Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 7: Fighting Fire With Fire
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 7: Fighting Fire With Fire - 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
Santa Clarita, California
January 18, 2005
Barb was mid-sentence when Jake and Laura walked in the front door.
“—and when you find your testicles, sweetheart, be sure to boil them first. Wouldn’t want to pass any infections when you’re trying to hump relevance.”
She slammed the phone down, looked up, and smiled. “Morning, hon. They’re in the conference room.”
Jake gave her a salute. “You good?”
“Ecstatic,” Barb said. “I just told a Defamer blogger that I was going to roofie him with my menstrual blood and sell his kidneys to a bait shop. I haven’t felt this alive since the Rodney King riots.”
They moved quickly down the hallway, past the framed platinum records and touring memorabilia, into what passed as a conference room.
Lynn Anjelo from their favorite law firm was already there. She had arrived an hour ago with Pauline and Drew to review the photographs on his laptop. She was the most talented of the grunts in the personal injury department. Early thirties, Loyola Law, hair pinned back so tight it looked lacquered. Her suit was knife-blade black with not a thread out of place, and she gave off the calm, surgical aura of someone who’d never once cared about truth—only outcome. Lynn didn’t judge clients. She sculpted cases.
Pauline sat next to her, dressed down but focused, legal pad in hand. Across the table: Drew Conners, hunched forward, visibly tense, laptop in his bag on the floor.
Lynn didn’t waste time.
“We’re not here to establish what happened,” she said as soon as Jake and Laura sat. “We all know what happened. Mr. Conners photographed your family living in what we believe is a truthful, stable domestic arrangement involving three consenting adults. The photos support that narrative. His editors chose to bury those photos and publish others that imply something else.”
Jake gave a slow nod. “We’ve seen them.”
“They are compelling,” Lynn continued. “In fact, they’re damaging to the Watcher, if used correctly. But using them isn’t simple. Drew, I understand you want to help.”
“I do,” Drew said. “But I can’t give you the files. Not without risking everything. My contract was clear: all photos belong to them. Even the ones they didn’t run.”
Jake leaned forward. “We understand that. We’re not asking you to just hand them over.”
“Good,” Lynn said. “Because if you did, you’d be on the hook for copyright infringement and breach of contract. They’d sue you into dust, and you’d lose.”
Drew exhaled. “That’s what I figured.”
“At the same time,” Lynn said, “if you want to successfully sue the American Watcher for libel, those photographs are an absolute must. There is no case without them. A very compelling and lucrative case with them. Nothing in between.”
Laura crossed one leg over the other. “What about us? If someone sent the files via an anonymous email—could we use them?”
“No,” Lynn said. “Not publicly. Not directly. If you publish them—or leak them yourself—and they trace it back, you’re liable too. You can’t claim fair use or whistleblower privilege. Not for photos. Not in this context.”
Pauline folded her arms. “Could we at least show them to another journalist?”
“Privately, maybe,” Lynn said. “But if they publish? Same exposure. The Chronicle would need rock-solid legal cover. They’d want a verified source. Which Drew can’t be. Not publicly.”
Jake glanced at him. “He’s willing to testify, though. To what he heard in the editorial meetings. To the fact that the truth was intentionally ignored.”
Lynn nodded. “That’s our strongest card outside of the photos. Testimony about editorial intent—that’s gold. If a jury believes it, we’ve got actual malice. But without physical evidence—without those photos—it’s still just farting in the wind. They’ll claim interpretation, not fabrication. It becomes a battle of impressions.”
“So what are you saying?” Laura asked. “That we can’t use the truth unless we own it?”
“I’m saying,” Lynn replied, “that the truth in this case is locked in a vault. And the people who have the key are legally allowed to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“What if we subpoena the photos?” asked Laura. “Isn’t the testimony of Drew enough to get a judge to issue a subpoena?”
Lynn didn’t blink. “No judge is going to sign off on a subpoena for photos the Watcher claims don’t exist.”
“They do exist,” Laura said, her voice sharp.
Lynn turned to her. “They’ll say they were deleted. Routine server cleanup. No way to prove otherwise unless we have internal memos, backup logs, hard drives—something real. And even then, discovery can take months. Maybe years.”
“So that’s it?” Jake asked. “We just accept that the truth got deleted to save disk space?”
Lynn gave a faint shrug. “It’s not fair. It’s not just. But it’s legal.”
Pauline leaned forward. “What if we went public with Drew’s testimony alone?”
“You’d win hearts,” Lynn said. “But not a case. It’s his word against theirs. And even if you manage to get some sympathy in the court of public opinion, the Watcher’s lawyers will paint him as a disgruntled freelancer trying to cover his ass.”
Drew winced slightly but said nothing.
Jake exhaled through his nose. “So we’re stuck.”
“Not necessarily,” Lynn said. “There are other options. But they all carry risk. You’ve got truth—but you don’t have rights. If you release those images—if you even share them under the wrong conditions—you’re infringing. Copyright is ironclad.”
Laura asked, “Even if Drew leaks them anonymously? Sends them through a burner email account or a thumb drive left on a doorstep?”
Lynn’s voice went flat. “If those files are traced back to Drew, he gets crucified. If they’re traced back to you, you’re facing a fair use violation and potentially fraudulent misrepresentation.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “But what if they don’t trace it back?”
Lynn looked at him for a long beat. “That’s a pretty big ‘if.’ The Chronicle and every major outlet would want to know where the photos came from. And the Watcher would throw everything they have into tracking the leak—IP traces, file timestamps, even the upload path. If they thought it came from public Wi-Fi, they’d try to subpoena the café’s access logs. Doesn’t mean they’d get much, but they’d try.”
Jake’s tone shifted—calmer now, more precise. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument ... we do pull it off. The photos come in anonymously. No fingerprints. No breadcrumbs. Just seventy-eight images dropped in a public inbox with no context.”
Lynn crossed her legs. “It’s still illegal.”
“Why?”
“Because you know where they came from,” she said. “Intent matters. If you receive stolen intellectual property and you know it was stolen, you’re still liable—even if you don’t distribute it yourself.”
Jake folded his arms. “But they don’t know what I know. And I don’t really have to tell them. You’re a lawyer—you’ve seen it all. I am willing to testify, under oath, that I have no idea who sent me those photos.”
Lynn blinked slowly. “Jake.”
He leaned in, voice level. “The Watcher lies. All the time. They lie in print. They lie in depositions. They lie to sell copies. Why the hell can’t I?”
There was a silence in the room.
Lynn didn’t answer right away. She straightened a little, glanced toward Pauline, then back to Jake. “Because if you’re caught, it’s perjury. Criminal. That’s prison time, not just fines. Not to mention every journalist, editor, producer, and media contact you’ve ever worked with dropping you like toxic waste. You lie once under oath and it becomes your permanent record.”
Jake nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Drew sat very still.
Jake looked at no one in particular as he continued. “But if ... if those photos did come to me in that manner ... and I swear before the Holy Grand Poohbah that I have no idea where they came from...” He raised his eyes to Lynn. “And we don’t get caught—what then?”
Lynn exhaled. “Then, in theory ... you win.”
Jake tilted his head. “Define ‘win.’”
She leaned back, her tone cool but steady. “You could leak the images anonymously—assuming you had no role in the leak. Assuming there’s no trail. No proof of collusion. No witness. No metadata. No pattern. Then you feed them to the Chronicle, let them publish, and watch the Watcher scramble.”
Jake said nothing.
“You let Drew testify as a conscience-struck witness. Not the leaker. Just someone who saw the truth, tried to correct it, and was shut down.”
Still no one spoke.
Lynn finished the thought. “Then you file your libel suit. And you don’t just win. You bury them.”
Lynn gave it a beat, then leaned forward, her tone cool but with a touch of edge.
“Before we go any further, I need to be very clear about something.”
Jake raised an eyebrow.
“You cannot tell me that you’re planning to lie under oath.”
He blinked, slowly. “That’s not what I—”
“I just misheard that first one,” she said, cutting him off. “That thing you said about testifying that you didn’t know where the photos came from? That was an outburst. Frustration. Pure hypothetical.”
A pause.
She looked him dead in the eye.
“Right?”
Jake held her gaze for a moment.
Then, finally: “Righhhht.”
Lynn gave a single nod. “Good.”
She leaned back slightly. “Because as an officer of the court, I am obligated to present the truth as I understand it. And yes, I have a great deal of latitude in how I understand it. But if a client openly tells me he plans to lie under oath—if I know that—I can’t be part of it. That’s not strategy. That’s ethics.”
Jake’s mouth was open. “Unethical for a personal injury lawyer?”
“I told you that’s a thing,” Pauline said, scribbling something on her notepad without looking up.
Lynn gave a sharp sideways glance but didn’t dispute it.
“I can suspect you’re full of shit,” she continued. “I can even know you’re full of shit in my heart, in my soul, in the tiny dark places where lawyers keep their dormant integrity.”
A flicker of a smile from Laura.
“But I can’t legally know it. Not explicitly. Not on the record. So if you feel the need to perjure yourself, Mr. Kingsley, I suggest you keep me out of that loop.”
Jake let out a low breath. “You’re saying your job is to defend the truth ... as long as nobody says it out loud.”
Lynn gave a thin smile. “Welcome to the American legal system.”
Jake nodded slowly. “Well then, I believe I’ve just spotted the long-rumored ethical boundary of a working attorney. The invisible line. The Bigfoot of jurisprudence.”
Laura gave him a look. “You gonna write a song about it?”
“Maybe,” Jake said. “But I’m thinking prog-rock. Eight minutes long. Cryptids and subpoenas. Something weird with shifting time signatures.”
“You’d have to call it Bigfoot on the Ice Wall, ” Pauline added without missing a beat.
Jake pointed at her. “That’s the bridge lyric.”
Lynn gave them a dry look. “If we’re done workshopping album titles, can we get back to legally skirting a corporate landmine?”
Jake sat back. “Sure. Just needed to know where the edges were.”
Lynn exhaled and leaned forward again, her tone slower now—more deliberate.
“Just so we’re clear ... if some mysterious photographs—photographs that were very obviously taken by Mr. Conners—did suddenly show up in your inbox, the only way they’d be usable is if they’re completely clean. No identifying information. No sender trail. No email account tied to Drew, or to anyone else connected to you. No server headers, no file tags, no clue where they came from.”
Jake gave a slow nod. “So: no fingerprints.”
“Exactly,” Lynn said. “They’d need to appear as if they came from nowhere. No reply address, no logins, no metadata in the EXIF headers. No one to subpoena. If any of that stuff survives—even a stray server ID—the Watcher’s techs will find it.”
Pauline added, “The press inbox is the one that’s posted everywhere—website, liner notes, fan forums. If I were trying to drop something anonymously, that’s where I’d send it.”
Lynn nodded. “Good. Because that’s how it would have to happen. Someone with a conscience—maybe an insider at the Watcher—somehow gets access to your public-facing email address and sends you the images. That’s the story in this hypothetical yet highly plausible situation.”
Jake leaned back, arms crossed. “Wouldn’t an insider more likely know my personal email?”
“Exactly,” Lynn said. “Which is why it can’t go to your personal inbox. That would suggest a deeper connection. But a public address? Posted on your website? That’s accessible to anyone. It gives you plausible distance. If the images land there, anyone could’ve sent them.”
Jake looked off toward the window, the gears turning behind his eyes.
“You really are good at this,” he said.
Lynn raised a brow. “At what?”
“At helping me understand the difference between knowing something and being able to prove I know it.”
She gave no reaction.
Jake turned to Pauline. “You’ve done this too.”
She didn’t even bother to look up from her notepad. “Of course I have.”
“I remember that standoff with National. You never told them what you knew. You just... pointed them toward panic.”
Pauline shrugged. “It’s the same skill set.”
Jake nodded. “I need to burn some Purple Tokalicious and think about this.”
Laura gave him a look. “Not now.”
“I know. Later. This is a big moment of personal growth, and I want to honor it properly.”
Lynn cleared her throat. “Mr. Kingsley.”
“Right,” he said. “Back to business.”
Lynn tapped the pad in front of her. “If those files come to you anonymously, without any way to trace them back to Drew or any other known source—and I do mean none—and you don’t ask too many questions, then you have a potential asset.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “And if I testify under oath that I have no idea where they came from...”
Lynn cut in, her voice sharp. “I heard frustration earlier. Not an actual plan to commit perjury.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Of course.”
“Because if you do tell me that’s your plan,” she added, “then I have to recuse myself. Maybe report it. That’s the line.”
He nodded. “Noted.”
She looked him over. “Good. Now that we all understand each other ... let’s talk about how such a hypothetical email might find its way to you.”
“We got that covered,” Pauline said. “We have Steve Masterson working at the Campus right now trying to pin down our leak in the security team. He could make that email as clean as the bathroom floor in the fuckin’ Vatican.”
“Steve Masterson?” Lynn asked. “From Heritage?”
“Yes,” Pauline said. “You know him?”
“We’ve uh ... used his services a time or two when working on cases that involve the north Valley area in some way. I am sure that he could ... well ... advise you on just how such an anonymous email might arrive at your public inbox. You know? To prevent it from happening?”
“Of course,” Jake said with a little chuckle. He then turned to Drew. “All right, camera boy, you’ve heard all of this. The next move can only happen if you cooperate and let Steve put those photos on a thumb drive and send them out into the world. Are you in?”
Drew looked from person to person. They were all looking back at him.
“If I do this, I need to know that you’re going to protect me.”
“I’m a Kingsley, Conners,” Jake said. “I know that doesn’t mean shit to you, but it means something to me, to Laura, to anyone who knows us well enough to come into our house using the garage door. Kingsleys have integrity. Kingsleys do the right thing unless there’s a really compelling reason not to. I will make sure that any chance of you being traced as the provable leaker of the photos is destroyed by Masterson. They will not be able to prove that those copies came from you. They will suspect it, sure, but they will not be able to prove it. And we will only bring you in after the photos are published.”
“The hypothetical photos,” Lynn said warningly, letting him know he was in the gray area now.
“The hypothetical photos,” he agreed. “So ... what do you say?”
He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m in.”
Jake hated this part.
The meeting was done. The plan was in motion. Lynn had departed with a practiced handshake, and Pauline had gone back to working on more routine KVA business in her office. But now Jake was stuck with the lingering consequence of moral compromise:
He had to bring Drew Conners home.
Not home-home, of course. Not his house. No fucking way. That was sacred ground.
But there was space at The Campus—plenty of it, in fact. A few extra bedrooms in the residence wing upstairs. Charlie was already staying there full-time, along with the drummer and bassist from Celia’s band. They wouldn’t care. Probably wouldn’t even notice.
Jake made the offer while walking to the Avanti at Whiteman.
“You’re not staying at my house,” he said bluntly. “But we’ve got a spare bed at The Campus. Private room. Hot water. Don’t take it for granted.”
Drew, riding the adrenaline crash of the decision he’d just made, only nodded. “Understood.”
Jake glanced sideways at him as they reached the aircraft. “Also, and this is important: you do not take any photos. Of anything. Or anyone. Not a phone pic. Not a shutter click. Not a fuckin’ pencil sketch. Nothing.”
Drew nodded again.
“I’m serious,” Jake said. “You take a single unauthorized shot, and Charlie will butt rape you with two condoms on.”
Laura, climbing into the Avanti behind them, added: “Once he goes back to being gay.”
Jake looked at his watch. “We’re due for a switchover any time now.”
Drew blinked, looking slightly pale. “Uh ... sure, got it.”
“Good.”
They lifted off from Whiteman at 2:27 PM, climbing over the coastal mountains in smooth afternoon air. Jake didn’t speak much during the flight. Neither did Laura. Drew sat stiffly in the back, not sure where to look, not sure what came next.
They touched down at San Luis Obispo Regional at 2:55, wheels kissing pavement with practiced grace. The Avanti taxied to its hangar, and Jake secured it while Laura walked over to retrieve the Lexus. Ten minutes later, they were in the SUV headed north, the inland hills still dark green from the last wave of storms.
They reached The Campus at 3:33.
Jake parked near the rehearsal building and stepped out, stretching once. He motioned for Drew to follow.
Inside, the sound of distorted rhythm and tight percussion pulsed through the walls. Intemperance was in full swing, mid-run on the tour set, working with studio-clean stems of Jake’s vocals and guitar.
He opened the door and they walked in.
The band looked up, instruments still buzzing in the air.
Matt was the first to speak. “Who’s the fuckin’ dweeb?”
Jake continued to walk closer, Drew trailing awkwardly behind.
“This is Drew,” Jake said to the room. “The cliff-climbing pap who’s trying to redeem himself.”
“Pap, you say?” Matt said, his face suddenly looking dangerous. “Are you the little cum-stain who took pictures of my man and his old ladies in the privacy of their fuckin’ house?”
“Uh ... well ... yeah,” he squeaked.
Matt took a step closer, eyes narrowed. “You know, I’ve met a lotta scum in my day. Dealers. Loan sharks. Telemarketers. But the pap? You motherfuckers are the fuckin’ termites of the soul. You eat happiness from the inside out and sell the scraps to Inside Edition.”
Drew opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“You ever flash a lens at me while I’m in my fuckin’ underpants, I will personally cram your Nikon up your dickhole and take a long exposure shot of your prostate,” Matt finished.
“Jesus, Matt,” Jake said, shaking his head.
“I’m just sayin’.”
Coop turned toward Drew. “You know what I remember? Memphis. ‘02. Fuckin’ pap motherfucker caught me gettin’ a blowjob backstage from some chick who said she was studying nursing but couldn’t spell ‘artery.’ My fuckin’ mom saw that picture while she was lookin’ through the tabloids in the fuckin’ grocery store. That was fucked-up shit, man.”
“That wasn’t me,” Drew said quickly.
“I know it wasn’t,” Coop said. “Doesn’t matter. You’re one of them. It’s the fuckin’ species I have a problem with.”
Jake gave a sigh and stepped forward, throwing a little half-hearted calm into the circle.
“Okay, listen. Yes, he’s a pap. Yes, he’s a leech. Yes, whale shit on the bottom of the fuckin’ ocean looks down on him and his people. But Drew here is apparently having what you might call ... a Scrooge Moment for the digital age. Ghost of journalistic ethics showed up in the night and rattled some chains. Now he’s here to help us bury the Watcher.”
Matt crossed his arms. “I don’t give a fuck if he’s gettin’ visited by the Ghost of Fuckmas Future. I don’t trust him farther than I can throw his smug little paparazzi nutsack.”
Drew blinked again. “I’m not—okay. Yeah. Fair.”
Nerdly spoke up from the far side of the room, where he was sitting in front of his electric piano. “I have a question.”
Everyone turned.
He looked at Drew, expression neutral, tone oddly analytical.
“Do you, in your line of work, ever experience involuntary moral reflexes? Like guilt. Or queasiness. Any physiological responses associated with the violation of modern expectations of privacy ethics?”
Drew squinted. “I ... I don’t even know what you just said.”
Matt snorted. “He’s askin’ if you got a fuckin’ conscience, you dipshit.”
“Oh,” Drew said. “Right. Yeah. That.”
“Let’s eat him!” Charlie yelled.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Eat him! Cut the flesh from his body and slow cook it with a balsamic based marinade. That’s what we do to fuckin’ pap around here!”
“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Jake said, shaking his head.
“You always take a bit a little too far, Freakboy,” Matt told him.
“You’re not supposed to call me Freakboy.”
“How about Whack-Job?” Matt suggested.
“That is better.”
Jake clapped his hands once. “Great. Now that we’ve all made Drew reconsider his life choices, I’ll be escorting him to the therapist’s office.”
They actually had no business in the rehearsal building. Jake had just wanted to see how the boys reacted to an actual pap in the flesh. It had not been disappointing. Now, he led Conners back outside and across the landscaping to the main studio building where Steve Masterson and his protégé, Serena Daley, had set up shop in the empty studio C.
Jake led the way into Studio C, holding the door for Laura and Drew behind him. The room had been designed to serve as a third production suite—same dimensions, same wall treatments, same acoustic baffling as Studios A and B—but it had never been equipped. No board. No racks. No wiring trunk. Just power, lighting, and HVAC. The two-million-dollar expense of equipping it hadn’t been justified yet. For now, it was just a well-soundproofed shell.
In the space where a mixing board should have been, two folding tables were set up side by side, each cluttered with laptops, file folders, legal pads, and burner phones. Steve Masterson was perched at one, wearing a charcoal suit and no tie, sleeves rolled precisely one cuff turn. Serena Daley sat at the other, typing something into a compact ThinkPad, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense twist, eyes flicking up the moment they entered.
Jake saw no change in posture from either of them. No scrambling to hide a file, no awkwardness, no furtive glances. Which, of course, only made him more convinced that Steve was boning her.
“Hey, Steve,” Jake said.
Steve stood and shook his hand. “Jake. Laura.” He nodded politely. “Mr. Conners.”
Drew blinked. “You know who I am?”
“We make it our business to know,” Serena said, standing and offering a handshake of her own. “Nice to meet you.”
Drew shook it, clearly off-balance.
Laura took a seat on a spare office chair in the corner, crossing her legs. Jake remained standing, as did Conners.
Steve gestured to the tables. “Apologies for the Staples vibe. Not the most elegant setup, but the room’s clean, soundproofed, and the HVAC works. Good enough for an operational field base.”
Jake nodded. “Looks fine to me.”
He glanced at Serena again—businesslike as ever. Hair tight. Shirt crisp. No visible jewelry. No tells. The woman was either a consummate professional or she was letting Steve hit it with tactical deniability.
He forced the thought away. “So,” he said, “any progress?”
Steve exchanged a brief look with Serena, then leaned a little against the edge of his table.
“We’ve been at it for a little over a week now,” he said. “Pulled every guard’s employment file, did full backgrounds from public records, checked off-site contact behavior and travel history. So far, we’ve got four candidates showing irregularities.”
“Including one of the supervisors,” Serena added.
“Nothing concrete yet,” Steve continued. “But a lot of blips. Inconsistent logs. Discrepancies between verbal and written reports. One guy has a side business as a blogger. Another one’s got a history of friendly communications with a freelance journo—could be nothing, could be everything. We’re still digging.”
Jake nodded. “So ... not proof. But smoke.”
“Enough to know there’s heat,” Steve said. “We just need the ignition point.”
Laura leaned forward slightly. “Do they know you’re onto them?”
“Not unless one of them is a psychic,” Serena said. “We’ve kept the approach low-profile and internal. No direct interviews to this point. No security team meetings. No official company memos. Everyone thinks we’re here doing legal compliance interviews and inventory audits.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Nice.”
Steve gave a nod. “We’re closing in. Just need time.”
Jake exhaled slowly, then looked at Drew for a beat before turning back to Steve.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got something else I would like to ask you to do. Kind of a side project that is right up your alley.”
He paused there.
“It involves Drew.”
“Okay,” Steve said. “Please lay it out and I’ll tell you if we can help.” And how much I’ll charge you for it, he did not add, but which was understood.
Jake let the silence hang for another beat, then said:
“This is secret squirrel shit.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. Serena didn’t blink.
“Not a word of this conversation leaves this room,” Jake added.
The look they gave him wasn’t outrage exactly—just wounded professionalism, the kind that suggested he’d just told a surgeon to wash his hands.
Steve folded his arms. “Have I ever broken client confidence?”
“No,” Jake said. “But this isn’t just sensitive. This is a legal technicality that needs to be laundered clean so I can commit perjury in open court and not get caught. That’s the level we’re operating on.”
Serena spoke for the first time since the request. “We work under contract and under ethics. We don’t leak.”
Jake gave a small nod. “Had to say it. Now it’s said.”
He paced once in front of the table, then turned back to face them. “Are you aware of the current media shitstorm involving my family? Specifically, the claim that I’m gay?”
“And I’m one of his beards,” Laura added from the corner, tone flat and unbothered. “Even though I keep things nice and shaved down there.”
Steve hitched just a little, but kept composure. “We’ve seen the headlines.”
“People in Rwanda have seen the headlines,” Serena said dryly.
Jake allowed himself a faint smile. “All right. Good. So we’re all briefed on the cultural aspects of my reputation.”
He moved to the edge of Serena’s table, one hand resting lightly on the metal frame.
“Have you heard the counter-story? The one in the Chronicle? That I’m not gay. That the three of us—Laura, Celia, and I—are in a functional, long-term, de facto marriage?”
Steve nodded. “We saw that too.”
“Very diplomatic spread,” Serena said. “Straightforward, structured. Carefully non-sensational.”
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