa is at peak readiness.”
Jose set a bag of Mission tortilla chips on the counter. “Neutral chips. Everybody agreed. And if not, there’s a backup bag of Santitas.”
Carlos grinned. “Doesn’t matter what chip you use. Mama’s salsa is going to bury you.”
Emilia crossed her arms. “Deep funeral. Shovel and everything.”
Westin sighed. “Nice to see impartiality is alive and well.”
Jose scoffed. “Impartiality? Please. A gringo chef, no matter how skilled, cannot beat a Mexican mama at salsa. When my esposa leaves a bowl on the counter, La Santísima Virgen María, Madre de Dios leans down for the chips.”
Juanita put the container in the refrigerator with finality, as if to prove his point.
That was when Caydee came in from the hall, wearing a green dress that made her look particularly girly and cute. She greeted the guests enthusiastically, like always.
Juanita’s face lit up. “Ay, preciosa—look at you. So pretty today.”
Westin pointed at her like a referee calling a foul. “Influencing the judge. Totally out of bounds.”
Caydee had been chosen as the sole judge of the salsa-off between Westin and Juanita. She was acceptable to both sides. Caydee had a good heart and was honest. Not honest in the way Kelvin was—she did not comment on her parents’ copulation patterns or talk about her bowel movements—but honest all the same. She would judge fairly. They were sure of it.
But Juanita and Westin were playing to win. Which meant taking any advantage that wasn’t technically cheating.
Juanita widened her eyes in mock offense. “What, I can’t tell her she’s beautiful? She is beautiful. That’s not influencing. That’s truth.”
Jose smirked. “And you, Señor chef, are innocent? I was told you made crème brûlée chocolate cheesecake for dessert last night.”
“Who told you that?” Westin asked, furious that there was a mole in the house.
“Caydee told Carlos while they were talking on the computer last night,” Jose said. “And, of course, Carlos immediately told me and Mama.”
“You put three of Caydee’s favorite desserts in one dish,” Juanita said. “Three! If that isn’t bribery, what is?”
“That’s just what I felt like making,” Westin said a little too fast. “And in any case, we’re not talking about crème brûlée here. My salsa stands alone.”
Carlos leaned toward Caydee. “Don’t listen to him. Mama’s salsa is perfect.”
“Perfect,” Emilia echoed with solemn certainty. “Just like Abuela Lopez makes.”
“Even better,” Jose said proudly.
Juanita pretended she wasn’t enjoying the attention and kept a phony disapproving frown on her face.
Jake wandered in with a glass of wine, taking in the scene. “Children, please respect the sanctity of the multi-cultural theme of today’s gathering.”
“Nobody understands the stupid theme,” Caydee declared.
Jake only grinned. “A good part of living life in this world is being forced to participate in things you don’t really understand. So ... how about we do some chips and salsa here? I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
Jake listened to the explanation about refrigeration time with steadily waning patience. Both salsas needed a full extra hour in the fridge so they’d be the same temperature? “What a rip,” he declared, already eyeing the Mission chips on the counter.
Caydee turned to Carlos and Emilia. “Come on, let’s go to the entertainment room. We just got the new Ratchet & Clank for the PS2 and you have to check it out.”
They definitely wanted to check it out. There was no PlayStation anything at home, no cartridges or discs, not even a pawn-shop knockoff, and they had no other friends besides Caydee, Kira, and Cap as they were the only Mexican kids in the neighborhood. Their entire social circle outside of school revolved around these Saturday visits, and if they wanted to play video games, this was the only place it ever happened.
Caydee was careful with her choices. She had plenty of games that pushed boundaries—like Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and the full and complete Doom collection (which she still called “Piggies” because that’s what she called it at three years old) but with Carlos and Emilia she stuck to the bright and bouncy PG titles. Different families had different values, she had been taught, and Mama and Papa Ramirez might not like their kids ripping off gangsters and running over hookers during playtime. Odd but true.
While Juanita and Westin kept circling each other like prizefighters at the weigh-in, Jake turned to Jose. “Beer?”
“That would be very nice,” Jose said.
Laura stayed behind in the kitchen, but Jake and Jose made their way to the entertainment room. Caydee was already in front of the TV, slotting a shiny disc into the PlayStation 2.
“No surround sound,” Jake reminded her. “TV speakers only.”
“I know, Daddy,” she said patiently, as if he’d told her the same thing a thousand times.
Celia was on the couch with Yami, Sean, and Cap, who was happily trying to pull the stuffing out of a throw pillow. Kira had drifted in with the older kids—she played a surprisingly mean game of Ratchet & Clank herself.
Jake reached into the bar fridge and came up with two ice cold bottles with distinctive yellow labels. He set them down on the bar. “Thought these might fit the occasion.”
Jose broke into a grin at the sight of the label. “Pacífico? Carajo. I haven’t had one of these in years. Not since I left Mexico.”
“Figured Corona would be too easy,” Jake said.
Jose accepted a bottle, shaking his head. “Corona is for tourists. This—this is the beer you drink after working in the sun all day, when you’re sitting with your brothers and you’ve earned it.” He popped the cap and took a long swallow, nostalgia written all over his face. “Good choice, amigo. You know your stuff.”
Jake cracked his own bottle. “Not bad for a gringo, huh?”
Jose chuckled. “Not bad at all. Later, though, you bring me one of those fancy ones you drink. The IPA. I like to see how the other half lives.”
They clinked bottles and took their first pulls. Jake leaned back against the wall, eyes flicking toward the kids on the carpet. “We’re filing Monday morning,” he said. “L.A. County. Full suit against the Watcher. No settlements.”
Jose raised his brows. “Straight to war, eh?”
“I’m not a fan of war,” Jake said. “But sometimes it’s thrust upon you. This is one of those times.”
“And you fight fire with fire?” Jose asked.
Jake shook his head. “I don’t fight fire with fire,” he told him. “I fight fire with a hose. It works better. And that’s what we’re doing here.”
Jose started to answer, but his eyes tracked movement at the edge of the room. Cap had slipped off the couch and was making his way across the carpet with toddler determination. He reached the ottoman, braced his stubby legs, and hauled himself up. From there he took a step to the end table, then a deliberate pivot to the back of the entertainment center where the cable hole gaped like a foothold carved by nature for exactly this purpose. Up he went, hand over hand, knee over knee, until he stood on the very top grinning like he’d conquered Everest. He produced a sippy cup from some secret stash and began drinking, surveying the room like a lord in his castle.
No one else even looked up. Celia and Yami kept chatting. Sean was half-asleep. The older kids were busy arguing about Ratchet’s best weapons.
Jose finally pointed, eyes wide. “Jacob. Your son is on top of the cabinet. That’s more than eight feet off the floor.”
Jake sighed, as though it were all deeply tiresome. “He does that.”
“And ... you allow it?” Jose gestured at the hardwood below. “If he falls from there onto the hardwood...”
“Cap is like a cat and kitchen counters,” Jake interrupted. “You try to stop him and he just sneaks around and does it anyway. That kid can be a fuckin’ ninja when he wants to be. At least this way, we can keep an eye on him.”
Jose stared up at the triumphant toddler still slurping juice. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”
Jake tipped his bottle toward the entertainment center. “I only hope that apple juice hasn’t been up there long enough to ferment. If he gets drunk, it might hamper his descent.”
Jose smiled despite himself, shaking his head once more at the strange, lovable circus he found himself drinking in.
The door swung again and Laura came in from the kitchen with Juanita right behind her, still taunting over her shoulder. “My salsa will make you wish you’d never even heard of the tomato mixed with cilantro! Assuming that’s how you even make it!”
Westin’s voice shot back instantly. “I will stand victorious atop Mount Coriander in forty-five minutes! This coup d’état will be put down! I will not be defeated in my own kitchen!”
Jake turned to Jose with a straight face. “So, if your old lady loses this thing, are you going to have to honor-kill Westin? Because if you do, you’re responsible for recruiting me an equally qualified chef. And he has to be gay, to keep Sean company.”
Jose took a slow pull of his beer before answering. “We’re Mexican. We don’t do that shit over salsa. A chili verde recipe, maybe. But not salsa.”
Jake nodded gravely, as if this were the most reasonable policy in the world.
Laura and Juanita settled onto the couch. “Sweetie, would you pour us some wine?” Laura asked. “I slipped a bottle of the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc in there earlier.”
Jake went to work at the bar, pulling the bottle from the cooler and twisting the cork free. Laura briefed Juanita on what she was about to receive. “You’ll love this one,” she told her. “There’s a hint of oak ... maybe gooseberry too. Bright and grassy, with just enough bite.”
Juanita frowned. “You can actually taste all that?” She loved Laura’s wine—she, in fact, could no longer stand white zin thanks to her influence—but she had never tasted the tastes that Laura insisted were there. Not even once.
Laura tilted her head. “Well ... sometimes.”
Juanita leaned forward. “What do you mean sometimes?”
Laura smiled slyly. “When we hit a little Purple Tokalicious at night, I can taste every molecule in the stuff.”
That was the first time a Kingsley had openly admitted marijuana use in front of the Ramirez adults. Not that it shocked them—it was just official confirmation of something they had always assumed to be true.
Jose chuckled, lifting his beer. “I haven’t smoked since I lived in Mexico. Makes you too lazy.”
“That’s why we don’t do it during the day,” Laura said matter-of-factly.
Jake raised his bottle in agreement. “We’re living in the golden age of designer ganja right now. It’s a good time to be alive.”
Juanita tapped her glass thoughtfully. “I would like to try this American herba sometime.”
Jake grinned. “Maybe you two spend the night one of these Saturdays. The kids would love a sleepover, and the adults can indulge a little.”
Jose nodded slowly, smiling at the thought. “I like that idea.”
Jake tipped his bottle toward Jose. “How about a cigar on the deck?”
Jose’s eyes brightened. “Sí, I am up for that.”
Jake turned toward the couch. “C? You want one?”
Jose and Juanita both laughed, assuming it was a joke—until Celia answered evenly, “Not now. I’ll stay in here and watch our future Seven Summits conqueror to make sure he doesn’t bust his little booty.”
“Boo-tee!” Cap crowed from the top of the entertainment center, clutching his sippy cup like a trophy. “Boo-tee! Boo-tee! Boo-tee!”
Jake shook his head with weary pride and opened the humidor. He pulled two Montecristos, clipped them with practiced ease, and gestured Jose toward the sliding glass door.
Juanita and Laura carried their glasses of Sauvignon Blanc back to the couch and sat with Celia.
“Is it okay if I go to my room for a few minutes?” Yami asked politely.
“Of course,” Laura said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Yami said quickly. “I just need to ... to ... step in there for a few minutes.
They were still puzzling through this when Kira announced at full volume, “She needs to poop!”
Yami actually managed to blush despite her dark skin tone. She slunk away without a word, vanishing down the hall like she’d been mortally wounded.
“It never occurred to me that Yami poops,” Laura said.
“Me either,” Celia replied. “Still can’t picture it.”
The three women sat with their glasses, the Sauvignon Blanc catching the afternoon light. For a moment they were quiet, listening to the kids shouting over Ratchet & Clank and Cap still chanting “boo-tee” from his perch.
Juanita took a sip, then gave them both a searching look. “Can I ask you something? Something ... personal?”
Laura smiled. “Of course.”
Juanita hesitated just long enough to be polite. “How does it work? Living as three? Sharing the same man, the same house? You seem happy—very happy. But I’m Catholic. Where I come from...” She let the sentence trail away with a small shrug.
Celia set her glass down. “We get that question a lot—usually not so kindly.”
Laura leaned in, her tone gentle. “But you’re family, Juanita. You can ask.”
Juanita swirled her glass, eyes moving from Laura to Celia. “It just seems ... impossible, almost. Two people already find it hard to live together without fighting, without pulling apart. But three? And you make it look easy.”
Celia smiled faintly. “From me and Teach’s point of view, it’s actually quite nice. We really get the better end of the deal.”
Juanita tilted her head. “How so?”
“There are two of us and one of him,” Celia said. “We outnumber him. It’s much easier to keep a man in line when two women are united to do it. Not that Jake is someone who needs to be kept in line,” she added quickly, “but that same marital energy that gives the woman her edge is doubled here. There are two of us to convince Jake to do something. But he has to convince both of us.”
Laura laughed softly. “It’s true. He’s outvoted more often than you’d think. But it works because we trust each other, and because we both trust him. If even one of those things weren’t true, it would fall apart.”
Juanita considered that for a moment, her expression open but thoughtful. “So it’s not three people against each other. It’s two women working together.”
“Kind of,” Celia said after a moment’s thought.
Juanita raised her brows. “And there’s really no jealousy?”
Laura shook her head. “None. People on the outside assume there has to be, but it doesn’t exist here. It isn’t something we manage or suppress—it just isn’t part of our life.”
Juanita looked puzzled. “But how can that be? Every couple I know struggles with jealousy at some point.”
“It’s because of love,” Laura said simply. “C and I love each other as much as we love Jake. It isn’t a triangle with him in the middle and the two of us orbiting around. It’s three people bound together. If Jake spends time with C, I’m happy, because I love her and want her happy. If he spends time with me, she feels the same way. The love doesn’t divide—it multiplies.”
Celia nodded. “And because we trust each other completely, jealousy has nowhere to grow. It’s not about competition. It’s about unity.”
Laura tipped her glass toward Celia. “We share the same goals, the same family, the same life. That’s what makes it work.”
Juanita exhaled, as if letting go of a long-held doubt. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is—for us,” Celia said.
Juanita smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s why you all seem so ... peaceful together. Most couples I know fight over little things until the little things become big things.”
Laura chuckled. “We fight less than most. Having three people evens things out. If one of us is upset, the other two balance it. It’s harder for things to spiral out of control when there’s always another voice to calm the room.”
Juanita took another sip of wine, her eyes warm. “Strange as it still seems to me, I believe you. You’re happy. Anyone can see it.”
Celia and Laura exchanged a smile, quiet but certain.
Juanita tipped her glass back and took a longer swallow than before. Laura reached for the bottle and topped her off without being asked.
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then shook her head quickly. “How does ... no, forget it.” She waved a hand, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t say anything.”
Celia’s eyes narrowed just a touch, her voice soft. “You’re talking about ... you know?”
Juanita flushed slightly. “I was. But forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Laura tilted her head. “So you don’t want to know, then?”
Juanita groaned and pressed her palms together like she was praying for rescue. “Of course I want to know. But I shouldn’t have asked. I’m not a gossip.” She met their eyes earnestly. “I’m just curious—as a woman who can’t fathom knowingly sharing my man with another woman.”
Celia and Laura exchanged another look, this one a little more conspiratorial than before.
“All right,” Laura said. “If you really want to know, we’ll tell you.”
Juanita blinked, surprised at their readiness. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Celia said. “It’s not a secret. People imagine something twisted and unstable, but for us, it’s steady. Without both of us being into each other as well as Jake, this would collapse in a week. With that piece in place, though? It’s like a steel-framed building sunk into bedrock. Solid.”
Juanita shifted in her seat, a little uncomfortable, but she didn’t look away. She had no interest in women herself—never had—but as they spoke her mind betrayed her, sketching out pictures anyway. It was like listening to gossip from another world, one she couldn’t live in but couldn’t stop peeking at.
“It helps that all three of us really enjoy sex,” Laura added matter-of-factly.
Juanita nearly sputtered into her wine. “So how do you even ... decide? Who is with who? What you’re doing?”
“There’s no formal process,” Celia said with a shrug. “If someone wants something, and the setting’s right, we do it. Sometimes all three of us. Sometimes two while the other one isn’t in the mood.”
“Even if you’re all in bed together?” Juanita asked, her voice rising despite herself.
“That happens pretty often, actually,” Laura admitted.
Juanita’s eyes widened. “So the other person just ... lays there while the two of you are—”
“Sometimes,” Laura said.
Celia laughed lightly. “I’ve read my Kindle more than once while Lala and Rev were going at it next to me. It’s like reading on the train. Noisier, though. Bumpier too.”
Juanita pressed a hand to her cheek, half in shock, half in fascination.
Celia sipped her wine, letting the conversation roll without adding her own footnote: that more than half the time, the “non-participant” didn’t stay that way for long. The sights, the sounds, the smells—it was a trap. Jake was particularly vulnerable, Laura nearly as much. Celia herself, not so much. If she’d decided she wasn’t in the mood, she stayed there. But if she’d been walking the fence, more often than not they nailed her.
Juanita cleared her throat delicately. “So ... are there times when everyone wants to do it at the same time?”
Laura smiled. “That’s actually the most common thing.”
Juanita blinked. “And how do you handle that situation?”
“We just do it,” Laura said simply.
“All three of you?”
“Yes,” Celia answered.
“At the same time?”
“At the same time,” Laura confirmed.
Juanita crossed herself, eyes wide. “Madre de Dios.”
She did not ask for any further detail beyond this. The knowledge that they were all three doing it— ¡Al mismo tiempo!—was quite enough. As such, she did not get to learn the fine details. Like how their favorite sequence of routine marital events involved Jake fucking Celia (not ‘making love’ to her—they didn’t really make love in Kingsley-land, they fucked) until he came inside of her and then Laura licking it out of her swollen, usually still-twitching pussy while Jake licked and sucked Celia’s nipples until he was hard again and then fucked Lala from behind. Nor did she find out that sometimes, after they all soaked in the hot tub on those nice spring and autumn nights, he’d set them up on the edge of the hot tub side by side and tongue their little buttholes out for them while they tongue kissed and fondled each other.
This was probably for the best. Just the mere acknowledgement of the broad details sufficiently blew Juanita’s mind. The fine details might very well have killed her.
At 3:55 sharp, Jake and Jose came back inside, both of them smelling of Cuban cigars and beer. Not in a bad way—never in a bad way. In the manly way that said we just settled the world’s problems out on the deck and now we’re ready for salsa.
Jake clapped his hands together. “All right. Time to start the rumble. Snooty, classically trained gringo chef against Mexican Mama, the modern-day manifestation of maternal oral recipe knowledge stretching back to at least a time when where we’re sitting right now was part of Mexico.”
He paused, then added solemnly, “And on behalf of all white-guilt sufferers nationwide, I would like to formally apologize for my ancestors jacking a good part of your country from you back then.”
Juanita lifted her chin with dignity. “Apology accepted. And I am grateful the gringos didn’t know about the oil then, or they would’ve taken all of it.”
Jake grinned. “Not all. We would’ve left you the cities to deal with. We don’t want to do that shit.”
Jose took a thoughtful pull of his beer. “That is part of the white man’s burden.”
The room broke into laughter, and with that the stage was set.
Everyone filed into the entertainment room, crowding around the snack table. It had been cleared for the contest, a ceremonial stainless steel bowl in the center holding a full bag’s worth of Mission tortilla chips.
“Plain old commercial chips,” Westin said, wagging a finger. “No home recipes, no secret weapons.”
Juanita lifted her chin. “I offered to make homemade. So did you. But neither of us would trust the other’s chips. Better this way.”
“Boring,” Westin muttered.
“Fair,” Juanita countered.
Everyone was encouraged to try one—and no more than one—chip to verify neutral status. Each person solemnly crunched, nodded, and declared them neutral.
“That’s settled, then,” Jake said.
The combatants brought out their salsas in their original containers. No blind test was possible—anyone with eyes could tell them apart.
Juanita’s salsa was not a pretty salsa. It was dark, irregular, chunky in a way that spoke of old knives and older traditions. The onions and tomatoes didn’t match. Cilantro floated in uneven strands.
Westin’s, on the other hand, looked like something out of Bon Appétit. A crisp, clear red, every tomato cube the same size, every onion cut into perfect symmetry, the cilantro uniformly minced. It gleamed in the bowl like it had been staged for photography.
“Presentation,” Jake announced. “Goes to the chef.”
“It will not be judged on looks,” Juanita declared firmly.
“Damn right,” Jose said.
Bets were placed—lighthearted, but real enough. A few fives, a ten from Sean, and a single twenty from Liz. Among the Kingsley side of the ledger, Westin was the favorite. Among the Ramirez contingent, Juanita was untouchable.
Caydee was ushered to the judge’s seat at the head of the table. She looked solemn, a little awed by the responsibility. For this one moment in her young life, she carried the honor of families and cultures alike.
Her drink was set beside her: a plain glass of milk, and only that. Even this had been debated at length, sometimes heatedly, until all parties agreed milk was acceptable for palate-cleansing.
Rules were reviewed. Caydee must cleanse before the first bite, and between bites. She must use similar strips of chip for each sample. She must scoop approximately the same amount of salsa from each bowl.
A secondary discussion broke out about which salsa should be tasted first.
“There’s an advantage to going first,” Westin argued.
“Disadvantage,” Juanita shot back. “The last taste lingers.”
The room joined in—Laura pointing out that a strong flavor at the start could overwhelm the second, Celia countering that the last bite always had the edge in memory. Liz suggested drawing straws, Jose demanded a coin toss, Sean proposed alphabetical order, and by the time Cap shouted “Boo-tee!” from the top of the entertainment center, the debate was still raging.
Finally, Caydee raised her hand. “I’ll decide the order,” she said gravely.
And everyone quieted, because this was her moment.
Caydee folded her hands on the table, thinking. Then she announced, “I’ll use the ancient tradition of eeny-meeny-miny-moe to decide which salsa goes first.”
Westin immediately raised a hand. “Hold on. We need a coin toss to assign which salsa is eeny. Otherwise, it’s not truly random. It is theoretically possible—not that she would actually do it—for someone to pre-run the sequence and guarantee a winner.”
Caydee’s eyes widened with indignation. “I didn’t pre-run no freaking sequence! I don’t even know what that means!”
That seemed to settle it. Westin lowered his hand and muttered, “All right. I withdraw my objection.”
Satisfied, Caydee began the chant, tapping each bowl in turn. She used tiger as the catch word—the sanitized version, since she had no idea there’d been another, uglier word in the days when her dad had first learned this game at recess in 1965. When the final syllable landed, it was Juanita’s bowl that her finger was touching.
“So,” Jake said, spreading his hands. “Juanita goes first, Westin second. Everyone happy with the fairness and randomness of this time-honored decision process?”
There were nods around the room. Westin grumbled something inaudible but made no formal complaint.
Meanwhile, Sean had taken up position behind Westin, working his shoulders like a corner man between rounds. “Stay loose, champ,” he told him. “You got this. Remember your training.”
Caydee solemnly lifted her glass of milk and took a long swallow.
Juanita leaned forward. “Is it truly clean?”
“I don’t even know what a palate is, ” Caydee shot back. “Let alone how to know if it’s clean.”
Westin began to lecture, gesturing toward his own tongue. “It’s the specialized nerve endings in the taste buds that—”
“Can I just taste the salsas now?” Caydee cut him off. “I haven’t had a thing since lunch because I’ve been prepping for this.”
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