Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 34: Break On Through
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 34: Break On Through - 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
Indian Springs, Nevada
March 25, 2005
Owen had already decided he wasn’t drinking before it even occurred to him that anyone else might be.
There hadn’t been an announcement. No rule had been spoken aloud in his presence. It was just something he understood the way you understood gravity or fire. This was a concert. A real concert. And people who were responsible during real concerts didn’t get high or drunk even if it was still hours from showtime.
He knew—because he’d been told—that Intemperance had a rule about intoxicants. Four hours to showtime, hard stop. No weed. No booze. No shrooms. You’d better check with Jake before you even took a Sudafed pill or a couple of Benadryl. Nothing that blurred reaction time or judgment. In practice, he’d learned, it was closer to eight hours. They just ... stopped. As a group. Casually. Without discussion. Like professionals.
Owen took that as proof that this was serious business. He stayed sober not because anyone told him to—but because he was on duty.
He was the studio runner. Something might need running.
He was Jake’s guitar tech. Something might need teching.
And he was the breaker.
That last one mattered most.
Band City felt tense to him—not loud or chaotic, just poised. People moved with intention. There was a strong sense of anticipation in the air. Conversations were quieter than he expected, voices clipped, efficient. There was laughter, yes—but it didn’t spill. It stayed contained, like everyone was holding a breath without consciously meaning to.
Owen had never been part of a concert before. He had never even attended one before and now he was part of the crew. Nothing here felt familiar—every sight and sound was new, filed away in his brain with little mental tags that read remember this, remember this too.
Which meant he relied heavily on stories.
And the biggest story—the one that loomed over everything—was the melee.
It had happened at the last Tsunami Sound Festival Mr. Jake played—back before the Intemperance reunion. Before Owen’s time. He’d only been thirteen. But he’d heard it enough that it felt like history you were expected to know. Mr. Jake and Mr. Nerdly told it lightly, like a funny thing that happened once. A misunderstanding. A ‘brief fisticuffs’ as Mr. Nerdly put it.
Roadies told it differently. They spoke of it the way early Christians spoke of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ—full of mythology and awe at things they did not actually witness themselves but had only been told about third and fourth hand.
Owen had spoken to some of them—guys who hadn’t been there, but who knew exactly how it had gone down because they had been told by those who came before them. The basic story was this: The Nerdlys had tried to help Pantera’s crew during their soundcheck. Pantera themselves did not attend their own sound check. Tempers flared. Someone made an antisemitic remark about Mrs. Nerdly. Fists were thrown. A full blown melee erupted. Several of Pantera’s crew went to the hospital—one of them still, to this day, on life support. And Mr. Jake—according to legend—played the entire second night with a broken hand after punching one of Pantera’s crew and nearly killing a man. And then he got arrested after but his connections were able to spring him. But only after he had to fight some asshole in the jail with only one hand. And he won that fight too.
To Owen, that didn’t sound like a fluke.
It sounded inevitable.
In his mind, concerts were places where emotions ran hot, egos collided, and violence lurked just under the surface—especially when powerful men and loud machines were involved. If a melee had happened before, then it would probably happen again. And if it could happen more than once, it probably happened every time.
Maybe not always with Pantera. Maybe not always with fists. But something.
Which meant his role as breaker mattered.
The gates weren’t open yet, but SVIP access had already begun. That was his current task. Jake had told him plainly—no drama, no buildup, no implication that this was the main quest for the Holy Grail and Jimmy Hoffa: “Go get Grace, Gina, and Barb. Bring ‘em back to Band City.”
Owen headed for the SVIP corridor, all-access pass visible, posture alert.
The space was long and narrow, shaded but already filling, bodies trickling in from multiple directions. He registered it all automatically—sightlines, bottlenecks, places where people would cluster once it got crowded.
He found his targets sitting in seats in the front row.
Grace and Gina sat close together, easy in each other’s space, Bloody Marys in hand. Barb sat with them, equally equipped, already mid-thought.
“All I’m saying,” Barb was declaring, “is that fully two percent of the human experience is beautiful.”
Grace frowned. “Only two percent?”
“Yes,” Barb said, pleased. “Exactly two. Any more than that and it stops being believable.”
Gina leaned in, genuinely curious. “Why?”
“Suspension of disbelief,” Barb said. “Humans can’t emotionally process a higher percentage without rejecting the whole fuckin’ premise entirely.”
“That’s ... bleak,” Grace said.
Barb beamed. “Thank you.”
Owen approached. “Hey—Jake sent me. He wants me to bring you all to Band City to hang out.”
Grace smiled. “How cool!”
“Just be aware,” Owen warned, “that a melee could break out at any moment. When that happens, just stay back and let those of us in the crew handle it.”
“Fuck that,” said Barb. “If a melee breaks out I’m in like Flynn. It’s the code.”
“Do you really think that will happen?” asked Grace.
“It’s pretty much inevitable at some point,” Owen said.
Barb took a long drink, then looked at Grace and Gina with sudden focus. “Before we go,” she said, “I should clarify my sexual boundaries.”
Grace froze. Gina’s mouth twitched. “Uh ... okay?” Grace said slowly. No one had asked her about her sexual boundaries or given any indication that they should be clarified.
“I am perfectly happy engaging sexually with a lesbian couple,” Barb told them calmly, “but there has to be at least one sausage involved.”
Grace stared. “I’m sorry—what?”
“If it’s just women,” Barb said, “it’s gay. And that’s not my thing. It needs at least one man for balance.”
Gina burst out laughing.
Owen, to his own surprise, understood exactly what Barb meant.
He nodded once. “Structural requirement.”
Barb pointed at him with satisfaction. “See? GM here gets it.”
Grace rubbed her face. “I don’t know how to process this.”
“You don’t have to,” Barb said kindly. “Just be aware.”
Owen gestured toward the exit. “Shall we head back?”
All three of the ladies had green access passes hanging around their necks. They were special passes. Only Intemperance got to invite people into Band City. Perks of being the headliner. They moved easily once the passes were shown, security barely glancing at them. Owen led, eyes scanning automatically, already thinking in terms of containment and response.
Behind them, the SVIP continued to fill.
Ahead of them, Band City waited—quiet, deliberate, charged.
And Owen stayed sober, alert, and ready, convinced that somewhere in the day ahead, something was going to break—because according to every story he’d ever heard, that’s what concerts did.
He led Grace and Gina through Band City, gravel crunching underfoot, the fifth wheels laid out in orderly rows like a temporary town built by people who understood hierarchy and timing. Air conditioners hummed steadily. The air smelled like dust, hot plastic, and marijuana smoke drifting from somewhere upwind.
They reached Intemperance’s rigs and Owen slowed without meaning to, eyes already moving.
Nothing was happening.
No doors opening. No voices. No music bleeding out. Curtains drawn tight. The kind of stillness that suggested people were banking energy, not absent.
Most of the activity was outside.
Lawn chairs sat beneath the awning in a loose semicircle, angled toward each other rather than the trailers. Mr. Jake was near the center, relaxed, legs stretched out, a mixed drink in his hand—mostly ice, clear liquor melting into it slowly. Charlie sat close, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, clearly halfway through a thought he’d been polishing for a while.
“I’m just saying,” Charlie was saying, “ever since they wrote that Leviticus shit, it’s been open season on my people.”
Jake nodded mildly. “That was a long time ago.”
“It’s bullshit,” Charlie said. “What the fuck does the world have against gay men anyway?”
Jake took a sip, considering. “Fear. Projection. Uncanny sense of fashion. Good haircuts.”
Charlie waved that away. “Lesbians get a free pass.”
“For some people,” Jake said.
“For most people,” Charlie insisted. “Because it’s hot to watch lesbians. But nobody wants to watch gay men getting it on. Not even straight women. Only other gay men want to see that. Is that fair?”
Jake shrugged. “No.”
Charlie looked at him pointedly. “That’s all you have to say? No?”
“It’s a fundamental unfairness in modern and historical society,” Jake added.
“Thank you,” Charlie said.
“I don’t have a solution.”
Charlie slumped back. “Figures.”
Jake’s eyes shifted then and landed on Owen and the women. His expression changed immediately, easy and open. He lifted his glass. “Hey. There they are.”
Grace smiled. Gina squeezed her hand.
Jake gestured loosely toward the trailers. “Just so you know—Matt, Kim, and Coop are passed out in the other rig. Laura and C are crashed on the main bed here. Nerdly and Sharon are down at the sound board making a nuisance of themselves.”
Owen nodded, filing it away. That tracked. Conservation. Professionals.
“How was the fancy-ass circus show?” Jake asked.
“It was amazing,” Grace said.
“Seriously incredible,” Gina added. “Thank you again for getting us the tickets.”
Jake waved that off. “If I can’t get my niece and her old lady good seats, I’m not negotiating right.”
Owen lingered a moment longer, scanning out of habit—nothing raised, nothing sharp—then settled into stillness, remaining upright while everyone else sat.
Task complete. Vigilance ongoing.
According to every story he’d ever heard, this was exactly the point in the day where something eventually went wrong. Was it the melee he was convinced was inevitable? Or was it something else?
Beyond the fencing, sound began to accumulate—first a suggestion, then weight. Voices. Thousands of them. A low, collective murmur that thickened the air the way pressure did before weather changed.
Owen tilted his head. “They’re letting people in.”
Jake nodded. “VIP first.”
“That’s already a lot of noise.”
“General admission’s about seventy-five percent of sales,” Jake said. “That’s when it really fills.”
Owen frowned. “Will everyone come inside now?”
Jake shook his head. “You won’t see a full house until The Offspring plays. The GA people show up early to stake territory. VIP and reserved folks don’t bother until the band they actually give a shit about is about to play.”
Owen considered that. “If I paid a hundred and thirty-five dollars for a ticket, I’d be watching everything.”
Jake smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
Barb leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out, Bloody Mary balanced on her thigh. “What about the mosh pit?”
Jake’s mouth tightened slightly. “Officially discouraged.”
“Why?” Barb asked.
“People got hurt in previous years,” Jake said. “People got sexually assaulted. Music Alive doesn’t allow sanctioned pits anymore.”
“Unofficial ones?” Barb said.
“They happen,” Jake said. “Unregulated.”
Barb’s eyes brightened. “Do the naked people gravitate toward the mosh pits?”
“There tend to be more of them there,” Jake said. “But you’ll find naked people everywhere.”
Barb sighed. “Fuck. I should’ve brought binoculars.” She paused, then added, “And a camera.”
Jake snorted. “You sound like Drew.”
Barb’s head snapped around. “That paparazzi hemorrhoid you’ve got stashed at The Campus? Wasn’t he supposed to be shooting today?”
“He was,” Jake said. “Watcher’s goons chasing him around killed that plan.”
“Shame,” Barb said. “He would’ve fuckin’ loved it.”
“He’d have spent the whole day shooting tits,” Jake said. “That’s his nature. He’s a voyeur.”
Barb leaned forward like a prosecutor smelling blood.
“Voyeur?” she said. “That motherfucker doesn’t look—he consumes. He doesn’t want to fuck anyone, touch anyone, or even be touched. He wants to stare at strangers like he’s jerking off through a zoom lens while telling himself it’s journalism.”
Jake opened his mouth.
Barb kept going.
“That guy would fuck a ghost through a keyhole if it meant he didn’t have to talk afterward. He wants proximity without participation. He wants to gape at intimacy like it’s a nature documentary and then go home and pretend he’s lived a life.” She gestured toward the venue. “You put him in there and he wouldn’t take one goddamn picture of the band, or the crowd as a whole. He’d be crouched somewhere cataloging nipples like they’re fucking Pokémon.”
Jake lifted his glass slightly. “I can’t say I disagree with you.”
“Fuckin’ A right,” Barb declared. “That’s his spiritual calling, that’s his true north. Not truth. Not art. Just tits and pussies, framed, isolated, decontextualized—click, click, click—while his soul crawls around behind his eyes like a dying spider. He’s not just a voyeur,” she concluded. “He’s a pathological fuckin’ voyeur.”
Grace stared. “Jesus.”
Gina was confused. “But ... weren’t you just saying that you wish you had a camera so you could take pictures of naked people too?”
Uh oh, Owen thought. She just called Barb a hypocrite! This was not going to end well for Gina.
But, to his surprise, Barb just took it in stride. “That’s different,” she said. “I want to do it because I like to look at naked people, particularly if they have nice tits or a big fuckin’ dick. That’s just my natural inclination and they’re out here displaying their shit in public. I am naturally inclined as a fully sexual woman who has actually fucked people, including a woman or two as long as a man was involved as well. Drew is a fuckin’ pervert. That’s the difference.”
“I see,” Gina said slowly.
Owen stood under the awning, sober, alert, listening to the sound beyond the fence as it continued to swell—voices layering, growing denser, turning into something alive.
He said nothing.
He just stayed ready, convinced—absolutely convinced—that somewhere in the day ahead something was going to break.
And he was right, because something did. It happened right in front of them when it happened. No warning. No buildup anyone could see.
Charlie just stopped talking mid-sentence.
Owen noticed it because the rhythm broke—Charlie’s usual twitchy energy stalling out like an engine starved of fuel. His hands dropped to his thighs. His shoulders hunched. Sweat bloomed suddenly along his temples, darkening his hairline in seconds.
Then the trembling started.
It wasn’t subtle. His legs jittered. His hands clenched and unclenched. A low sound worked its way out of his throat—not a word, not quite a scream. More like a moan that had nowhere to go.
“Charlie?” Jake asked, already turning toward him. “You all right, man?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
Instead, he let out a strangled noise, yanked his shirt up over his head, and wrapped it around his face like he was trying to smother his own thoughts. Then he bolted.
Straight toward the SVIP corridor.
Screaming.
Not words—just sound. Raw, panicked, unfiltered.
Grace shot to her feet. Gina grabbed her arm. Barb stared, stunned to silence for once, Bloody Mary forgotten in her hand.
Barb’s eyes were wide. She was clearly startled. Generally unflappable, she had just been flapped. “What in the fuckin name of the Virgin Mary’s ultra-absorbent maxi-pad was that about?”
Owen just stood there. Open-mouthed. His brain caught up a half second late.
Oh. This is that thing. The Switch. They’ve only seen him actually do it once before.
Jake didn’t move. He didn’t shout. He didn’t chase. He didn’t even stand up.
He just sighed and shook his head, rubbing his face with one hand like a man who had just watched a tire blow out at the worst possible moment.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “Not today.”
Grace turned on him. “What—what just happened?”
Jake glanced toward the path Charlie had taken, then back at them. “That,” he said, “is Charlie switching.”
“Switching what?” Gina asked.
“Modes,” Jake said. “Sexuality. Personality. Politics. The whole fuckin’ package.”
Owen swallowed.
Jake leaned back in his chair, already resigned. “We call him Dick-Smoker Charlie when he’s gay. Clambake Charlie when he’s straight.”
Grace blinked. “You’re joking.”
“I really wish I were,” Jake said. “Last time this happened, he came back full hetero and cost us three hours of rehearsal time.”
“How,” Gina demanded, “does someone just ... change like that?”
Jake shrugged. “Best guess? Charlie’s a solid three on the Kinsey scale. Right down the middle. Bisexual as hell.” He spread his hands. “But his brain can’t handle that. It needs certainty. So it latches onto the extremes.”
Owen nodded slowly. This made an alarming amount of sense.
“So when he flips,” Jake went on, “he doesn’t just like women. He becomes that guy. The right wing uncle you don’t want at Thanksgiving. And when he flips back, he doesn’t just like men—he becomes ... well ... Charlie, the militant gay crusader who advocates for proper dick sucking to be taught in public schools.”
Grace shook her head. “That’s insane.”
“Welcome to the band,” Jake said. “We don’t know what the trigger is. Stress, maybe. Timing’s always shit.” He exhaled through his nose. “And right now is the worst possible time for him to pull this.”
“Why?” Gina asked.
Jake looked at her, then at Grace. “Because Clambake Charlie is harder to deal with. He’s creepier. He’s louder. He picks fights about shit that doesn’t matter. And before the first show of TSF, that’s just ... inconvenient.”
Owen filed that away too.
Not dangerous. Not catastrophic.
Inconvenient.
He glanced toward the SVIP path, half-expecting Charlie to come barreling back already transformed.
Instead, there was just the growing murmur of the crowd beyond the fence, swelling steadily as the day moved forward.
Owen stood there, heart hammering, realizing that while he knew both Charlies well, he’d never actually seen the moment one became the other. Until now, it had only existed as a story the band told—something even they had only watched happen once. Seeing it unfold in real time stripped the abstraction away and left him uncomfortably aware that this job involved more than vigilance and logistics. It involved people coming apart.
Charlie wasn’t broken. He was complicated.
And today, apparently, that complication had decided to make an appearance.
Jake watched the path Charlie had disappeared down for a long moment, then leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.
“I was gonna catch some sleep,” he said. “But now I need to see what the fuck we’re dealing with on the Charlie front.”
Barb squinted at him. “Can’t you just ... tell him to go back to dick-smoking?”
Jake snorted despite himself. “Doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?” she pressed. “You’re the boss.”
Jake shook his head. “That’d be like telling the tide not to come in. Or telling Matt not to do cocaine after the show. Or telling Kim not to recruit chicks in the crowd to do lesbian porn for her.”
Barb considered this. “Have you ever actually tried?”
Jake paused. There it was—a beat too long. “No,” he admitted. “We haven’t.”
Barb’s mouth twitched. “Well. That seems like a data gap.”
Grace glanced between them. “You’re saying no one’s ever just ... ordered him back?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “We usually just ride it out.”
Barb straightened a little in her chair. “Maybe you should take a crack at it.”
Jake exhaled. “Anything’s possible,” he said, without much conviction.
That was when Charlie came wandering back.
He wasn’t screaming anymore. He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t trembling.
He was calm.
His shirt was tied around his head like a makeshift keffiyeh, the knot sagging over one ear, the look completed by the fact that he was sipping leisurely from a giant plastic cup of beer like he’d just finished a trek through the desert—which he actually just had.
Jake looked up at him. “Where’d you go, Charlie?”
Charlie stopped under the awning, blinking in the shade. “SVIP,” he said easily. “Just cruisin’. Checkin’ out all the poon-tang.”
Grace’s eyebrows tried to leave her face.
Gina’s mouth fell open.
Owen felt something inside him click into place.
“Wow,” Barb murmured. “This is some freaky shit.”
Charlie took another sip. “Lot of hot bitches out there today. I’m thinkin’ I’ll nail at least two tonight.”
Jake closed his eyes and sighed. Just a long, tired exhale. “Well,” he said, opening them again, “that answers that.”
Clambake Charlie confirmed.
Owen stood there, heart thumping, watching the man in front of him who was somehow the same person he’d seen five minutes earlier and not that person at all—shirtless panic replaced by casual confidence, terror replaced by entitlement.
He finally understood why they didn’t want this version right now.
Not because it was dangerous.
Because it was exhausting.
And the day hadn’t even really started yet.
Tif and Jim wandered over from the direction of the SVIP path, moving at an unhurried pace like they’d just come back from a nature walk instead of a controlled breach of festival sanity.
Tif looked delighted. Jim looked ... tired.
Owen saw them immediately. He’d paired Jim with her on purpose—not as a handler exactly, but as ballast. Tif had an enthusiasm for everything, and in a place like this, enthusiasm needed a counterweight.
“There are so many naked people,” Tif announced before anyone asked. “Like, not even shy naked. Confident naked. Strategic naked.”
Jake glanced up. “Strategic naked?”
“Like they planned it,” Tif said. “Going naked is the ultimate slut look. Shoes are the only accessories at that point. And if you can pull off naked and cute shoes at the same time? That’s ... inspiring.”
Barb nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”
Tif continued, warming to the subject. “But men don’t really look that good naked unless they’re ready for action.”
Jake tilted his head. “We don’t?”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “Your dicks just look like shriveled little tools hanging in the garage waiting for someone to use them.”
Jake blinked, then laughed. “That is a damn good analogy.”
Tif beamed. “Thanks. But does it describe naked soft dicks accurately?”
Jake nodded without hesitation. “It really does.”
“Good,” she said, satisfied. “I was worried I was being unclear.”
Jim cleared his throat. “Walking around with Tif got me more threesome offers than I’ve had in my entire life.”
Jake looked at him. “Yeah? Guys or girls?”
“Pretty equal,” Jim said. “And the guys all swear that gay men suck dick the best.”
Owen frowned faintly. He had heard this argument before and it was impossible for him to believe it. Nobody could suck dick better than Tif, who had spent fourteen years of her life doing so at least once every ten days.
“Westin and Sean swear that shit’s true,” Jake said. “They even offered to show me if Laura and C would allow it. I never asked though. It’s a road I’ll pay taxes to support, even if they want to fund a crossing guard, but not one I really want to travel on.”
Charlie snorted. “This whole discussion is fuckin’ bullshit. Men sucking each other’s dicks is fucking disgusting. It’s a sin! It’s a bunch of degenerate freaks pretending that’s sex.”
The air under the awning shifted.
Tif turned slowly toward him. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Clambake Charlie is back.”
She did not sound amused. She did not sound curious. She sounded annoyed.
Owen felt another quiet click inside his head as the pieces rearranged themselves yet again.
Jake rubbed his hands together once, like he was bracing for something mildly unpleasant but necessary.
“All right,” he said. “Barb suggested an experiment.”
Tif perked up. “Oooh. I like experiments. What kind?”
“The kind where I try to flip Charlie back,” Jake said. “Just for the next two days.”
Tif blinked. “Flip him ... back?”
“Back to Dick-Smoker Charlie,” Jake said. “Instead of ... this.”
Charlie scowled. “What the fuck are you all talking about? Who is Dick Smoker Charlie? You’re not talking about me, are you? Because I don’t smoke dicks. Not anymore.”
Jim shifted his weight. “Are you sure you want to do this, Jake? I don’t know if this is going to be great for his mental health.”
Barb rolled her eyes so hard Owen was surprised they didn’t make a sound. “What fuckin’ mental health?”
Charlie straightened. “Hey. No. You don’t get to talk around me like I’m not here. What is this shit about?”
Jake held up a hand. “Charlie. Listen. We need Dick-Smoker Charlie back. Just for the next two days. After the festival, you can be whoever you want.”
Charlie laughed sharply. “I am who I want. I was confused before. That’s all. Now I know.”
“Know what?” Jake asked.
“That sucking dicks is wrong,” Charlie said flatly. “It’s gross. It’s against nature. Unless it’s a hot chick doing it to a guy. That’s fine. That’s normal.”
Grace’s jaw tightened.
“And women together?” Charlie went on. “That’s fine too—as long as they’re hot. Otherwise it’s just sad.”
Jake tried again, patient but clearly grinding his teeth. “Charlie. I’m not asking you to believe anything different forever. I’m asking you to table the whole liking pussy thing for now. Two days. That’s it. You can suck dick for two more days, can’t you?”
Charlie shook his head. “No. I’m done pretending. I’m not going back to being confused just because it’s more convenient for you.”
“It’s not about convenience,” Jake said, although in truth, it was.
“It is,” Charlie shot back. “You just don’t like who I really am.”
“That’s not true,” Jake said. “We like you fine. We just—”
“—don’t like that I finally figured it out,” Charlie finished. “Fuck that shit. Dicks are off the table for me. Forever this time.”
Jake stared at him for a long moment.
Owen could see it—the calculation, the exhaustion, the realization that this was going nowhere.
Jake exhaled. “All right,” he said finally. “Then we’ll adapt. We’ve all been through this before.”
“Been through what before?” Charlie demanded.
Barb leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on Charlie like she was sighting down a rifle.
“Hey, boss man,” she said calmly, “do you mind if I take a crack at it?”
Jake didn’t hesitate long. He looked tired. Resigned. “Be gentle.”
Barb snorted. “Fuck that.”
She stood.
Charlie opened his mouth. “What are you—”
“Listen up, you confused fuckin’ worm,” Barb said, stepping into his space so fast Owen felt the air shift. “I’m only going to say this once, and you’re going to shut the fuck up long enough to hear it.”
Charlie recoiled half a step. “You don’t get to talk to me like—”
“Oh, I absolutely do,” Barb said. “Because right now you are a walking insult to one of the rarest gifts the universe hands out, and you’re too busy sniffing your own bullshit to notice.”
Charlie’s face flushed. “I know who I am.”
“No, you don’t,” Barb snapped. “You were given the precious, golden, once-in-a-generation gift of pure bisexuality—actual motherfuckin’ freedom—and you chose to spit on it.”
She leaned closer.
“Not just spit. You shit on it.”
Charlie shook his head. “I’m not confused. I’m finally clear.”
“Clear?” Barb laughed once, sharp and ugly. “You’re terrified. You got handed a whole fucking buffet and you’re crying because you can’t decide between steak and fish, so you flipped the table and declared religion.”
Jake winced. Grace went very still.