Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 4: In the Eyes of the Confessor
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 4: In the Eyes of the Confessor - 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
San Francisco, California
January 9, 2005
The historic San Franciso Chronicle building, in operation for more than eighty years now, was quiet, but not dead.
Sunday operations ran on a skeleton crew—just enough people to keep the wires ticking, the coffee hot, and the lights on in the parts of the newsroom that still mattered. There were no bustling hallways today. No last-minute editors shouting for copy. Just the soft murmur of keyboards, the occasional burst of printer noise, and the sound of rain—light, steady, unremarkable—beading against the broad fourth-floor window of her office.
Jen Collins sat alone at her desk, sipping dark roast out of a thick ceramic mug that read: Eat the Rich. (But only after foreplay.)
Her outfit was textbook Collins: dark jeans, steel-toe boots, and a plain black henley shirt under a corduroy jacket that looked like it had survived a protest or two. Her buzzcut was fresh. Her underarms were not. She didn’t wear makeup—never had. The only concession to femininity in the room was the faint smell of Kenzie’s shampoo still lingering on her skin from yesterday’s couch escapade.
By Chronicle-queer standards, her look was practically vanilla. The hardcore dykes on staff leaned into body art: chains of interlocked Venus symbols tattooed around their arms, stretched lobes with rainbow tunnels, eyebrow rings, even branded biceps. Jen admired the commitment—she was all for self-expression—but it wasn’t for her. She was fifty, for one thing, and too old for that kind of shit. And honestly? It looked like it hurt like hell.
On her desk: a legal pad, her phone, and two sharpened pencils. No laptop. No tape recorder. Not yet. For now, she was just waiting.
The Kingsleys would be here soon.
She stared out at the slate-colored sky above downtown San Francisco, the outlines of Nob Hill blurred in fog, the rain tapping its steady code against the window.
What the hell was this story going to be?
Jake Kingsley, rock god turned tabloid cautionary tale, was apparently ready to “tell the truth.” About what, exactly? That he wasn’t gay? That he was, but preferred a specific brand of dick sucking on the weekends? That the rumors were right and wrong at the same time?
Jen wasn’t sure what to expect.
They’d called her directly—Pauline first, then Jake himself. They’d chosen her for this. That either meant they respected her ... or they thought they could play her.
That’s what she couldn’t shake.
Was this an actual confession, or an op?
Because make no mistake—Jen Collins was no one’s PR firm. Her Editor-in-Chief, Gerald Nakamura, had made that very clear in their 9 AM Sunday phone call:
“We’re not going to be Jake fucking Kingsley’s publicist.”
“Of course not.”
“He’s a manipulator. You know that. Half the stories about him are true and the other half he planted himself.”
“I know.”
“If they’re trying to use you to push a narrative, I want you to smell it before it’s in your notes and cut if off at the fuckin’ knees.”
“I will.”
“We’re holding back the wire story for now. Everyone else ran it—L.A. Times, the Post, even the Guardian. But we went with the teaser instead. ‘Chronicle Exclusive: Jake Kingsley to Speak for the First Time.’ It buys us one day. That’s all.”
“That’s all I need.”
Now she sat in the hush of pre-interview anticipation, wondering which version of Jake Kingsley was about to walk through her door.
The scandalized rockstar with a taste for dick?
The master manipulator?
The picture-perfect husband with the polished PR game?
Or something entirely new?
The desk phone buzzed—internal line. Jen picked it up on the second ring.
“Collins.”
“This is the front desk,” said a flat male voice. “Just letting you know: the Kingsleys are here.”
“All right,” she said. “Send them—”
“All four of them,” the guard added.
Jen paused. “Four?”
“Yes, ma’am. Jake Kingsley, Laura Kingsley, Celia Valdez-Kingsley, and ... Cadence Kingsley.”
She blinked. “You mean the daughter?”
“Yes, ma’am. The child. Maybe seven or eight?”
Jen stared at the receiver for a second, her brain hitting a brief static burst. What the hell were they doing bringing their kid to something like this?
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Have someone bring them up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up and immediately grabbed another line, punching in the extension for the photo desk.
Three rings.
“Yeah?” came the voice—thick, slow, and unmistakably baked.
“Rick. Jen. The Kingsleys are on their way up.”
“All right,” he said, exhaling something that wasn’t air. “You want me now?”
“Not yet. I’ll call when I’m ready for photos. Don’t come up until I say so.”
“Got it.”
“I’m assuming you’re halfway to Narnia right now,” she said dryly.
“Nah, just chillin’. I’ll be good.”
She didn’t doubt him. Rick Vaughn had been with the Chronicle for twelve years, and no one gave less of a shit about office norms—as long as the shots were crisp, lit right, and told a story. The man once camped in a Civic Center parking garage for 36 hours to catch a state senator sneaking into his mistress’s apartment. High as a kite the whole time, and the resulting spread won a statewide journalism award. Jen didn’t care if he was stoned or sober. He delivered.
She hung up, sat back, and looked at the door again.
They’d brought the kid.
Why?
This wasn’t a publicity shoot or a family picnic. It was supposed to be a serious conversation about the most controversial scandal of the year—and they were walking in with a second-grader in tow?
The whole thing reeked of some kind of stunt.
She took a long sip of coffee, then set the mug down with deliberate care.
A soft knock at the door.
Jen stood and crossed the office in two strides, her boots silent against the industrial carpet. Through the frosted glass, she saw four blurred figures—three adults, one smaller.
She opened the door.
The Chronicle security guard gave her a polite nod. “Here they are,” he said. “I’ll be back downstairs.”
And then he was gone.
Jake Kingsley stood in front—taller than she expected, leaner than the camera ever caught. His hair was a little longer than the last promo cycle, and his shoes looked expensive but actually worn. Behind him, Laura Kingsley gave a faint smile—no makeup, no jewelry, all presence. Celia Valdez was pure burnished elegance, maroon coat draped open like it had been styled without trying. And just in front of her, holding Jake’s hand, was a redhead in a denim jacket and ladybug rain boots.
Cadence, she presumed.
Jake extended a hand. “Jen. Good to finally meet you.”
His voice was deep, but casual. West Coast. Easy drawl.
Jen shook it. “Likewise.”
Jake gestured to the others. “This is Laura. This is Celia. And this little one—”
“I’m Caydee,” the girl said brightly. “Cadence, actually. But only Mommy and See-Ya call me that when I’m in trouble.”
Jen raised an eyebrow. “See-Ya?”
“That’s me,” Celia said with a wink.
Caydee added, “It’s short for Celia, but it’s spelled S-E-E-dash-Y-A. It’s what I used to call her when I was a kid and it kinda became her name for me.”
Jen couldn’t help it—she smiled. Just a little. The kid was polished but uncoached. The kind of confident only found in children raised on adult conversations and zero bullshit.
Jake gestured toward the chairs. “We brought Caydee for a reason. She’s going to help corroborate the story we’re about to tell you.”
Jen arched a brow. “Your daughter is going to corroborate ... the story.”
“She’s a witness to the truth,” Laura said evenly. “She knows what our life looks like. She sees more than most.”
“She’s eight?” Jen guessed, still trying to parse the logic.
“I’m seven,” Caydee corrected. “I’ll be eight next December first.”
Jen blinked.
Caydee went on: “Me and Kelvin share a birthday, but he was born four years before me and thinks he’s going to marry me someday. Unless he turns out to be gay. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be gay or not yet. We’ll have to wait until he becomes a man to know that.”
There was a long pause.
Jake cleared his throat. “As you can see ... she’s observant and smarter than the average redheaded bear.”
“I can see that,” Jen agreed.
Jake softened his voice. “Look, I promise it’ll all make sense soon. But in the meantime, we’d like to speak with you privately first. Is there a place Caydee can hang out without being trafficked or recruited into Scientology?”
Jen exhaled. “There’s an executive lounge on the sixth floor. It’s basically a tricked-out break room—plush furniture, fridge, coffee machine, good snacks. Upper management and department heads only.”
Jake looked at Laura. Laura looked at Caydee. “Is it secure?” she asked.
Jen nodded. “Completely. Access is restricted. Guards have clearance but aren’t allowed inside unless there’s an emergency. I’ll have one escort her up, stay outside the door, and keep everyone else out.”
“That works,” Jake said.
Jen picked up her desk phone again and hit the security line. “Hey, this is Collins. I need a female guard to come escort a child—yes, child—to the sixth-floor executive lounge. She’s with the Kingsleys. Let her in, then post outside. No one goes in unless it’s me or one of the three adults currently in my office. Got it? Thanks.”
She hung up and turned back to the group. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Caydee, sensing opportunity, looked up. “Can I have a soda and a snack? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Jake answered without waiting for Jen to say something. He had a mischievous look in his eyes as he did so. “Eat or drink anything you find in there, Caydee-girl. Just no alcohol or coffee.”
That lit her up. “Yay.”
Jen didn’t comment. The lounge ran on a nebulous line item buried somewhere in corporate operations. No one tracked consumption, and as far as she was concerned, kids with good manners and a scandal-hardened expression could have all the Funyuns they wanted.
There was a bunch of healthy crap in there too—prepackaged kale salads, peeled hard-boiled eggs in sad little cups, fruit medleys, packages of raw almonds, alkaline water no one trusted. But the real inventory?
Twix bars. Funyuns. Doritos. Cheese-and-cracker packs with the red spreading stick. Ice cream sandwiches in the freezer chest. A full selection of name brand sodas in the fridge door. That was the good stuff, and everyone knew it.
A few minutes later, there was a knock.
Jen opened the door to find a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a Chronicle security jacket. Black boots, clean stance, no nonsense.
“This is Caydee,” Jen said. “Take her to the sixth-floor lounge. Let her in. Stay posted at the door. No one goes in except me or the three people in this room.”
The guard nodded once. “Understood.”
Caydee turned to Jake. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I can tell when people are safe. She’s safe.”
Jake smiled and kissed the top of her head. “See you soon.”
Laura and Celia gave their hugs, quiet and quick, and then the door closed.
Jen looked at the three adults still in the room.
“All right,” she said, heading back to her desk. “Let’s hear the version of this story no one’s selling yet.”
They settled into the chairs across from Jen’s desk—Jake in the middle, Laura and Celia on either side, like it had been choreographed. Jen didn’t miss the arrangement.
She retrieved her recorder from the top drawer, set it on the desk between them, and hit the button.
“This is Jen Collins,” she said, her voice suddenly all business. “San Francisco Chronicle. Sunday, January 9th, 2005, 1:17 PM. I’m sitting with Jake Kingsley, Laura Kingsley, and Celia Valdez-Kingsley. Also present, though not currently in the room, is Cadence Kingsley, daughter of—”
“Stop,” Jake said.
Jen looked up.
He raised a hand, calm but firm. “Stop the recorder.”
She held his gaze for a second, then pressed the button again. The small red light clicked off.
Jake leaned forward slightly. “Caydee is not officially here. You’re not recording her. You’re not quoting her. She’s not a source. Her name doesn’t appear in the story, not as an interviewee, not even in a casual reference. Understood?”
Jen glanced at Laura, then Celia, then back to Jake. “So what’s the point of bringing her?”
“That was my idea,” Laura said, voice level. “We brought her to convince you.”
“Convince me of what?”
“That we’re telling the truth,” Laura said. “Caydee won’t be used to support the story. She’s not part of the record. But she is part of you understanding that what we’re about to say is real. That we’re not playing you. That we’re not staging a damage-control stunt. That this isn’t spin.”
Jen leaned back in her chair, studying them. “You brought a child ... to authenticate a truth claim.”
Laura nodded once. “Exactly.”
Jen shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“You will,” Laura said.
Jen picked up the recorder again. No hesitation this time.
She held down the erase button, waited for the light to blink, and wiped the original intro clean. Then she pressed record.
“This is Jen Collins,” she began, voice back in professional register. “San Francisco Chronicle. Sunday, January 9th, 2005, 1:29 PM. I’m sitting with Jake Kingsley, Laura Kingsley, and Celia Valdez-Kingsley for an exclusive interview. Off the record discussions have already occurred to clarify participation parameters.”
She made sure the timer was still counting up on the machine, that the green light was still on, and then looked up. “Okay. I’m ready to hear what you have to say.”
Jake leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of her desk. His posture was relaxed, but his tone was deliberate.
“Are you familiar with the accusations printed in the last issue of The American Watcher?” he asked. “The one that hit newsstands January seventh?”
Jen gave him a dry look. “Of course.”
“Then you know what they said about me.”
She gave a small shrug. “I do. Allegedly, you’re living a lie. You’re possibly homosexual. And Laura and Celia are helping you keep it under wraps by pretending to be your romantic partners.”
Jake nodded. “Does that ring true to you?”
Jen hesitated.
Her instinct was to dodge. Say it didn’t matter what she believed, that she was just the conduit, not the judge. The old I’m just a reporter, not a columnist reflex. But somewhere beneath the layers of professional detachment and newsroom calluses, a sliver of journalistic integrity still twitched.
She didn’t dodge.
“There are a lot of pieces that don’t fit,” she said.
Jake waited.
“Capriccio Kingsley’s facial features, for instance,” Jen continued. “That child has Kingsley bone structure. Strongly. The kind you don’t fake with paperwork and fake husbands. And as far as I know ... you don’t have a brother.”
Jake nodded again. “I have many people in my life I consider brothers. But not by blood. And even my dad doesn’t look like me. I take after my mother.”
“That’s true,” Celia said. “It’s your mom that has the cheekbones. Cap has them too.”
Jen absorbed this.
She wasn’t writing it down, but she was filing it. Evaluating tone, body language, contradictions.
“So,” she said, clicking her pen once but not using it. “If that’s not the truth ... then what is?”
Jake didn’t answer right away.
He looked at Laura. Then at Celia. They both gave the smallest of nods.
Then he looked back at Jen and said, “Here’s the truth. From the beginning.”
Jake sat forward just enough to signal the shift.
“I’m not gay,” he said. “I’m not bisexual. I have no issue with people who are, but I’m not one of them.”
Jen gave him a look—half neutral, half expectant.
“Our chef and our housekeeper—Westin and Sean—are a couple. They live with us. They’re family. I’ve worked with Dexter Price and Bobby Z, both openly gay musicians. Celia and I did workups with Eric Pale twice—he played violin on two of her tours. He’s out too. Wonderful player. Wonderful guy.” A shrug. “A little shy, and he and Massa Wu are the only musicians I’ve ever met who don’t smoke pot.”
“Huh?” Jen asked.
He did not answer her. Just continued on. “And then there’s Charlie Meyer,” Jake added. “Our bass player.”
Jen winced. “Can we... not talk about Charlie Meyer?”
Jake gave her a look. “Sure. Why?”
She leaned back a little, rubbing one temple. “After the whole thing with Charlie and the Jelly Belly factory, I get nauseous and start sweating if I think about him for more than ten seconds.”
Jake raised a hand in surrender. “Fair enough. Charlie’s a special case.”
“Charlie’s path in life needs a warning sign that reads ‘I’d turn back if I were you’ at the trailhead,” Jen said with another shudder.
Jake almost smiled. “My point is, I’ve lived with and worked with openly gay men for most of my adult life. I have no issue there. But I’ve never engaged in anything even remotely resembling a homosexual relationship. Not once. Not a drunken experiment, not a high school fumbling, not a moment of curiosity. I never even did the MMF threesome thing back in my groupies after the show days. It’s just not me. I’ve known it since I was a child. I like girls and girls only.”
His tone was steady. Not defensive. Just matter-of-fact.
“I’m not homophobic,” he said. “But I’m not homosexual either. And I’m tired of being told I’m lying about that.”
Jen studied him for a moment.
He didn’t look nervous. He looked tired. Not emotionally wrung out—worn down. Like someone who’d been carrying the same lie-shaped weight on his back for years, even though it wasn’t his.
She glanced down at her recorder, just to make sure the green light was still glowing.
Then she said, “Okay. So if you’re not gay ... what are you?”
Jake leaned back slightly.
“The question is not who I am,” he said, “it’s who they are.” He nodded toward the two ladies.
Jen looked from Jake to the two women on either side of him. Then she narrowed her eyes just slightly.
“And just what are the two of you,” she asked, “if not beards for a closeted rock star who overcompensated back in the day?”
It wasn’t hostile. Just direct. Surgical. Her job.
Laura just looked at her. “We’re his wives.”
Jen’s face remained impassive. “His wives? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said,” Laura said.
Jen sighed. What a waste of a fuckin’ Sunday this was turning out to be. “Yes, he’s currently married to you, Laura,” she said, “but he’s also divorced you once already. And Celia—he married and divorced you too. That entire legal shuffle has been dissected by every entertainment desk in the country. All it’s done is reinforce the beard theory the Watcher is pushing. Serial paper marriages. Woman after woman shielding the truth. It’s textbook closeted celebrity behavior.”
Laura shook her head calmly. “You’re still talking about legal paperwork. We’re not.”
Jen frowned. “Then what are you talking about?”
“We’ll explain the marriage and divorce thing later,” Laura said. “It’s complicated, and it’ll make sense once you understand the basic premise. What we’re telling you right now is this: we are both married to Jake. Emotionally. Practically. Day to day. We share a home. We raise our children together. We love each other. We have sex. We sleep in the same bed. All three of us.”
Jen’s pen hovered over her notepad, unmoving.
Celia nodded slightly. “It’s not a stunt. It’s not a phase. It’s not an arrangement. It’s a marriage. The only difference is the government only allows one of us to be married to him on paper at a time.”
Jen took that in. She wasn’t writing. She was cataloging. An entire world of assumptions collapsing behind her eyes.
“You’re saying...” she began.
Jake stepped in quietly. “We’re in a polyamorous relationship,” he said. “The three of us. And we have been since Laura was pregnant with Caydee.”
Jen looked at him, then Laura, then Celia. Then back to Jake.
“Are you serious?” she asked.
Jake nodded. “Completely.”
Jen shook her head. “I’m not buying it.”
Jake lifted a hand, calm and measured. “Just let us tell the story. See how it fits with the known facts.”
Jen didn’t blink. “What are the known facts, Jake? Because right now, there’s enough speculation and innuendo surrounding you three that if Princess Di were still alive, she’d feel neglected.”
That got a half-smile out of Laura.
Jake didn’t rise to the bait. “Let’s walk through what’s actually known.”
Jen gave him a go-ahead nod.
“It’s been widely observed that the three of us are close,” Jake said. “That’s no secret. People started noting that long before this latest circus. Long before any of the legal marriage filings. It was reported as far back as 2001 that Celia was living with Laura and me. That’s accurate.”
He paused. “On the morning of 9/11, the three of us were on Delta Flight 1989. Boston to L.A. We were in the air when the attacks started. We were grounded in Cleveland. That’s also documented.”
Jen gave the faintest twitch of her jaw—she remembered that. The media had briefly seized on it as a celebrity near-miss story.
“After that,” Jake continued, “Laura and I got divorced. That’s on record. But she stayed in the house. Our story was that she stayed because it’s a big house and we can stay out of each other’s way and it was good for Caydee to have both parents there.”
He gestured toward Celia without looking at her.
“Celia and I got married a year later. That’s also on record. And again, Laura continued to live in the house.”
Jen’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.
“Then C and I divorced,” Jake went on. “Amicably. And Celia stayed in the house. And when I remarried Laura—on paper—she was still there. Still is.”
He let that sit for a second.
Jen leaned back slightly, not buying it. “So what you’re saying is that you all live together. You’ve swapped marriage licenses like burner phones. And you think that paints a picture other than a closeted male celebrity propping up a public image with the help of two loyal friends?”
Jake exhaled slowly. “I’m saying it fits, Jen. It fits the facts. It explains everything—if you allow for the possibility that the real story is stranger than the lie.”
Jen stared at him. “You’re going to have to do better than logistics and timelines. If you want me to take this seriously—if you want this in print—you’re going to have to present something real. Something personal. Because right now, this still reads like beard choreography.”
“Has it occurred to you to wonder why Laura and I divorced?” Jake asked. “Why I married Celia? Why I divorced Celia and remarried Laura? Why, if this is a beard relationship with two women, did we need for me to divorce Laura in the first place? What is the point of the marital switching?”
Jen stared at the two of them. Actually, that had not occurred to her. She just assumed it was the three of them dragging a red herring through the water to keep attention off the real story.
She folded her arms, notebook resting on one thigh. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll bite. Why the divorces and remarriages? Walk me through that.”
Celia was the one who answered. Her voice was quiet, but even.
“So I could have a legitimate baby,” she said. “And it worked.”
Jen blinked at her. “You’ll have to expand on that.”
Celia nodded. “I know that in Hollywood celebrity stalking circles, marriage and children don’t really have anything to do with each other. I read the same stories you do. But this wasn’t about Hollywood. It was about me. About what I needed. And the two people sitting beside me loved me enough to make that possible.”
Jen tilted her head slightly. “You’re saying this was ... what? A favor?”
“No,” Celia said. “A commitment.” She paused, then added: “Don’t you remember I dated a pilot for a while back in 2001? Ron Grover? You wrote some pieces about it.”
That clicked. Jen’s brow furrowed as she recalled the old notes. “Right. Helicopter pilot. Out of Burbank, right?”
“Santa Monica,” Celia corrected. “That was during my biological clock crisis. I broke up with Jake and Laura after the Millennial Tour ended. It was late 2000. We were deeply in love, but I wanted a baby. And I didn’t see a way to make that happen.”
“You left them,” Jen said.
“I did,” Celia replied. “Because at the time, I believed it was the only way I could become a mother without scandal. Without regret. I was in a relationship with a married couple. Jake and Laura both offered to help—Jake said he would father the baby if I wanted—but I said no.”
“Why?” Jen asked.
“Because it wouldn’t have been legitimate,” Celia said simply. “He would’ve been Jake Kingsley’s love child. Not Capriccio Kingsley the legitimate. Not the son of a husband and wife. He would’ve carried that label—on paper, in interviews, in extended family conversations—for his entire life.”
She drew a slow breath.
“I was raised Catholic,” she said. “I’m not so Catholic anymore—obviously—but my parents still are. My family in Barquisimeto is. My country is. That upbringing doesn’t leave your bones just because you stop going to Mass. I wanted a child born into wedlock. I wanted to be a wife, on paper and in name, when I had my son.”
Jen didn’t interrupt. She was watching her now—carefully.
“I left the two people I love more than anything in the world to chase that,” Celia continued. “And I tried. I dated Ron. He was kind. He was handsome. But it wasn’t right. And I wasn’t in the right headspace. I had to let him go. I wrote the whole thing off as a mistake and Jake and Laura took me back.”
“We didn’t take you back, love,” Laura said gently. “We needed you back. You are a part of us and there was a big hole in our lives without you.”
Jen didn’t say anything at first. She just studied them—the way Laura had said love without even thinking about it, the way Jake had looked at Celia during her explanation, the way Celia’s fingers had lightly touched Laura’s knee while she spoke.
It wasn’t just the words.
It was the way they looked at each other. The ease. The gravity. The quiet certainty.
If this was a performance, it was flawless. If they were acting, it was better than anything Greg Oldfellow, Celia’s ex, had ever laid down on film—and he was a damn good actor. Just couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. If Jake, Laura, and Celia were running a scam, they were doing it with more chemistry than Greg had managed in a decade of leading roles.
Still, she couldn’t let herself believe it just yet. That wasn’t how this worked. Not when the stakes were this high.
She leaned forward a little.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I’m beginning to believe you. But if this is real—and you want the public to believe it—you’re going to need to answer some awkward questions.”
“Ask,” Jake said.
“How does it work?” Jen asked. “You said all three of you are in a relationship. You sleep in the same bed?”
“We do,” Laura said.
Jen gave a skeptical tilt of the head. “So how do you decide who gets to have sex with Jake on any given night? Rock, paper, scissors? Does he choose?”
Laura grinned. “It depends. Sometimes it’s spontaneous. Sometimes one of us takes the lead. Sometimes Jake takes the lead with both and one of us responds.”
Jen cut in. “And what does the other one do? Just hang out? Go to the guest room for a few minutes?”
“A few minutes?” Jake asked, mock offended. “Come on, Jen. Give me some freakin’ credit here.”
That actually made Jen laugh—short, unexpected, but real. She hadn’t meant to. But the timing was perfect, and Jake’s wounded pride was just self-aware enough to land.
Celia smirked. “He’s not wrong. He has good lasting skills.”
“You have to when you have two of them to keep happy,” Jake said seriously.
Laura added, “And for the record, we don’t take turns like a schedule. Sometimes it’s two of us. Sometimes it’s all three. And sometimes nobody’s in the mood for anything but cuddling. Just like any other couple. We’re just not a couple. We’re a triple.”
Jen let that sit in the air.
Three people. One bed. One relationship.
She looked at all of them again.
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