Wesley's Bizarre Adventure Episode 3: Read or Die

You are Wesley Keki, neko and tachi.

"You stupid fucking slut," Lily snarls.

"Eat it. Eat it!" You scream.

"Come and fucking make me, bitch," she screams back.

There's a knock on your door. You peel your headset off, but just enough to hear N-Mom. "Wes! Someone's at the door for you!"

That moment of inattention is enough for Lily to activate her super on your nexus, which despawns all your turrets and forces you to portal yourself back to the ledge. "Fuck," you mutter.

Lily giggles, so overcome with glee that she doesn't even need a snide remark. And now she's even gonna go for the two-point conversion.

"Oh shut the fuck up," you yell, "shut the fuck up! You shut the fuck up, Lily!"

"Wes!" N-Mom howls. "What the hell is wrong with you? Open this door!"

You mute your mic. "Not you, Mom! ...Sorry!"

"You're too easy," Lily says through peals of laughter.

"You're using an aimbot," you say, unmuting. You know you're just searching for any excuse to salve a wounded ego.

"I don't need an aimbot to nail your sorry ass," she says. Oh great: now she's putting spikes out on the field, to compound the woes you're facing with the rain effect still active. You don't have any spell cards left to counter her.

You close the game client.

"The fuck?" Lily says. "You're really gonna quit just as soon as I start winning? Fucking pussy ass bit--"

You disconnect from the call, too. Like that's going to stop her, though. Lily immediately messages you:

>pussy. fucking pussy. get back here and let me finish beating you!

>wes! cunt bitch! come here!

>what the fuck else do you have to do right now huh? masterbate to anime? get the fuck back in queue!

You shut the monitor off.

When you poke your head out into the hallway, N-Mom is still there, scowling at you. "I don't like the way you talk when you play that game."

"You should hear how my opponent was talking," you say.

"I did."

"Oh. That loud, huh?"

"Why can't you have a better hobby?" N-Mom asks. "Something respectable, something healthy and stimulating. Like... I don't know... kayaking."

"You wanna go kayaking?" You ask with arched eyebrows. "That sounds fun. I'm sure K-Mom'll be thrilled--"

"That isn't--"

You raise your voice: "Hey! K-Mom! N-Mom is saying how she wants to kayak in the woods with you!"

N-Mom lunges forward. She clasps a palm behind your head and and a palm across your mouth. "Will you shut the fuck up?" She hisses, eyes bulging.

You shut the fuck up, and wait for her to pull her hands away. When she does, you tell her with a smirk: "I don't like the way you're talking."

N-Mom points at you. "If she forces me to go camping, you're coming, too. Remember that."

You consider this. Really let it sink in. Glancing at the floor, you whisper: "Mosquitos..."

"Sunburn," N-Mom adds.

"No toilets," you say. "Like anywhere."

"Bears. Bears live in the woods. Grizzlies."

"Ticks. Lyme disease."

"She packs two kinds of food when she camps: spam and granola."

You meet N-Mom's eyes. "I won't mention anything about kayaking ever again," you promise, voice solemn and severe.

"Good. And, uh... just keep it down when you play your game, all right?"

You nod.

The door bell rings. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. Ding-ding-ding-dong. N-Mom, her ponytail flipping as she turns her head, raises her voice. "Be right there!"

"Who is it?" You ask.

It's not quite right to say that you let Summer in. You don't not let her in, is more like it. Not that you could have not. Could have not?

...Well, she was going to come inside no matter what, you figure. Saying "come in" at least makes you look like you've got some kind of control over it.

"I know you," N-Mom says. She shuts the front door behind Summer and wags her finger at her as if doing so will jog the memory. Somehow it works. "You're... Summer, right? Wes tutored you in math."

Summer salutes her. "Ayep! And we've been *such* good friends ever since." She wraps both her forearms around one of your upper arms, leaning against you in a way that's clearly more than only friendly. Her breasts press insistently against your shoulder.

N-Mom looks from you, to Summer, and back, her mouth hanging open in mute contemplation. "...Is that so," she finally says.

You're neon.

"Uh huh!" Summer chirps. When she turns her head and you're sure she's gonna go in for a peck on your cheek, you fight your way free of her grasp, back slowly away from her, and say: "do you like koolaid? I-I've got koolaid. Hold on. I'll get some koolaid."

Summer bats her eyelashes, more confused than anything. You hurry for the kitchen. Terrible mistake. N-Mom leads Summer towards the living room, and N-Mom's receding voice is asking her: "have you and Wes been hanging out a lot, then?"

In the living room, Summer sits on the giant sectional, lounging on the corner cushion like the werido she is. N-Mom just stands around like the more awkward weirdo she is.

"Sick house," Summer says, marveling at its size. She spends a particularly long moment admiring the fake fern in the alcove near the ceiling, so recently installed.

"We're very blessed," N-Mom says.

Summer smiles at her. "Yeah. Totally. Could use a couple renos, though. Like the counters, you know?" She swats the air in front of her with a limp wrist, in an 'oh, you' sort of way. "Bluestone is so in this year -- it would look really cute. In my opinion." When N-Mom reacts by just dumbly blinking at her, Summer seems to think she's been too blunt in her appraisal. She puts a hand to her collarbone: "Oh my gosh! I'm sorry, miss Keki! For real. I didn't mean it like that. Your house is super cute already."

You hand Summer a glass of purple koolaid. She sips it appreciatively. She seems more happy for something to quell her motormouth than for something to quell her thirst.

"That's fine," N-Mom says. "I've actually been thinking of bluestone, too... isn't that funny?" She takes a seat as if she'll fall over otherwise.

"Anyway, this place is really nice. I'm so glad you're keeping my Wessy livin' in style!"

"Your..." N-Mom says.

When you take a seat too, Summer scooches right up beside you. "You should show me around, babe..." she half whispers. She reaches out, parts your bangs from your face. "Give me the grand tour... show me your room..."

You sip your own glass, loudly.

"Uh-- your mother is just out mowing the lawn," N-Mom tells you. "She'll be back inside any minute now. Maybe you two should do that tour some other time."

You aren't sure what K-Mom getting home has to do with anything, but you'd rather do a tour like this at a time when neither of your mothers are home.

"You're right, miss Keki," Summer says. She sits straight, hands in her lap like the prim and proper schoolgirl she isn't. "We're going to be so totally late anyway-as-it-is, so I can't waste time fu-- getting a tour from Wes."

"Late?" N-Mom says.

"Oh, you didn't tell her?" Summer asks you.

"Well-- well, no-- I, uh, didn't think... well--"

"Tell me what?" N-Mom asks, curious. "Are you two going somewhere tonight?"

"Y-yeah...?" You say, looking to Summer for confirmation. Summer nods. "Yeah," you repeat with a bit more conviction. "It's, uh... well, I don't want to bore you with the details, you know?"

"You forgot," Summer says.

"Noooo," you drawl.

Summer pounds the cushion. "You, like, totally forgot! Oh my god! No wonder you're not dressed for it!"

"You'll have to forgive her," N-Mom says. "Wes is forgetful like that. She'd forget her own head if she wasn't straight -- erm -- if it wasn't screwed on straight."

Summer explains to N-Mom, rather than to you, since she's still pissed at you. Which is strange, since she wraps her arms around you again anyway. "My mom's opening a new store tonight. Not only that, but Ophie's band is playing there. I thought for sure she'd want to see it!"

"New store..." N-Mom mumbles. Then it hits her. "Ohhh-- Summer *Denali* -- of course! Denali Furniture & Flooring, right? Your mom is the one who's in all those awf-- all those commercials."

Summer nods enthusiastically, blonde pigtails flapping.

N-Mom stands. "Where is it? I'd be happy to take you both. Since Wes can't drive yet... and I'd hate to make you call another Luber--"

"Huh?" Summer says, furrowing her brow. "But Wes can dr--"

You titter awkwardly, and cut her off. "Y-yeah... just a couple more months, right? Can't wait for my license!"

N-Mom puts a hand on her hip. "I'm only letting you drive when you prove you're ready for it."

Summer's mask of confusion melts into a sly grin. "Riiiight..." She gives you a faux-serious look and tone: "Only when you're ready. That's a lot of responsibility."

N-Mom glances at you. "Wes?"

>[x] Well, let's go. Lead the way, Mom.

>[x] Maybe K-Mom should take us.

[ ] We'll get there on our own.

[ ] We have time. How about that grand tour first?

"I will... be right back," you promise. "Just gonna..."

You let that thought hang in the air as you duck into the hallway, towards your bedroom, to throw on something more presentable.

From the living room, you hear Summer make her excuses: "Wes is great and all, but she has the fashion sense of a dork... y'know?"

"She is a dork," N-Mom says. "So that checks out."

"Right. So -- I'll just go and make sure she doesn't end up looking too dorky. brb."

Like that, she follows you into your bedroom uninvited.

"Hoo," she squeals, stepping past the threshold and shutting the door. She tousles her own hair using both her hands and shifts her weight to one foot. "Freaking stinks in here. Pheromone city... I'm getting a little woozy. Is this where you fuck your own sister, Wes? Don't lie to me."

"Summer--" you begin.

"I know, I know," she cuts in. "No frisky stuff. Don't want your *mom* to overhear." She sits on your bed. "I just wanna watch you change. You'll do that for me, right, babe?"

K-Mom recently took pity on you and washed your clothes, so you have a dresser full of options to choose from. You dig through the drawers, tossing the unselected articles aside unfolded and rumpled on the ground, until at last you find a suitably plain but serviceable sweater and jeans combo. Ditching your tee and shorts which end up mingled with the clean clothes on the ground, you pull the sweater over partially your head. But behind you, Summer purrs:

"Uh, Wes, honey? Undies?"

You turn to face her with both arms still inside the sweater. Heat rises through your chest and into your face. "My underwear? You... want me to--"

Summer leans back. Way back, bracing herself against the mattress with both hands, spreading her legs just slightly. "Uh huh. You want to be fresh and clean for the big event, right?" She licks her lips.

In less than a week's time, Summer has gone from being a trembling little virgin to being a woman-eater. Very dangerous. And in such dangerous waters, you have no choice, really, but to comply with her demented demands. In as unsexy a way as you can manage, you go fully nude -- then slip on a fresh set of underwear. Summer makes an appreciative "mmm" at the show anyway.

You're glad you have clean garments to choose from. You can only imagine what Summer would say if she saw what you usually do.

"It's so messy in here," Summer says, looking around. Her voice drops about half an octave: "...Let's make it messier tonight."

You gulp. Going double-time now, you slip on the sweater and jeans, and usher her out of the room.

You're surprised to find N-Mom outside your bedroom. She was standing there slightly stooped -- now she reels back in shock, going rigid, when the door swings open.

"...Mom?" You say.

"W-Wes! I was just coming -- coming to check on you."

Summer massages your shoulders up by you neck. "I kept her safe, miss Keki." She plays her fingers through your messy hair. "Normally I'd tell her to use a hairbrush, buuuut... the bedhead look is cute, don't you think?"

"Are you ready to go?" N-Mom asks, seeming almost as mortified as you.

---

"Where is it?" N-Mom asks, settling into the driver's seat of her VW Avalon as you and Summer clamber into back. N-Mom pulls the seatbelt down across her chest and clicks it into place. She makes sure it isn't twisted and tests its tension to check that it's securely fastened. Such a worrywart.

"Here in town," Summer says. "Not far. Middlefield Road, across from Hoover Park -- by the Safeway."

N-Mom meets Summer's gaze in the rearview. "Oh, nice. That's right near my favorite cafe."

But N-Mom loses her train of thought as the buzz of a riding mower draws near. Looking through the tinted driver's side window, she finds K-Mom struggling to climb off the mower's high seat. N-Mom, like a fleeing bank robber who just heard sirens, fires the ignition and tries to gun it out of the driveway. But K-Mom, jogging up, cuts her off, forcing N-Mom to jam on the brakes.

K-Mom pounds angrily on N-Mom's window. Her voice comes through, albeit muffled: "Who is that?"

N-Mom rolls the window down, slowly. Looking abashed, she asks: "Who is who?"

"Oh, fuck off." She points at Summer. "Her! Who is she?"

"Summer!" Summer says. "Pleased to meet ya!"

K-Mom makes a what-the-fuck motion at N-Mom with both hands.

"Will you cut it out?" N-Mom says. "She's one of Wes's friends from school. That's all. I'm taking them to Ophie's concert."

"Together?" K-Mom says.

"No. Separately. What the hell does it look like?"

K-Mom grips the door frame and leans in through the window. "You're Wes's friend?" She asks Summer.

Summer nods in her bubbly way, and hugs you close.

K-Mom narrows her eyes. She leans even further through the window, forcing N-Mom to cringe and recoil to the side. "Just friends? Are you two dating, by any chance?"

"We're--" Summer begins.

N-Mom puts a hand against K-Mom's forehead and forces her back from whence she came. "Jesus, Kay. You're going to embarrass Wes."

"Oh, just Wes, huh?" She hurries around the front, her palm sliding across the sleek blue hood as if she has to physically hold the car in place to keep it from taking off. Maybe she does. Reaching the passenger side, she hops in with you all -- still wearing her grass-stained shirt and shorts -- and clacks her own seatbelt on. Unlike N-Mom, she got it twisted.

There's a brief and awkward silence. "All right, great, let's go," K-Mom says, gesticulating, a bit out of breath from her hurrying.

"I'm going to have to get this interior retouched because of you," N-Mom says. "Do you know how hard grass is to get out of upholstery like this?"

K-Mom flicks N-Mom's forehead. "Dolt. Won't be the first time, will it? I'll pay for it. Happy?"

"Oh, I like this one," Summer says. "I can tell who wears the pants."

K-Mom, turning and propping her elbow on the center console to talk with Summer directly, says: "don't you forget it." She casts a brief glance your way, before continuing to Summer: "us pants-wearers have to be a little stern, sometimes, to keep the non-pants-wearers in line. That's a valuable lesson for you." She tilts her head slightly forward. "If you need it."

"You're sick," N-Mom says, throwing the car into gear, and pulling out of the drive.

>[x] Stop at Dad's house to pick up Amber.

[ ] Go straight to the grand opening.

Dad's house is kitty-corner from yours, and any excuse to leave the quickly-growing-awkward confines of this car is a good enough excuse in your book. As you hop out, K-Mom says to Summer: "so -- while we wait -- tell me aaaall about you and Wes..."

---

You wander the cozy downstairs area of the house. Aunt Whitney doesn't know you know, but Amber once told you that she (Whitney) had christened this place the Nail House. It's not hard to tell why, as you pass from the living area into the den:

Dad has his face buried between Aunt Rose's pale thighs, who's kicked back on a dining table with one calf draped over his head, curling her toes. At least this time it's the Aunt Rose he's married to, and not the one he's related to... well, not immediately related to, anyway. Aunt Rose is gyrating against him, and she doesn't see you until way, way too late. "Good puppy. That's it. Smell my c-- Wesley!" Rose swings her leg up and over Dad's head, flips her skirt down and smooths it out. She hops off the table. Dad drunkenly stumbles to his feet.

"So... nice-- uh, so surprising, to see you," she says with a pinched-off voice.

Dad's face is the color of an overripe tomato. He slicks his hair back. "What are doing here?"

You stare at them.

"We... were wrestling," Aunt Rose explains. "You know."

"I see," you say.

"...Rose won," Dad says, trying to strike a tone of helpfully filling in details.

"Uh huh." You glance all around and ask, "do you guys know where Amber is?"

"Where Amb--" Aunt Rose begins. "She said she was with you."

"Oh." You wait just long enough for it to become awkward. "Well, she isn't."

Dad and Rose both sort of shake their heads at each other in frustration. But they're beyond the point of truly caring about Amber's lies.

"Tell her I'm looking for her if you see her," you say.

"Of course," Dad says.

"You two are going to Ophie's concert, right?" Rose says. "She's probably there already."

"Maybe," you allow. "Well. Enjoy your wrestling."

You leave it at that. As you walk away, Aunt Rose hisses to Dad: "Asshole!" To which he hisses back: "Asshole? How am I the asshole? You're the one who decided to sit on my fucking face in broad daylight..."

If Amber had left for the concert already, she definitely would have come to drag you from your masturbatorium first. So she can't be very far. You've got an idea of where she may be.

In the guardhouse. Of course. Amber let you walk right past without noticing you -- or maybe she didn't bother to flag you down because she wanted to finish up with Tyrus. The two are deep into a game of backgammon, sitting atop barstools, facing off from opposite sides of a folding table. Amber has her elbows on her knees and her chin propped on both fists as she contemplates her move. She finally selects one of the draughts and slides it across the board. The move makes Tyrus smile. And when Tyrus rolls, Amber obviously doesn't like the result.

"Motherfucker! You're fucking cheating! Fuck you!"

"You know, the doubling cube's at 64," Tyrus says. "It don't go higher than that. You gotta pay up after this one."

"...Amber?" You say.

Amber swivels in place. "Yeah, I know. Ophie's thing. And thank fucking god, too. I can't deal with this, this..." She spins back towards Tyrus and points at him. "This goddamn -- cheater! You're cheating!"

Tyrus tugs on his lapel. "I take payment in crypto or stock options."

Amber pulls a tiny drawer out of the side of the backgammon board and produces another doubling cube. She sets it beside the first so its face reads 2.

64 times 2 -- she's increasing the stakes by 128x. "This isn't over," she snarls.

"You're gonna bankrupt your daddy," Tyrus says.

"Oh, you fucking wish." She hops off the stool. "C'mon, Wes. Let's Go."

Tyrus laughs.

"Not over!" Amber says over her shoulder as her only parting shot, slamming the door behind her. Seems neither of you are faring well against the Kangs today.

Amber's expression drops when she sees N-Mom's Avalon out front. "Oh, the paddy wagon." She glances in through the backseat. "With a bonus base-bitch in the back to ride with. Cool. Fucking cool."

"Stop," you say. "It's not far. And you like Summer more than I do, even."

"I like her aesthetically," Amber clarifies. "She's cute, but only if she isn't running her mouth. Which is always. ...Unless you put something over it, of course."

You don't dignify her with a response. You just climb inside, taking the center seat, to keep the two of them separated.

When you settle, you're surprised to find K-Mom looking dour and grumpy up front. "That was quick," she says. You sense sarcasm. "I was just talking to your..."

She trails off.

"Your friend," N-Mom finishes.

"That's us!" Summer says, looping an arm around yours. "Couple a gal pals!"

K-Mom eyes you both suspiciously. N-Mom is exultant as she puts the car in gear: "all buckled up, chickadees?"

"Just drive, pig," Amber says.

N-Mom gives her a look in the rearview. "You start and you're getting some grade-A police brutality. Just FYI."

"Wouldn't expect any less. You got your best jackboots on, too? I don't want to lick fake leather."

N-Mom tilts her head, half frustrated at Amber, and half confused.

"Yah!" Amber calls, pretending to crack a whip. "Yah! Giddyup, pig! Time's a-wastin'!"

N-Mom pulls away from the curb and starts down the road. Amber gives Summer a sly and cheeky grin. Summer, in response, tugs your arm to pull you a bit closer to her bosom.

K-Mom takes to scrolling through her phone. "What do you want for dinner?" She asks N-Mom.

"Anywhere in town that delivers crow?" N-Mom says.

"You made your point already," K-Mom says.

"I'll let you decide on dinner. I'm a gracious victor."

"Uh huh. Thai it is." She glances up to give N-Mom an angry, patently false smile. "I'll punish your butthole twice in one night."

N-Mom exhales hard. "Kay--!" She leans in and whispers: "Wes is--"

"Wes is a big girl." K-Mom looks back at you and Summer. "With a cute girlfriend."

"Uh huh!" Summer agrees.

"That is not--" N-Mom begins. But K-Mom waves off whatever would have come next, and starts scrolling again. She seems to be deliberating on where to order from.

Big girl or not, you could have done without either of the mental images K-Mom planted in your head just now. Oh well.

N-Mom makes small talk with Summer. Creepy small talk. "You smell really nice. Do you mind me saying that? I have to know what you're using."

Amber snorts.

"I don't mind at all, Miss Keki!" Summer chirps. Beside you, Amber rolls her eyes and pantomimes jerking off. An old move she picked up from her mother. Summer puts a forefinger to her chin and stares at the upholstered ceiling. "Hrm. Let's see... today I'm wearing Honeybee Dandy deodorant -- they're this cute little co-op from San Bernadino that uses real honey in their products, you know, for antibacterial properties? -- and, uh... perfume today is Realiti by Grimes -- just a spritz or two, you can't overdo it -- and of course, I'm always but *always* wearing my favorite cocoa butter lotion!" She opens her purse to show N-Mom the travel bottle stashed in there. "Can't leave home without it!" She pulls it out now, squirts a dollop into her palm, and starts to lather it across her toned arms. The car fills with the almost overpowering scent of it. "White people can get ashy too -- I should know -- with this complexion, it really shows!"

N-Mom is turned almost fully around in her seat by now, and seems to be getting led by her nose as she leans further and further towards Summer. She looks half hypnotized. The car's indicator dings gently and the computer reminds her: "Please keep your eyes on the road at all times." N-Mom ignores it.

"Mom. The road." You say.

She blinks out of it. "Huh? Oh. It's fine. Drive assist." She looks at Summer. "Could you write that down for me? What you're using?"

"Uh, sure. But... I don't have paper..." Summer says.

"You can text me. Wes, give her my number so she can text me."

K-Mom shakes her head. Not glancing up from her phone, she says: "you come home stinking like cocoa butter, I'm not gonna fuck you."

"Kay!!"

"Ever hear the word jailbait, Noelle? I'm not trying to have your colleagues raid our house."

This drags N-Mom's eyes back to the road. Finally. "You are really sick, you know that?"

"Mm-hmm," K-Mom murmurs.

"16 is legal in Cali now!" Summer says, like she's just trying to help.

N-Mom gasps, and her hands jerk the steering wheel to the left. The car lurches towards the median before immediately lurching back the other way, leaving you all feeling seasick. The computer warns: "lane assist active. Stay in your lane and obey the rules of the road at all times."

But N-Mom isn't the only one put on the back foot by that remark. K-Mom is also staring back in shock at Summer. Summer grins at her.

"Here, babe, gimme your phone," she tells you. "I'll add your Mom to my contacts."

"Hope you can get used to the whole cocoa butter thing," Amber tells K-Mom. "She'll be smelling like it for days." K-Mom grimaces at her, and returns to placing her order -- but this time, her olive skin is blushing red.

"Keki..." Summer says, as she enters the details into the phone. "That is such a cute name. I've always wondered... what is it? Japanese? Botswani?"

"...Botswani?" N-Mom repeats. "Do we look African?"

"Uh, I'm pretty sure Botswana's in Asia," Summer says, with a frankly kind of bitchy tone, as if explaining something obvious.

"Africa," you confirm to her, whispering.

She frowns. "...Really?"

"It's Filipino," N-Mom says. "Well. My dad is Filipino. It's not a common surname as far as I'm aware."

"It's cute, though!" She leans back, hands laced behind her head. "Way cuter than Denali. I'd so rather have a name like Keki than Denali."

"You get laid like one time and you're already talking about marriage?" Amber breathes. "Christ."

K-Mom's eyes go wide and she spins around to gaze at you all. "What did you say?"

"You'll get a turn on the bike too," Amber tells her. "Don't worry."

N-Mom rubs K-Mom's arm to get her attention facing forwards again. "If you ever wondered what Wes is," N-Mom explains to Summer, "I'm half Filipino and half Taiwanese. Wes's father is white... French, to be specific, he says -- thinks he's a real Pierre Delecto type."

"Wow," Summer says. "That explains so much. Well, I dig it. Wes has this, like, totally Eurasian vibe to her that's so precious."

You massage your eyes. "Please stop..."

Summer giggles. "Sorry, babe. You're just too cute!"

"I'm the straightest person in this car, you know," K-Mom mutters to N-Mom.

"Can it."

"Money's mine. All I'm saying."

The car ride continues in relative silence after that, with your mothers paying attention to their own things, and the girls on either side of you falling quiet. But Summer is a person who grows easily bored, and who from boredom grows quickly mischievous. It isn't too long after that when you feel her fingertips playing up the side of your thigh.

A jolt of raw panic rips through you. "Stop," you whisper out of the side of your mouth.

"Make me~" Summer whispers back.

You glance desperately up front. Your mothers are both distracted -- for the time being. N-Mom has her eyes planted on the road as computationally instructed, and K-Mom is fiddling with the online portal of the same old Thai place she always orders from (despite claiming every time is the last time she'll ever eat from there).

"Just a little fun," Summer whispers hot in your ear, and nips your earlobe for effect. "It's fine."

"Summer..." you whine.

Your mommies don't notice, but your sister sure as shit does. Playing at innocent and unaware, she stares out the window, while meanwhile her fingers snake up the side of your other thigh.

Summer pauses. She knew already that you and Amber did sexual things together... and she probably had to figure that Amber might even notice her getting handsy. But it still surprises her, if briefly, to see Amber joining in. But Summer's surprise morphs into a dopey grin. And so she starts giving you something better than teasing, tickling fingertips on your thighs. Her tickling turns to heavy petting. Summer strokes your leg with the meaty part of her palm, gripping you not a little roughly, as she rubs and massages you. Amber mimics her.

"Please..." you whisper, to Summer and Amber both.

"Shhhh," Summer coos.

In silence, Summer and Amber work in slow circles around your legs, each finally finding their way to your inner thighs. You're helpless. The last thing you want is to make a fuss fighting back against these two and have your mothers catch you. So you just sit there and hope it will all be over soon. In your heart, you know this ends in only one way. It ends with you cumming, and not a second sooner.

The two pull out their phones, and make no secret of texting each other. They, probably purposely, allow you to see their screens.

>Wes's moms are super cute

>Right? First good opinion you've ever had. Yeah. They're hot.

>Think they would be down to hook up with me?

>ofc. those broads are gayer than the 1890s.

Summer stops rubbing your leg, and gives Amber a confused look. Amber glances back and mouths something that looks like -- "it's a reference." That satisfies Summer well enough, who shrugs and goes back to texting:

>Have you been fucking Wes for awhile?

>Oh years. Does she eat pussy good?

>Fuck yea.

>You're welcome :)

> ❤️

You can't help how wet you're getting from being toyed with like this. You hate yourself for it, but there it is. Your pussy is getting all puffy and throbby and wet inside your panties.

Summer is the first one to take the bold next step in this act of molestation. She unbuttons the brass clasp of your jeans and unzips your zipper. You feel as exposed by this as if you were stark naked, and the sound of the zipper coming undone, even as slowly as Summer tugs it down, sounds to you like an atom bomb. You bite your lower lip and just wait for either of your mothers, or both, to wheel on you. You shiver like you've been dunked in ice water.

Summer reaches down your front. Amber reaches down your back. They have you trapped, and they don't waste any extra time going in for foreplay. This is a quickie. They want you to get off hard and fast. Summer's fingers wiggle past the crotch of your panties to prod and probe your juicy cunt. Amber's hand slips past the elastic waistband to spread your ass cheeks and play with your tender rear hole. Somewhere between those orifices, their fingertips meet and interlace. You gaze down your front, half disbelieving, as right here in broad daylight and not two feet from your parents, your fuck-friend and your older sister finger you in tandem. Your pants bulge from Summer's knuckles.

They grow bolder still. Grinning at one another like the evil bullies they are, they get their hands under your sweater as well. This is too much. They're openly groping you all over, like they're just begging to get caught. They paw at your tiny tits, mauling them and pressing down on them. It hurts. It *really* hurts -- their cruel hands are after their own sick pleasure, nothing more. Your breath hitches. You stifle a moan just before it escapes you lips. To wordlessly shush you, Summer presses a finger to your lips -- then presses it further, beyond your lips, and into your mouth. But she couldn't have forced it in, past your teeth, if you didn't secretly want it there.

Amber follows suit. They go from groping your tits to running their fingers around in your mouth. Over your tongue, across your molars, against your palate -- down, into your esophagus, testing how well you've got your gag reflex under control. They use their fingers to explore every nook and cranny while your jaw hangs stupidly open and drool runs down your chin. They fishhook you together. They pinch your tongue between thumb and forefinger together. And all the while, their other hands stay busy inside your lower holes. These fucking bitches are abusing all three of your holes like you're just a cheap whore they bought for the night... so why does it make you so excited that you almost feel nauseous from the thrill of it?

These two girls, usually so combative, are totally synchronized in mistreating you. Amber spreads the two fingers she has up your asshole as wide as she can, forcing it to gape open. At the same moment, Summer starts to rub her thumb in quick little circles around your engorged clit. They saw their fingers in and out of you like they're trying to dick you down. You wrench your eyes tightly close, and swoon, but they keep you held steady between them.

You can't hold out. You cum from getting molested. As always, you take a sharp breath and pinch your knees together. This sudden noise perks N-Mom's ears and the movement flags her peripheral vision. Her eyes shoot up and meet with yours in the mirror. Your face trembles and twitches. Your drooling mouth goes droopy. Amber and Summer, totally uncaring about being caught, pry your legs apart -- to show you off like you're a toy -- to show your own biological mother how they're fingering you to orgasm, and how the wet spot from your cum seeps across the crotch of your jeans. N-Mom doesn't say a word. She just watches on, and her expression is inscrutable. Beside her, your other mom is oblivious. For now, this nasty secret is between you and N-Mom, and it seems like she's going to be willing to keep it. For now.

The wet spot grows at that last thought. At "for now." What will she do next? You close your eyes, too humiliated to look at her, and let yourself finish cumming. Your brain melts as you feel your underwear growing sloppy, as you feel the backs of your thighs begin to drip. Amber snickers. Summer nibbles your ear. And although you can't see her anymore, you know your mom is watching everything, everything.

At the grand opening, N-Mom pulls alongside the curb abutting Hoover Park. There's a huge crowd congregating across the street, descending on the strip mall where the new Denali Furniture & Flooring outlet sits. You didn't expect the opening of a furniture store to be such a draw. Well, maybe it's the flooring. Maybe people are way more into flooring than you ever gave them credit for.

The three of you shuffle out of the Avalon. N-Mom rolls her window down, but she almost can't seem to meet your gaze. That's fair. You can't meet hers.

K-Mom looks up from her phone for the first time in minutes. "We staying, honey? Or...? I've got our order ready to go. I could send it off and we can eat at Mr. Pad while we wait, if you want."

N-Mom, somewhat dazed, nods at her. "Y-yeah. Yeah. I'm sure they don't want old ladies like us in their hair."

"Which hair?" Amber asks.

N-Mom lets that hang. "When do you girls want us to pick you up?"

Summer saunters up, hips swaying, and leans in through the open window with both forearms folded over the frame. Her voice is silk. "When do you *want* to pick us up?"

N-Mom quivers. K-Mom reaches across her and holds the button to roll the driver's side window back up. Summer is forced to step back as the tinted pane forces its way past her arms. Over the rising glass, K-Mom tells her, "We'll be back at 10:00. Fuck my daughter, not my wife, all right, Summer?" Through the now fully-closed window, she smiles and adds: "Thanks in advance!"

Noelle has her eyes facing firmly forward as she pulls away, leaving you all to yourselves.

Summer glances at you. "Well that sucks. She didn't say anything about her stance on fucking her, though."

"Please don't fuck my moms," you say.

"That's cute," Amber says. "You think you get a say in that."

Summer frowns at her. "Very funny, Amber. Of course Wes gets a say in it. Well -- I won't do it if you're not into it, anyway," she promises you. Then, lowering her voice, she says: "I think you're into it, though."

"Oh, she is," Amber says. "She definitely is."

Your knees are still a little weak, and you're not thinking straight enough to say whether you are, or aren't.

Regardless of the reason, furniture and/or flooring, the parking lot outside this new store is totally slamma jamma. A big, bustling group of people like this, all noisy and tightly packed and sweaty... no, no thank you. But thou must.

Situated beside the pristine storefront and its GRAND OPENING banner, there's a white tent. Underneath which the Tone Police are even now getting themselves set up -- plugging in amps, testing volume levels, tuning instruments. It looks like they found a replacement bassist in time for the concert after all: Auburn fucking Brantly.

"Oh, that mother cunter," Amber groans. "Hold on, Wes." She runs towards the tent to give Auburn a piece of her mind -- and maybe something much worse than just that.

"You gonna be ok on your own for a bit, babe?" Summer asks. "I gotta go check the new place out before the hoppoly get inside."

You blink. "Hoppoly? Like the board game?"

"Like... unwashed masses. You know."

"Hoi polloi?"

"Yeah. That. And... if I talk my mom into it... she might let you inside before the others, too." She raises her eyebrows and lets you mull that over. You get the message. She pecks you on the cheek before jogging off. "brb!"

You've got a nice place to hang out while you wait, anyway. You may not be a heavy eater, but one thing you can't resist is a buffet table lined with hors d'oeuvres. God's in his heaven; you're in yours. You start at one end and eat your way down. Cheese and bacon rollups, tuna spread on Ritz crackers, deviled eggs, potato skin bites... if you focus on the food, you can almost ignore the hoppoly all around you.

Shrill feedback cuts across the parking lot like a sonic assault, before swiftly resolving into a voice: it's Ophie, doing her best attempt at showmanship. "Greetings. Welcome to Denali Furniture & Flooring. We are the Tone Police. We are here to entertain you. ... ... Enjoy."

You pause, and watch the ad hoc stage as a bumping synth groove swells up as if it had always been there to begin with. The crowd quiets down -- the music hooks them right away. Ophie's head bobs, just slightly, as she fingers her keytar. Auburn sways and strums, surprisingly proficient for a boy you've only ever seen handle a ukulele. Will, of course, thinks he's a regular... a regular... uh, you're not too knowledgeable about drummers, so let's say.... a regular That Guy Who Drummed For Metallica, Probably. And at center stage, on the keyboard, Talia sways like something fluid. Her voice is more sultry than you've ever heard: "I surrender. Yes I do. Great pretender -- nothing's new. We're out in the open. We're out in the open..."

"WHOOOO! TONE POLICE! YEAH!"

That lone voice, calling above the now otherwise mostly quiet and appreciative crowd -- you recognize it as Aunt Whitney's. Ophie, poor Ophie, asked her parents not to come to this thing. Dad and Aunt Rose respected that (and, as you found out, they needed the me-time). Aunt Whitney just couldn't help herself, though. She's so proud.

You bop your head in tune to the music as you keep eating your way across the table. A little further down, you bump into a semi-familiar face: Nelson Berenstoin, pigging out on pigs in a blanket. You're not up to date on all the hottest trends in rabbinic law, but you're pretty confident that's still not kosher. Well, the collection of Hawaiian shirts and the continually unkempt mane sort of gave away that he was never a devout practitioner, anyway.

"What do you think?" He asks, nodding at the stage.

"Hm? Oh. Good." You grab a pig in a blanket too. When in Rome, do as the Jews do.

"It's not my thing, honestly," Nelson says. "I'm more into prog. But for the genre... they've got some real juju."

You look all around -- not that you would recognize anyone else from the Berenstoin clan if you saw them -- but it's something that kind of bugs you, anyway. "How come you're the only one who ever shows up to these things?" You ask him.

Nelson shrugs. "I've always liked Talia. I'm sort of her Berenstoin cheerleader."

"Why not her parents or something?"

"Oh-- well-- her parents are a little more orthodox-- uh, practicing, you know. They don't really support--" He adjusts his glasses, coughs, picks up another pig in a blanket. "And you know, it's Shabbat now, technically."

"Sunset on a Friday-- yeah," you say, nodding.

"Anyway, h--" Nelson coughs again, a fist to his mouth, as if he choked on his food. He struggles to regain his composure. "The band's good, is the point," he finally says.

"Think they could go pro?" You ask.

"They need a full-time bassist first. I don't think the current one's gonna last."

He points. Your eyes follow. Auburn is doing his best to play through it without flinching, but pebbles of increasingly large diameter are tinking off of him and his guitar. You can guess who's hurling them. You debate whether to go and stop her. On the one hand, she could indirectly ruin Ophie's night like this. On the other hand, seeing Auburn eat shit is never not funny. And also, you're still hungry.

You keep chowing down.

From your right comes a gentle voice: "you must be Wesley."

You freeze, hunched over the buffet table -- you have the posture and mien of a neanderthal, your mouth still stuffed with lil' smokies and chimichurri meatballs. You slowly swivel your head, humiliated, to find the source of the voice: Liz Denali. She's not dressed like a cop anymore. Rather in the respectable pencil skirt and ruffled blouse of a businesswoman. You try to swallow, but there's still some food in your mouth as you respond: "weffey?"

"You are Wesley, right?" She says. She proffers a forearm. "I'm Liz. Summer's mother."

You straighten your spine (somewhat), swallow the last of the half-masticated meat product, and return the arm bump. "Yeah, I recognize you," you tell her. "...I love your commercials."

"No you don't," Liz tells you, smiling bright.

You awkwardly take a shrimp tartlet from the table and bite into it so you don't have to respond.

"Those commercials are awful," Liz says. "That's the whole point! They're so bad that you can't forget 'em. Even if you want to, which you do. They get stuck in your head." She mimics her wild-west shooting pose from the commercial: "bang!" -- and then cackles like mad.

"...Bang," you repeat.

"Well. I'm going to be emceeing in a little bit, but... Summer wanted me to give you this."

She passes a key from her palm to yours. You hold it up in front of your face, examining it.

"What is this?" You ask.

"It's the key to the kingdom, of course. You can go and explore the place before I let everyone in. Summer is just dying to show you around. Be careful you don't get lost, though. I model my stores after Ikea. Have to steal with pride if you want to take down the top dogs!"

"Ikea, huh?" You say with a laugh. "Do you have meatballs, too?"

Liz hums. "Oh? Are you really into meatballs, Wesley?"

Your laughter dies an awkward death.

"Go have fun, dear," she says. You feel like you've got to comply.

Cutting through the crowd on your way to the storefront, you find Noah, sitting on the concrete base of one of the parking lot's overhead lights. His perch doesn't look very comfortable, being just high enough that he can't get his feet on the ground, and too insubstantial for him to get his whole butt resting atop it. He's just kind of dangling there, maybe a bit precariously, but he looks well at ease. Or rather: he looks as expressionless as always. The setting sun glints off his lenses, obscuring his eyes, but the rest of his face is blank enough that you figure there's nothing more to be discerned from seeing his eyes anyway. He seems to be paying close attention to the concert, his head pointed directly at the stage, where by now it's Ophie singing for the Tone Police: "First time that I met you, I could not forget you. From the moment that you appeared: chemical reaction, immediate attraction. You're already pulling me near..."

"Nice to see you," you tell him as you sidle up.

"Likewise."

"I kind of didn't expect you to show up."

"Likewise."

Okay, Noah... you can be cutting when you want to be. "Good music?" you ask him. "Having fun? Was it worth skipping out on your research?"

He doesn't reply. Such a conversationalist, Noah.

"I'm sure Ophie will be really happy you came," you tell him.

"She was. I spoke with her before the show."

"Oh."

But he leaves it at that. Sliding from the bollard, he stands on two feet -- barely taller than you are -- and dusts off the back of his pants. "I should be going," he tells you.

That kind of pisses you off, if you're being honest. You don't mind being ignored or bullied yourself, but seeing your sister get the cold shoulder is enough to boil your blood. Then again, this is all too predictable. Noah is Noah -- he's denser than a neutron star, and probably needs someone who's willing to tell him, directly, to his face, and without any to-do, that Ophie wants to jump his bones. If no one ever scoops him, he'll never fucking figure it out on his own. He'll figure out the Grand Unified Field Theory first.

[ ] Tell Noah how your sister feels.

>[x] You shouldn't interfere. Let their romance blossom or wilt on its own.

"You know, you're a real--" you begin. Noah cocks his head, but you restrain yourself from telling him what you really think, or what Ophie really thinks either.

You settle for something much more milquetoast and equivocal. "Don't you think Ophie would be even happier if you stayed until after the concert?"

"You really care about your sister," Noah says.

"Well... yeah. She's my sister."

"I'm very busy tonight. Tell her I wish I could have stayed." He looks up towards heaven. He spends another quarter of an eternity mulling his words. "And also that... her music is lovely."

He brushes past.

Jeeesus. Some people are helpless. Noah isn't going to realize Ophie feels the same way unless she forces herself on him. That's just the way it has to be. Watching him slowly slink from the lot without so much as a goodbye -- a classic Irish Exit -- you're quietly thankful that you aren't nearly as obtuse as him.

Glancing to the side, you see Liz still over by the buffet table -- and she looks a lot less effusive than she was when she handed you her "key to the kingdom." She's talking to a tall, lanky, hoboishly scruffy man in clothes not at all befitting the California autumn (you say this as someone wearing a sweater that's getting kind of sweaty). His overcoat is overlong and overthick, and his multiple layers underneath only compound things.

This guy sort of reminds you of your Dad, in that definitely-practiced-how-to-look-broody sort of way. You're nosy. And you're not surprised to find out that he is, himself, a dad -- he's got that energy:

"What are you doing here, Gideon?" Liz says.

You recognize the name. Summer's told you about him. This would be her deadbeat dad, who skipped town when she was only little and left mom to run both home and business.

Maybe you shouldn't have been nosy. Maybe this wasn't the conversation for you to snoop on. But now you're too close to the pair to quickly extricate yourself without the risk of being seen. You have to slouch steadily back in your best impression of Solid Snake.

"I needed to see you," Gideon says. "Liz, there might be some people looking for me soon. Be safe."

"People? What people? Waltz through here and lead these criminals to me too, why don't you!"

Step by step, you awkwardly shuffle to the side, scooching away while trying not be noticed scooching away.

"Public places like these, with lots of people... are the safest way to be in touch. And -- listen, this is sudden, but I need you to take Winter for a little while, too."

"Oh! Okay! And where is she, huh? Are you hiding her from these mysterious 'people', too?"

"Sort of."

"You are unbelievable--"

"She's coming down on a train."

"You let Winter take a train all the way from-- by herself?"

"She's old enough. This is the best way."

Back... and to the left... back... and to the left... almost far enough away that you can turn and run.

"The less you know," Gideon says, "the better it'll be. I have some business to finish up down here and then I'll be gone -- for good this time."

"Maybe I should make this divorce official. You definitely aren't taking Winter back. Not after this... this insanity!"

"Do you really want the cops and the courts involved in this, Liz? Have them start questioning where our money originally came from? I'll be out of you hair soon enough. Then you can go back to living your nice, comfortable life."

"Comfortable?! I've been running this entire business, have you noticed? Or are you blind! Do you see what's going on around you? All me! When you left, we had two stores. Now *I* have seven. With three more coming next year, including our first outside the state. I've broken my back for this business, so don't you go making snide remarks about how I'm living some sort of pampered life..."

You turn and make a break for it. That was bad of you, Wesley. Very bad. You shouldn't have listened in on that.

Shaken, you step past the tent where the Tone Police are performing, on your way towards the storefront. Amber notices you and stops pelting Auburn with rocks. From close up you can see that Auburn is more than a little bit bruised, and he looks absolutely miserable. Still plays a mean bass, though.

"Are you done stoning your boyfriend to death?" You ask.

"He is NOT my fucking -- whoa, hey -- where are you going?"

You unlock one of the store's double-doors and swing it open. Smirking, you say, "Inside. I have the VIP pass."

"Sweet. Let's go."

Keeping the door held ajar, you push against her chest to keep her from crossing the threshold. You kind of relish being the furniture bouncer here. "Hey. Liz Denali gave me the VIP pass. Not you..."

"You got that key from Liz Denali? The woman herself? *Bang* Liz Denali?"

Phrasing, Amber, you think...

Amber visors her brow with a flattened palm and sweeps her eyes across the crowd. "Where is that bimbo? I wanna see how much of a strumpet she is in real life."

"You're gonna be underwhelmed..." you warn her. "The camera adds 10 pounds... and subtracts about 20 IQ points, I guess. Anyway, if you want to see her so badly, I guess she's giving a speech when Ophie's band is done. So you might want to wait out h--"

Amber shrugs. "Whatever. I'm not that interested. I'd rather go tooling around somewhere I'm not supposed to be."

>[x] Invite Amber in with you.

>[x] Keep her out; this is for you and Summer only.

You whistle. "Ohhh man -- Auburn looks pissed," you say. "Here he comes."

"Huh?" Amber says, spinning on her heels, looking this way and that. By the time she realizes she's been fooled, you've already slipped through the open door and locked it again from the inside.

Amber gawks at you from the opposite side of the nearly opaque glass. She bangs on it, alternating this with impotent tugging at the handles. "Wes! Let me in! You let me the fuck in right the fuck now! Hey! HEY! STOP LAUGHING! Oh I am so going to rape your stupid slut ass into the floor when I get my hands on you! Come back here!! I'm not done with you!!! HEY!"

You retreat a few steps into the store's eerily dark interior. The floor is a glossy finished concrete, the color of unbaked pie crust, and the only illumination is a few regularly spaced and dimly glowing emergency lights hanging far, far above. The shelves and racking interspersed among the displays, all bathed in deep dark pools of shadow, seem randomly arranged, and the entire place feels like a long-abandoned warehouse. It gives you the same sense of disquiet you've always felt when peering in at darkened, closed-for-business businesses. Now, being on the inside of one, you feel that disquiet even more strongly than ever.

But then, starting from the far end of the store, the deadened rows of domed lights come to life -- one row after another, in succession -- the xenon bulbs clunking on with the volume and foreboding reverberation of an army marching over a trussed bridge. Soon after: the muzak. It plays, distant but distinct, from the PA system. The bright white girded rafters along the ceiling and the white sheet-metal walls, baking the store's wares under eyeball melting white light, have transformed this place from spooky to obnoxious.

Behind you, and beyond the registers, along the wall near the entrance, you see Summer standing at a row of switches. She's bracing herself against the wall like a kid playing hide-and-seek who's cowering behind a tree while watching the seeker seek. You nod at her. Found, she gives up the stealth act -- flips a protective cover down over the switches again, locks it, and pushes herself off the wall. As she steps towards you with gaining momentum, her arms held wide, she twirls. Her skirt flutters in the breeze her spinning creates. It accentuates an already impressive ZR -- you can't help staring at her thighs, the way her stockings bite into them.

When she finally comes to a rest, tottering only once before she steadies herself, she smiles at you with a wide-open mouth. Her eyes gleam. She has the childlike enthusiasm of Wonka showing off his factory. "What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's... big. Bigger than I thought."

"Right? Are you like, totally floored, or what?"

"Furnitured, too."

Summer giggles. She draws closer, takes both your hands in hers, draws them up between you.

"You want me to show you around?" Summer asks.

"Not really," you say.

She kisses you. You kiss her back. It's a kiss that lingers -- and it's actually Summer who cuts it off. She pulls her lips away, and you, half-lidded, a little desperate, try to follow with your lips still pursed, longing for the warmth and sweetness of her mouth. But she tugs you by the wrist and forces you to follow her deeper into the store. Past displays cordoned from one another with lighted silkscreens, winding through the serpentine shelves, among and around wire-mesh bins filled with tschotskes, beyond the nearly floor-to-ceiling flipbooks of carpet samples, until at last you come to a space so narrow it feels like an alleyway, which leads to a display modeled after some trendy studio apartment.

Except for the narrow lane leading in, this area has an 8-foot facade surrounding it made up to look like raw red brick. There's a lush Turkish carpet draped across the floor in vibrant red, blue, and green. At center, there's a squat black coffee table, with a lamp sitting atop that looks like it was fashioned from aluminum conduit. A beige sofa, with a matching recliner, to your left; a queen-sized bed directly ahead. Fake art on the fake walls and fake plastic trees to fill the space. An artificially aged bronze statue of an elephant about waist high along another wall. As hard as this all tries to look homey and comfy... it's too false, too unblemished and perfect, to seem like anything but a stage, a showroom, a place to hawk goods. You are in a store, after all -- you're in public.

But you're tucked away in an alcove that's hidden and not likely to get a lot of foot traffic. Summer wants to fuck you. In public.

You take a step towards that well-made bed. But Summer pushes you, forcing you instead to your butt on the sofa. Liz Denali picks high-quality showroom pieces. It's like sitting on a cloud. Your body sinks into the cushions like you'll never hit bottom, and as Summer follows you, as she presses you onto your back and gets on top of you, it's almost as if your body is melding with the couch itself; you feel like you're actually becoming the couch.

Softness below and softness above: you're the bony meat of this sandwich. It makes you feel out-of-place.

You're lucky, then, that Summer likes you -- scrawny you, bony you, weird and creepy you. She does that thing where she parts your bangs to see you better, and then plays with your floofy hair. "Floofy" is her word here. She mumbles it to herself, a couple times, lovingly: "floofy..." as she combs it with her fingers and makes it even floofier.

Her gaze, when she wants to, can pierce. You gaze back at her. She kisses you, finally -- and writhes atop you, doting on you. "Wes..." she mumbles into your mouth. She bites your lower lip, roughly enough that you gasp. Then she trails kisses down your chin, over your neck, towards your breast. She buries her face against your sweater. Her voice makes the wool threads rumble and tickles you indirectly: "I didn't know what to tell your K-Mom... she asked if we were dating... and she wouldn't let up. But I didn't know the answer... are we dating, babe?"

You sort of shrug.

"I wanna date you," she says. "We fuck, but... I --" She perches her chin on your collarbone, to look playfully up at you. "Can this be our first date?"

"Seems like we're about to fuck, though..." you say.

"You can fuck on a date." She runs her hands up and down your sides. "Actually, I insist on it..."

"You're the kind of girl who fucks on the first date?"

Summer stops stroking your sides.

"That's kinda slutty," you warn her.

She tries to pout, but can't stop grinning. So she pinches your cheek. "You little bitch. You're not supposed to be the one who teases me."

"Maybe you -- could use some teasing sometimes," you say, although you don't manage the same brashness as that first tease, which so reflexively and unexpectedly tumbled from your mouth.

She turns her head to the side and lays with her cheek against your chest. She runs her fingers exploringly over your clavicle. She seems interested in how well-defined it is -- a side effect of low body mass. You idly pet her hair. It's almost hot to the touch, still retaining the rays it absorbed from the California sun long after having come into this climate-controlled store. You feel butterflies deep in your stomach, which you attribute to the danger of being caught. But this is more, more than when you first had sex in a similarly compromising place, and more than the other times you've been together.

"How long --" you begin. "Before there's... people..."

"Oh, you suddenly care if people see?" Summer says.

"I don't want to go to jail."

She takes one of your hands, lacing her fingers through yours, curling her palm against your own. "It depends on your sister's setlist, doesn't it? Half an hour maybe... maybe less... you better not wait if you're suddenly all shy..."

You wish you could be fully present in this moment, as Summer kisses you again -- a big, wet, open kiss that isn't fully centered, so that her bottom teeth nick your jaw. But you feel like you should tell her.

"Uh... this is gonna be kind of a bummer-- you know, mood killer type stuff..."

She stops, rolls her eyes up to look at you. "What's up? Period?"

"No... uh. Your dad. He's outside right now. Talking to your mom."

You'd stopped appreciating the niceness of it, but Summer's been writhing on top of you the whole time, her fleshy body almost undulating as she makes out with you. Now she goes very still.

"...Sorry..." you tell her.

"It's fine. I know. He stopped me on my way in." Summer claims it's fine, but her voice is sullen, dispirited. She sighs. "Winter is coming."

"Who's Winter?"

"My little sister. Such a total pain in my heinie."

"You never told me about her."

"I did. You forgot."

Great job, Wesley -- you're such a pro at making awkward moments awkwarder.

"She was 6 the last time I saw her," Summer says. "Maybe she's not such an annoying little you-know-what these days."

"Here's hoping, right?" You clear your throat. "Is your dad gonna be okay? ... are you?"

Summer shrugs. "Dunno. On both counts. Hey... if I die tonight, you better make sure I die well-fucked."

She kisses you even harder, and starts writhing on you again.

Summer gets her hands under your sweater and peels it off of you. Okay, maybe some of your butterflies were due to lovey-dovey feelings, but some of them definitely were from the fear of being caught. You have no idea when this store is going to open its doors to the public. And when Summer tosses the sweater across the tiny space, so that it falls behind the bed, you are keenly aware of how impossible it would be to retrieve and put on again in time if someone walked in on you.

Your bra goes next. This she chucks on the coffee table. Just the sensation of the air conditioned air hitting your nipples makes your pussy get freshly wet. You try to put your arms down by your side, but Summer keeps them above your head, pinning your wrists together. She mauls your torso with kisses. They aren't the chaste pecks of a kid in puppy love. They're the suckling, licking, drooling kisses of a horny perv. She goes from your navel, diagonally up and across your body, over your ribcage, ending, finally, at your right armpit. You draw a sharp breath, and whine, and squirm, but Summer keeps you held fast. She kisses your armpit, just like she'd kiss you on your mouth. Lips pursed, tongue searching. Her upper lip catches on the outer crook of it. She licks you there. Her tongue, so warm, is slimy against your skin. She gets her nostrils nestled in your pit too, right up against the skin until you're sure she can feel every bump of gooseflesh, and breathes in deep. No shame. She presses her face into your body and licks you and inhales the scent of your armpit. You haven't shaved in a couple days, so you're stubbly there, and as ticklish as her kisses feel, you know it must feel even rougher against her well-tenderized skin. She doesn't seem to care at all.

"You fucking stink," she growls. She's drooling. "Don't you wear deodorant?"

"Uh--"

"Nnngh," she grunts. "Fuckhh..." She moves her face across your chest, licking one of your nipples as she passes, and buries herself in your other pit. Her eyes roll into the back of her skull, her muscles tense. She's in sheer bliss. You, meanwhile, aren't sure what to make of these sensations. The terror of being so exposed, the humiliation of being explored in such a strange and strangely intimate way... but it's good, somehow, it makes you feel somehow sexy. And, god, it makes your pussy drip. So you let her kiss and lick and sniff you under your armpits. You smile as you crane your neck to watch her pigging out. You've always felt so gross, in every way. But this, the grossest part of you, is so desirable to a person like Summer... it fills your heart with glad feelings.

You help her out of her blouse and skirt and bra. She's as cavalier about ditching her own clothes as she was about ditching yours. The garments go flying in all directions, practically irretrievable. Her leopard print thong is sodden. Sitting up, butt-to-belly on you, she rubs the thing against her overheated twat. You can see clearly the contours of her pussy mound, and you can hear the wet squish of her masturbatory play. Her cherry-red nails make such a contrast to the garish orange of the panties as she rubs her hand in fast circles.

"You make me so fucking hot, babe," Summer tells you. There's a harsh catch to her voice -- the rasp of desperate need. "See?"

You nod.

"What are you gonna do about it? Are you gonna get me off?"

You let your mouth hang open as your answer. Lovingly, Summer puts all four fingers of her hand -- the one she was just jilling off with -- against your lower teeth, and drags your jaw even further open. You lick her fingertips. She giggles. Getting up onto her knees, she shimmies free of her underwear. Raising first one leg and then the other, she gets them fully off. And then she does something you don't expect. She wads them up and forces them into your mouth.

You'd rather have eaten her pussy, but this is fine too. You can taste her just as well like this. That Summer taste, of sugar and cream, sweat and grime -- that taste you're quickly growing addicted to. Summer mewls. "You're so precious..."

Summer gets you pantsless, then takes off your shoes and socks and panties too. She wants you totally, 100% nude. But for herself, she keeps a special prize. She takes your panties, balls them, and holds them to her nose. Nearly hyperventilating, moaning like a bitch, she filters her breaths through this dirty thing that you came in less than an hour ago, and closes her eyes in depraved delight. Maybe this is why she shoved her own underwear in your mouth. If she's going to stain herself with your scent, she wants to stain you with hers as well. It's a way of marking each other. No wonder she wears animal prints -- she's a raw, animistic girl when she gets all horny.

As she huffs your smell, her restless fingers find her clit, and she frigs herself. You rub her thighs to encourage her. They're so soft and warm, and endlessly squeezable. She settles atop you ass-to-belly again, only this time she starts to grind. Back and forth, she rubs her cunt on your naked body as she masturbates. It leaves her fluids in a snail trail all over you. Desperate for some stimulation yourself, you push your arms between her legs, so you can reach your crotch, and play with your pussy too.

"Here," she pants, "here..." She hoists one of your legs high in the air, and repositions her body so your twats are kissing. She wants to scissor with you. You've never tried that with her, but Summer's adorably squishy mound is the perfect hole to hump with, you figure. You can feel the heat pouring, furnace-like, from her orifice as she gets it lined up with yours. As she resettles her weight, you shudder at the pillowy way her vulva hugs and sticks to and drools against your genitals. You moan, but it's muffled by Summer's dirty panties. Realizing that you can hardly make a sound for the gag, you feel oddly compelled to start sucking on the silky fabric like it's a giant pacifier.

Summer starts to bounce. She isn't gentle. She bounces on you like she's got cock that she's jamming right into your womb. You feel really empty... you kind of wish she did have a cock... your body is so hot, and you feel so good, but another part of it is so empty that it aches -- your womb throbs and aches -- your body knows it's getting fucked, but you aren't getting penetrated. Maybe Summer is feeling these same things, because her cunt-to-cunt rubbing grows more vicious and forceful. Until at last she's actually standing, looming tall over your supine form, and hugging your raised leg for support, still with your underwear held tight against her bulging nostrils. She, still in her thigh-highs, runs a socked foot across your body. She steps on you, even as she scissors with you. And although the position doesn't let her put too much weight behind it, she's surprisingly flexible -- enough to press her sole against your face.

You let it happen. What else would you do? You let Summer step on you and mash her sweaty, stuffy toes against you. The sour, slightly nutty smell of her feet is still also imbued with the airy scent of her skin care products -- her lotions and perfumes -- so that it makes your head spin. Standing like this, nearly doing the splits, Summer isn't able to fuck you as hard as before. Her humping is more erratic and off-kilter. But this is heaven, anyway. The taste of her cunt, the reek of her feet, and the jelly-like sticky softness of her vulva on yours. You're gonna cum.

Summer cums first. You feel that familiar series of wet pulses in a new and unfamiliar way. That flutter-gush-pause, flutter-gush-pause of her orgasming cunt is waterfalling over your own vagina. Her cum, fresh from the source, has definite viscosity and is almost scaldingly hot. It singes your rock-hard clit and sears your gash as it trickles inside you. But Summer wants more, she wants to degrade you. So she lets your leg fall, climbs over you, and presses her gushing pussy against your face. She sits on you, and with both hands she rubs the rest of her cum out of herself so that it pours all over your head. Over your scrunched-up nose, across your shuttered eyelids, down your cheeks and chin. Summer uses you as a cum rag.

And then, when she's through orgasming on you, she turns, lies on top of you, and sucks your cum out of your pussy. You've taught her pretty well in terms of cunnilingus. She knows your weak spots and isn't afraid to take advantage of them. You squirt a load of cum down her throat and she, in turn, mashes her slimy pussy against your slimy face. You love it...

"I knew you fuckers would be partying without me."

Summer looks up from between your legs. You look up from over Summer's dumptruck ass. Amber is here, having gotten inside god only knows how. She's already half-naked, and she's fast discarding the rest of her clothes. "Come on, come on," she beckons, motioning for you to stand as she throws her panties away. "I've always wanted to do something like this." She undoes her bra and lets it fall from her body.

Summer helps you to your feet. She leaves your panties behind, but you feel sluttier keeping the makeshift gag of hers rooted firmly in your mouth. Amber gives you an appreciative look. "You're cute with a mouthful," she tells you.

"What do you want to do?" Summer asks. Her voice is full of exhilaration, openness, and wonder.

"Let's go exploring," Amber says, tickling her own pussy with a forefinger.

The next half hour or so passes in a sexual daze. The three of you wander the store at random together, playing with your holes, and with each other's holes, too. Amber hikes a leg up on a cherrywood dining table and, with fingers in her asshole and her cunt, squirts cum all over the varnish. Summer gets you sitting on the edge of a toilet and plunges four fingers deep inside you, rubbing your G-spot, while pleasuring your clit from the outside with her thumb, until you spray all over the concrete floor; as you sweep your gaze up from your spasming cunt, to lock eyes with her, she grabs your throat and makes out with you. You get Amber on her back on a waterbed and straddle her face until your pussy clenches and climaxes from the insistent probing of her little pink tongue. Summer, meanwhile, tastes Amber's little pink pussy, and just about drowns from the way Amber creams on her.

You and Amber press Summer up against the mosaic tiled wall of a walk-in shower. You get one of her tan, meaty legs up, her foot balanced on the faucet, so that you and Amber can kneel beneath her and feast on her fuckholes both at the same time. You eat Summer's cunt while Amber rims her out. Your tongues occasionally meet and meld over her taint. Summer clutches the shower curtain, howling in pleasure, until she cums and her legs give out and she collapses atop you, laughing in joy.

Amber plugs Summer's nose and rides her sucking mouth so hard that Summer almost passes out. Summer and Amber get you on your back in a cold, hard bathtub, and step on your face while they masturbate over you. You hold their ankles and beg them to step on you even harder, and delight as their cum rains down in torrents over your sweat-slick body.

Summer gets Amber's legs akimbo on a ladderback chair and sees how far she can get her tongue up Amber's ass. The answer is pretty far. Amber cums in Summer's hair from the rimjob alone. From a collection of fake vegetables, Summer selects a smooth, particularly phallic brass statuette of a summer squash (how fitting) and fucks you with it while Amber holds you your spine pinned against the rough cobblestone of a fireplace. The makeshift toy batters your back walls and bruises your cervix. Your womb aches a little less at being fucked like this. You ball your fists against your chest and kiss with Amber sweetly, across the barrier of Summer's cummy, drooly panties, while Summer mercilessly rapes you just as deep as she can shove the thing.

When Summer convinces Amber of how fun it is, they raise your hands above your head as they snuggle with you under the sultry covers of a king bed, and make out with your armpits. One mouth there was almost overwhelming; two mouths gorging on the disgusting taste and smell of your pits at the same time is totally brain-bending. The collective body heat, trapped beneath this oppressive comforter, makes you sweat like a faucet, adding to your embarrassment -- and to their fun. They gyrate against your legs and play with your cunt together while they huff and suck your sweaty pits, until at last you all stain the new bedsheets with cream.

All over the store you go, like this, as a trio -- talk about marking your territory -- with Amber and Summer giggling and stumbling around like they're drunk. Which they are; cum drunk. You're equally as cum drunk. And you're laughing along with them, too. You can't believe you get to share in this kind of perversion together, in a place so wide-open and public. People could come pouring in at any second, and you don't care. None of you do. You just want to keep cumming and cumming. You're all going to stink like sex and one another's dirtiest parts for days.

You and Summer, with some effort, find your clothes and get dressed. Amber prefers to stay naked for a little longer. Her funeral, then, because Auburn finds his way into the store, too. Carrying his bass with him, he stumbles upon the three of you as you round a corner coming into one of the store's main thoroughfares.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" Amber says. Then, glancing down at herself, realizing her compromised position, she startles. "...Fuck," she mutters.

"I wanted to talk," Auburn says. His tone conveys obvious ill intent.

Amber takes a step back. "You stay away," she warns, pointing.

"You bruised me pretty nicely," he says. He takes a step forward. Amber takes a step back. Auburn smiles. It's not a nice smile. "What's wrong, Amb? You're looking pretty vulnerable right now, you know?"

"Should we call someone?" Summer whispers.

"No," you whisper back. "This is normal."

"This is normal?" She breathes.

Amber's still pointing at him. "Stay back. I'm warning you. I'll scream."

"Scream, then."

Amber's face twitches.

"I'm not mad. You're acting like you think I'm mad." Auburn begins a steady, unrelenting advance, forcing Amber to stumble further and further back. "I just think that president and vice president should share the pain -- equally -- you know?"

"Auburn--"

He lunges, and breaks into a full-bore jog. Amber, wheeling, screaming, runs away, bare feet pattering hard on the slick concrete. You hear the scuffle in a neighboring aisle when he finally catches up with her. It seems to be going poorly for both.

"If Auburn's in here, doesn't that mean the concert's over?" Summer says. "It can't be long before the doors open."

"Then the fight has to end pretty soon," you say. "Lucky news for..."

You listen. You hear insensate screaming and banging and thwacking and clattering.

"Lucky news for them both, I guess," you finish.

"You're sure this is normal?" Summer says.

"Ehhh... normal for them."

She trusts you at your word. Shrugging, you and she leave the store.

"Great stuff tonight, honey!" Aunt Whitney is telling Ophie as she helps her daughter dismantle the concert gear with the rest of the band.

"Mm," Ophie says.

Man. She gets so much across with that stupid "mm" of hers. This one conveys mild frustration that Aunt Whitney is even here, mixed with bashful gladness at the praise, and appreciation for the help.

Liz, meanwhile, is giving a short spiel to the assembled crowd. She holds a mic and gestures theatrically. When she speaks publicly, it seems she affects a mock southern drawl, albeit just a hint of one. "I hope you liked the music! And the food! And I especially hope that when y'all get inside my new store, you like the furniture! We've got some special deals that are tonight-only, so ask our associates for details. 50% off sofas and loveseats, 75% off beds -- and more! Just ask!" She nods at some frocked workers, who start filtering into the store in advance of the customers.

A lot of the people out here are already beginning to leave -- here only for the free food and music and hubbub -- but Liz isn't fazed. "I want y'all to know what it means to me that you came here tonight. I see a lot of families! Denali Furniture & Flooring is a family business. We serve families, and we're run by a family. I'm here with my daughter--" she motions for Summer to step up next to her, and Summer obliges. Liz hugs her around the waist. The crowd d'awwws. "--and also, my daughter's girlfriend! Ain't that sweet?"

She motions for you now. Your jaw hangs open. Liz nods encouragingly. With all eyes on you, you can't say no -- and so you join Liz, too, standing on her other side. She hugs you the way she hugs her daughter. She smells like peppermint. Getting the crook of her elbow around your neck, leaning across you to croon into the mic she's clutching, she says: "How would you feel about being a Denali, dear?" -- then she shoves the mic to your lips.

"Uhhhhhhhh," you drawl, your voice sounding like a percolating coffee maker.

Liz laughs. "Too much commitment, huh? Well, you're family anyway!"

Among the raucous laughter you hear that of Aunt Whitney. She's off to the side, still by the tent, hands on her hips. "Fuck yeah, Wes!" She cheers. "Get that Denali dosh."

Talia's expression as she watches is more muted.

Dying for anything to divert your focus, your searching eyes scan the parking lot. You find, across the street, in the grassy knoll of Hoover Park -- leaning against a tree -- the shadowed figure of Gideon Denali watching on. His expression is even more inscrutable than Talia's. He lights a cigarette, pulls his overcoat's collar tight against himself, and walks off down the sidewalk.

More distressingly, you find your parents. N-Mom is parked at the curb, sitting on the hood of her car, face between her hands. K-Mom is laughing like a hyena, shaking N-Mom bodily by the shoulders as if to say "get a load of that, come on, look!" -- jumping, literally spinning in circles, like she hit the lottery.

Ophie is just helping Aunt Whitney load the last couple amps into Talia's van. Okay. "Helping" is a bit of a misnomer. Ophie has her hands on the amp at the same time as Aunt Whitney. But you get the sense that Aunt Whitney is doing the actual lifting here. When the amp is sitting firmly on the floor of the van, Talia, standing inside, drags it a bit closer to the rest of the equipment and drapes it all with a rough felt tarp.

"Where is Auburn?" Talia asks, poking her head out.

You glance towards the store where even now dozens of people are filtering in. "Dunno," you finally drawl.

"Who cares about that dork?" Aunt Whitney says. "Ophie, baby, you need a better bassist. That kid draws hecklers."

"Heckler," Ophie says.

"Whatever!"

Will, folding his arms, leans against the side of the van. "Either way, he owes me. I gave him my cut of the profit to get him to play here tonight."

"What a gyp," Aunt Whitney says. "Will, don't worry about the cash. I'll redisperse you."

"You don't have to re-endorse me," he tells her. "He'll pay me back. I'll make sure of it."

Ophie glances all around. Finally she asks: "Wesley, have you seen Noah? He was here a little while ago. I thought you were talking to him."

Unwilling to break her heart, you can only shrug. "Dunno..." you mumble. But when Ophie sets off as if to begin a vain search of the emptying parking lot, you have to waylay her. "I lied," you admit. Ophie gives you a confused head tilt. Cringing, you elaborate: "He was here, but then he... kind of... left."

"I see," Ophie says. But she doesn't seem heartbroken at all. Just interested: "did he enjoy the show?"

Oh yeah. He had a message to relay, didn't he. "He told me to tell you--" (you ape his whispy, wistful sounding tone) "--her music is lovely."

The corners of Ophie's mouth turn up by about 1°, which is a lot.

Ophie's mother jabs her in the ribs with an elbow. "Huh?" Aunt Whitney says. "Huh? What'd I tell you. Huh?"

Make that 2°. A banner day for Ophie's facial muscles.

Summer is doing up a frock and tying it off behind her back. Her mother must have Shanghaied her into working the registers at the grand opening. You hope it doesn't become a permanent thing -- that could get in the way of her Shake 'em Up gig. One frock job is fine, but two frock jobs is a lot to manage.

"You gonna be ok, babe?" Summer asks. You nod. She smiles. "Let's meet up at work tomorrow, huh? After my shift."

You know what she wants to meet up for. God, this girl is completely impossible to sate. You'd have assumed that after losing half her body mass in water out of her coochie five minutes ago, she'd be thinking about something else for the time being. Nope.

As she retreats back into the store, Liz pulls alongside you. "'Babe', huh? She really likes you."

"Ms. Denali!"

Liz turns to find K-Mom practically running up, breathless and elated. "Uh," Liz mutters.

K-Mom goes a mile a minute. "I'm Kay. Wesley's mother. I just want to say that I am such a fan. Your commercials are the best thing on television right now!" She foists a handshake on Liz, which Liz, befuddled and maybe a bit scared, listlessly allows, but doesn't return. Her hand flops around inside K-Mom's. "And it was such a beautiful gesture that you made just now. Saying how Wes is like family to you and all. Summer is like family to us, too! Isn't their romance just so cute?"

"Y-- uh, yes," Liz says, wresting her hand free. "And... it's good publicity. Free publicity."

"Mom..." you plead, blushing.

N-Mom brings up the rear. K-Mom puts an arm around her. "This is my wife. Noelle. She's the shy one. But she's just so delighted about the whole thing, too." K-Mom squeezes N-Mom's shoulder -- aggressively -- and through gritted teeth appends: "aren't you, bun."

"You know it, Kaytlin," N-Mom says, through equally gritted teeth.

Liz slowly nods, arches her eyebrows and lets her jaw hang slack in that universal nonverbal expression of, "this situation has gotten weird all of a sudden and I really should extricate myself from it as soon as possible." Clasping her hands together and just slightly bowing, she says, "I'm tied-up at the moment. You know? If you want to come browse the store, we've got some great deals! Hope to talk to you ladies again sometime..."

"Oh, we're definitely going to buy some furniture here tonight," K-Mom says. "Loads!"

"God help me," N-Mom mutters.

"We'll do lunch," K-Mom tells Liz.

"--We will?" Liz says. Then, realizing herself, she returns what you take for an empty promise: "We will."

When Liz departs, your mothers get into a heated yet quietly whispered argument you can't discern. Will is over by the remnants of the buffet table, and you figure he's probably better company.

"Those shrimp tartlets have been out for a couple hours..." you warn him.

"They're fine, probably," he says, and pops one into his mouth. He chews only a couple times. Then, swallowing with obvious difficulty, he makes a disgusted face and says, "--how many hours?" When you meet him with dead silence, he moves on as if everything is fine. He takes a swig of warmed-over fruit punch, points at you and says, "homecoming's soon. You ready?"

You shrug.

"Great!" He says. "I--"

A horn sounds on the distance. That would be Will's mom coming to pick him up. Hopefully she didn't drive here drunk. Will glances back to verify it's her. Then, without warning, he grabs you by the arms and tugs you a step closer to him so that you're in his personal space. Your shoes scuff the pavement. "Kiss me?" He says.

"K-- kiss?" You stammer.

He tilts his head forward, desperate for a quick answer. When, not knowing what else to do, you nod, he lunges forward and kisses you. You're so taken aback that you just stand there. And then, despite yourself, you return it.

Will is a good kisser. It can't be disputed. He's firm but gentle at the same time, and can put passion into it without making it lewd. This is all for show, but you go half limp in his embrace anyway, and catch yourself rubbing a knee against the outside of his leg. You whimper a little. When he pulls back, maybe less than five seconds later, you can feel that your eyes have gotten dewy.

"Thanks," he says, like you just gave him the answer to question 11.

"Your... breath tastes a bit like fish," you tell him, the first thing to pop into your head.

"Really?" He says. He thinks about that. Then: "yours too. Kinda." He smacks his lips, considering this new mystery -- trying to place the flavor. When his mom sounds the horn again, he shrugs off the whole train of thought. "Anyway -- see ya!"

You watch him run off. From the opposite direction, near the store's from entrance, K-Mom shrieks in rage, her voice muffled by distance: "Oh, for fuck's sake!!!"

---

You go to Shake 'Em Up the next afternoon. Summer works first shift on weekends so she can get out in time for Saturday cheer practice in the evening. How she maintains such a jam-packed schedule without going insane is beyond you.

She does that four-fingered waggle-wave when the door chimes and she sees you entering. "Wes! Take a seat and sit tight, ok?"

You take a seat and sit tight.

"I'm gonna be getting off real soon," Summer tells you with a broad grin.

"Is that a double entendre?" You say with an equally broad grin.

But Summer just furrows her brow. "...that thing with Russia we learned about last week in world history?"

You frown. "That's the Triple Entente."

"Oh. What's the double entente, then? Austria-Hungary?"

"Nevermind. Just go finish your shift."

Summer gives you a mock salute.

In the lull, you have some time to think about how strange it is to be in a relationship -- to be dating. To be dating Summer. You haven't dated anyone before, nevermind a girl, and nevermind a girl as... uh, unique... as Summer. You don't know the rules, the etiquette and rituals. What does that mean? To be dating. Last night at the furniture store, you didn't do anything you wouldn't have done if Summer hadn't declared it by fiat to be a date. So what is the implication of calling it one? Does dating mean simply that you don't see other people? (Not that there's any risk of that, with you...)

Then again, Summer was fine with having a three-way with Amber. Do siblings not count in this equation? Would it be different if you slept with someone else? Someone like, say--

Amelia comes out of the utility room behind the service counter. The swiftness of her exit catches your attention from across the diner. Her apron is a little rumpled and her nametag is askew. Her face is flushed and her hair is frizzed. She draws some deep, bracing breaths through lips curled into an O.

A few moments later, another surprise. Alex comes out of the same room. He's in his Saturday cazzie, as he calls it (eugh), shorts and a tee and sandals, but he seems a bit pained -- stepping gingerly.

"Did we pass inspection?" Ophie asks, her attention peeled on the ketchup bottles she's marrying over by the cut-out window between diner and kitchen.

"Oh yes," Alex says. He leans against the counter to steady himself. "I'll -- let Whitney know that Store #1 is still... well... store #1. It's the gold standard for Shake 'Em Up's national brand." He pauses to get his breath again. "Amelia... runs a tight ship."

"You know me," Amelia says. "I like a tight ship..."

Alex startles. Did Amelia slap his ass just now, under the counter? You were only half paying attention. But that would be weird, right? Maybe you're just imagining things.

As Alex walks from the store, limping a little, Amelia sees you. She approaches wearing a warm smile, and her face is still flushed. "Wes. What a pleasant surprise." Her eyes scan the tabletop. She finds it bare. "Has no one seen you yet?"

"Kind of? I don't really--"

Amelia tsks. "I need to have another talk with first shift about seeing customers right away. This is totally unacceptable... Mello Yello, right?"

"Right."

"Anything else, honey?"

"Were you cleaning back there?" You ask.

Amelia blinks.

"Smells like bleach..." you explain.

"Oh. Yeah. I was, uh... showing Alex how we manage inventory for cleaning supplies. Do you want some ice cream, too, honey?"

"Makes sense," you say. "About the inventory thing. Alex is pretty..." You gaze at the Cadillac sticking out of the wall. "Persnickety. We'll go with persnickety." (Clean freak is more like it, you think.)

Amelia giggles. "Of course. He just hates when things get messy. ... Do you want some cake, honey?"

"No thanks. Just the drink. Could you stop calling me honey?"

Rather than scurrying back to the kitchen to get the drink, though, Amelia sits down. Right next to you, at the booth. You, unable to fend her off, can only scoot to the side to make way for her. She's got a fat ass and takes up a lot of real estate sitting beside you, so you feel somewhat pinned: the paneled wall to your left, Amelia's thick body to your right. As if to accentuate that feeling of being pinned, Amelia rests her arm along the top of the booth's backrest and turns in place to face you from the side. It's claustrophobic. She really smells a lot like bleach.

"...Amelia...?" you say. You stare madly down at the formica.

"You never told me about it. And Summer is so tight-lipped..."

"T-told you what?"

"You know. ...It. How did it go?" She lets a hand drift down and lightly strokes your pantleg. "The other day, I mean. You said you would tell me all about it."

You gulp. "It was... okay, I guess?"

"Oh Wes," Amelia says apologetically. "Sex should be more than okay! You're supposed to enjoy it. Was she too rough with you after all? I can kick her butt for you."

"N-no -- no! It was more than okay. I'm just..." you cough. "We're, like, a thing now. Girlfriends?"

Amelia gasps. "That's so nice! So you must have really had a lot of fun, huh..." She's still stroking your leg. "So you were okay with her being rough?" She scooches somehow even closer, holds her body to your own. Her breasts, straining in her over-tight uniform, press against your cheek.

"No roughness. She... was a virgin." You wouldn't dish details like these to just anyone, but you're terrified of what will happen if you lie and Amelia finds out. "I had to show her. You know. Stuff."

Amelia's eyes sparkle so much you'd think they were replaced by stars. "You? Had to show -- her? Wesley Lynn! Was Summer not your first time?"

You shake your head, but even with Amelia, you can't bear to tell her everything about *that*.

Amelia's arm on top of the backrest drifts steadily down, until it wraps around you -- it feels rather like being gripped by a tentacle. She hugs you even tighter to her. "I want to hear everything. I want to hear about... what happened when you got to the locker room with her... the stuff you had to show her."

She's definitely coming on to you, right? You're not crazy? Her switch has been totally flipped here.

Amelia swipes some of your hair from your face. Then wiggling, she takes your wrist and sets it against her rather prodigious thigh. She shifts her weight a bit, and carries on as if she was only getting more comfortable. But you're so aware of your hand resting lightly on her leg that it may as well be glowing red with radioactivity and humming the Sammarinese anthem. And her hand may as well be glowing green with gamma rays itself and belting out the lyrics of the Hymne Monégasque with how focused you are on its lazy motions up and down, up and down, up and down your inner leg... each upward swipe drawing her fingers ever closer to the apex of that V formed by your legs... her breath is like a blowdryer on its lowest setting against your ear, and she practically nestles her nose in your hair as she says, "come on, honey... details... don't keep me waiting."

She spreads her knees just an inch or two wider. It's enough. Your eyes bulge as your hand, on her leg, suddenly comes against something that isn't the soft smooth expanse of her thigh meat. But no-- something in her pocket?-- that's it. You gulp, and--

Lily comes walking by. Of all people you expected to see, she was low on the list, and even lower on the list of people you wanted to. Even in a situation so compromising. She notices you sitting there pinned by Amelia, and does an actual-for-real double take. Then shrugging, she swoops into the booth, seating herself across from the two of you.

Amelia peels herself off of you with almost inhuman speed and straightens her posture. Your hand falls away from her leg. Lily nods at her. "Diet coke, please. No ice."

"...Sure," Amelia says, stands, pulls a strand of hair behind her ear, smooths her uniform, and goes.

"Gotta love the service here," Lily says. "They put the personal touch on it. Never been in a restaurant where the waitresses sit next to you." She turns in place, poking her head up like a prairie dog to see, and stares somewhat lasciviously at Amelia's receding backside. "Damn. So fucking fat. Wouldn't mind letting her sitting next to me."

"Yes you would..." you breathe.

But if Lily noticed anything strange about the interaction between you and Amelia, she isn't letting on. She faces you again and stares back at you with big, bright eyes.

"Why are you here?" You ask. "Why'd you sit here with *me*?"

"What the fuck?" Lily says. "Oh, I see. Just because I'm black, that means I can't sit with the white girl?"

"That's not -- you didn't -- I'm only half white!!"

"Didn't know this place was going really all-in on the 1950s vibe. Jesus."

"That is not what I mean, and you know it."

"No, I get you. Racism is alive and well in the USA. I shouldn't have expected anything less from a fucking hapa like you."

You sigh, deeply, through your nose.

"Call this a business lunch," Lily says. She does this thing when she speaks where she props an elbow on the table and occasionally flicks her wrist, making a hand gesture like aiming a finger gun at the ceiling, with the other three digits of her hand limply curling inward towards her palm. "I want to make nice after what happened the other day in practice." You lean back and fold your arms, waiting to hear what Lily's rendition of the events is. She continues: "I'm not mad at you for having prior commitments. Shit, I'm happy for you. If you really were telling the truth, that means you've got friends, and you could use some. What I'm mad about is how you hopped into our game when you damn well knew you were gonna have to DC not ten and a half minutes later."

"The match was over," you tell her. "They had half our control points and possession of the oddball. Not to mention we'd already lost north-center lane."

"And whose fault is that?" Lily says.

"You! You had north-center lane!"

"I'm not here to pin blame on someone. That's not the point."

"You literally just asked whose fault it was!"

"This is about a pattern of behavior. Last night, it was the same shit again in our 1-on-1. You left right as shit got dire. Fucking stick with it if you commit to something like that. Bint."

"I'm not a bint, you fucking tart!"

"Trollop!" Lily shouts.

"Bell-end!"

Lily calms herself. She puts both palms flat against the tabletop and leans in. "The point is that if you DC in a match, the entire team loses more prestige than they would have. You trying to get me trapped in Elo hell or what?"

"That's a myth," you say. "Never proven. And Elo hell is only a hell for people who aren't good. So if you get trapped in there, then great. You belong there."

Lily's eye twitches, but she shows uncommon restraint, and declines to escalate the argument. "Fuck, Wes. This is an olive branch here. You know that saying, 'save the drama for your mama'? Well I don't have a mama. So I can't with the drama. Just can't."

"You have a mother," you tell her.

"No I don't," Lily says.

"Yes. You do. You just don't know her, that's all."

"Will you listen to me when I tell you something, you slag? I literally do not have a mother. Genetic engineering. Get it? Dad used this procedure where they took his semen and inseminated Marquis, like, anally. They turned one of Marquis's sperms into an egg."

"You -- you... noooo," you drawl. "No."

"Yes."

"That's a -- that's a lie. I'm pretty sure."

"I'm a butt baby," Lily tells you, with the unflinching seriousness of someone admitting to having a terminal illness. She stares you dead in the eye.

You try to gauge any hint of sarcasm or wryness in her voice and body language. You find none. You squint at her, waiting for the reveal -- for the moment she breaks into laughter and mocks you for even thinking what she said could be true. It doesn't come. She stares gravely back at you, giving you nothing to salve the awkwardness that she herself created.

You decide to roll with it, if that's how she wants to be. "Well then, maybe that's what makes you such a bitch," you tell her. "You're the product of two bitchy dads."

"Or maybe you're just stupid on account of having two dumbass moms. You know, studies show that children raised by lesbian parents are twice as likely to become serial arsonists? And over 130% more prone to a dietary deficiency of riboflavin. That's a true fact."

"So... what? You're gonna be a shitty mom one day, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not gonna BE a mom, period," Lily says, laughing. "God. Having kids? Who the fuck is dumb enough to do that?"

"Wes?"

Summer is at your table with two glasses of soda, looking majorly confused. You don't blame her. You showed up alone, yet now here you are with the biggest slut on campus.

Lily glances her way, too. "Oh, my coke. Here." She motions for Summer to set the glass down in front of her.

"That's why there was another drink on order..." Summer murmurs, giving Lily the glass, and putting a straw in it for her. She does the same for you. Lily pins her straw between thumb and forefinger, and slurps.

"Is this a team thing? What are you doing here with Lily?" Summer asks.

"I--" you begin.

"We're on a fuckin' date. What's it look like?" Lily sets her drink down and pushes it slightly away. "We'll have a Strawberry-banana shake, too. Extra malt."

Summer stares daggers.

"Well?" Lily says. "You gonna write that down or what?"

Summer writes on the notepad. She wordlessly turns and goes. You call after her: "that's not -- this isn't --" but she ignores you.

Lily yawns and stretches her back. She raises one hand high above her head, holding her locked elbow with her other hand. You hear several joints popping. "God, I hate cute straight girls," she says as she relaxes again. "It's so unfair, you know? And such a waste. For a girl to be so cute *and* so straight. Pisses me off."

"I guess that's why you're always so pissy at me," you say.

Lily is genuinely confused. "Huh?"

"...Nevermind..."

Lily watches as Summer dispenses the milkshake from the machine by the counter. As with Amelia, so with Summer -- Lily doesn't try to hide her lust. "Wonder if she smells so fresh after one of her softball games..." she says.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say.

Lily quirks an eyebrow at you. But she doesn't press you on what you mean. "Anyway. Truce?"

"There's no truce until you stop thinking you're my boss. We're co-captains. That means it's an equal partnership."

Somehow, having Lily metaphorically spit in Summer's face just now has made you bolder. Lily squints at you, as if feeling you out for hesitation or weakness. "Fine," she says at last. "That's what I want anyway." She taps her temple with three fingers. "A partner who's got her head in the game. We're making waves this year. Play our cards right? We could get to The International."

"Yeah, and lose in pools to New Korea."

"That's not the point. Don't you have any pride?"

"Plenty," you say with a sarcastic smile.

Summer gets back with the shake. She sets it between you. She looks half morose, half angry. "Here." She steps back, fixes you with a stern look. Her words come like barbs. "I'm off shift now, by the way. If you still want to... if you're done with your *date*, I mean... I'll be out back. Maybe."

She briskly walks off without giving you a chance to respond.

"Oh, prior commitments again, huh?" Lily asks you. "Gotta teach her remedial math some more?"

>[x] "Actually, Summer's my girlfriend."

[ ] "Why did you call this a date? Are you trying to tell me something?"

Lily smugly sucks her shake through the straw, smiling at you across the top of the glass. Just so fucking pleased with herself.

"Actually," you tell her, "Summer's my girlfriend."

Lily slumps against the back of the booth like an invisible gale hit her. She manages not to cough or choke, to her credit, but a dribble of pink cream trails off her lower lip and down to her chin.

"Now I know you're fucking with me," she says.

"No, I'm not," you tell her. "Too busy fucking with Summer. Sorry."

For maybe the first time ever, Lily can't think of anything shitty to say. You see her eyes dancing around inside her skull. You just know she's playing the recent interaction over in her mind. How terse Summer got when she said you were on a date. She clearly doesn't want this to make sense. But it does. She knows you were telling the truth.

"You're right, by the way," you tell her, catching her out of her thoughts. "She's even better after a game. She gets so sweaty that I feel like I'll drown when she sits on me. And she fucks like the energizer bunny. Shouldn't keep her waiting."

You grab the milkshake and, using the same straw Lily did, you take a long, audible, slurping sip that hollows out your cheeks.

"That's..." Lily says.

"You've got some on you," you warn, and swipe the cream off her face with the broad side of your thumb. You suck it off. You wipe your thumb dry on a napkin sitting on the table. You grimace. "All this malt makes this thing taste like shit. Next time, I'm ordering."

You turn from her and go. Your nerves held out this long -- but your heart is racing and your adrenaline is pumping and if you don't hurry off, she'll see you dissolve into a twitchy, nervous mess.

Summer, like the rest of the workers at Shake 'Em Up, parks in an auxiliary lot out back where the dumpsters are, and where the restaurant accepts materials deliveries. To get there, you exit through a seldom-used door in the diner's back half, the one situated at the end of a short hallway leading to the bathrooms. But as soon as you push through the door, you step back in, ducking for the safety of the restaurant. And then you watch through the tinted glass. Summer is talking to someone. A man in blue denim overalls and a hat -- like a plumber, or something. Cracking the door again, you can hear the conversation.

"--st a friend of your dad's. I was wondering if you could help me find him."

"Sorry," Summer says. Her voice is friendly but pinched. She's scared. "Dad's been gone since... well since, like, forever. Wish I could help."

"Bullshit."

"Bul-- what?"

"We don't have any problem with you. But you're going to cooperate, or it's going to be bad. Just tell us what we want to know and we'll move on."

"We?" Summer says. Her breath catches. From the other side of the lot, where it leads to the main road, you hear the gentle squeal of tires coming to an easy stop on gravel. A panel van has pulled in, and is blocking the lot's only exit. A few more men step out.

"I don't know where he is," Summer says pleadingly.

"You were with him last night."

"I saw him -- I mean -- he came to that thing at the store, but he didn't say--"

"Summer," the man says like a disappointed dad.

"I'm telling you the truth," she says. Tears start to come. Her chest shudders as she sucks in air.

The man drums his legs. He stares hard at her. The other men circle. A long, terrifying moment passes. Summer is as still as a corpse, and stares at the ground.

"Okie dokey," the man barks, making Summer jump. "I believe you. Sorry for the trouble."

Summer takes a halting step backwards. "I... c-can go?"

"Sure."

She turns. You lock eyes with her -- just as the man brings a taser to her neck. Her every muscle goes stiff, she lets out a "ghhh--!!" Then her every muscle goes limp, her eyelids flutter shut, and she falls to one side. The man catches her, swooping her up like this is all humdrum daily grind shit to him. His partners come rushing over -- one of them takes her legs, and together, they load her into their van. They speed off.

"Oh my God," you mutter to yourself. Then bumping into someone as you turn from the door, you wail: "OH MY GOD! Fuck!!"

You stumble back, trying to adopt a kung-fu pose with which to defend yourself (you've never taken any martial arts classes) -- but it's only Lily.

"Who the fuck was that? You mixed up in this shit too?" She says.

"I... I don't know!" you say. The tears are flowing freely. You squat. You hug yourself, adopting a sort of fetal position, and rock back and forth on your feet. "I don't know... they're after her dad or something... I don't know..." Gulping for air, you look up at her. "Cops -- we have to call 911..."

Lily kicks you.

"Ow!"

"Bint," she spits. "You think these fuckers are the kind who let a hostage live if the cops come knocking?"

"Oh my god..." you gasp, and totally collapse on the ground, limbs splayed, weeping. "They're going to kill her!"

"Shhhh," Lily hisses, swooping down, and putting a hand over your mouth. "Broadcast that shit to the world, huh? Wes -- Wes! Shut the fuck up! Stop crying, hear me? You want to save your slut girlfriend, then you need to get your fucking head in the game. Head in the game! Are you with me? Goddamn."

From behind the broad side of her palm, your eyes as wide as planetoids, you nod. She lets go of your mouth.

"Did you see the car they dumped her in?" Lily asks. "I didn't have a good vantage."

"Yeah. Uh. I -- got the plate."

Lily's eyes light up. "You got the fuckin' plate? You were freaking out like that and you're sure you got the plate?"

"22LH423," you say.

"Holy shit. You're not totally useless after all." She stands. Folds her arms. "We tell my dad. He's got... resources... and shit. We can track them down."

>[x] Go get Tyrus's help. He's dad's security chief, he can help handle this.

[ ] Go tell your moms instead. They'll know what to do.

[ ] Amber knows a thing or two. She's the one you need right now.

"Don't get snot on my leather," Lily warns you, putting her forefinger in your face, before stepping into her Camaro.

You get in on the passenger side. "Oh my god, Lily," you say through a throat still half-clogged with mucus. "That's what you care about right now?"

"Yes? This car cost a lot of fucking money."

"Just go. Fuck."

She throws the car into gear and speeds off.

---

Tyrus is giggling. He bangs the tabletop in front of him. "You're gonna need another doubling cube soon," he says.

"Fuck you. Fuck you," Amber says over and over again. She turns the die so it reads 64. That's two 64's on the table now -- so the stakes have gone up by... by whatever 64 squared is. You have no idea.

"I'm gonna have to cut you off," Tyrus says. "You know, like a friendly bartender. Fun as it is to fleece you. But I'm not looking to have your daddy murder me anytime. Now, that's gonna be..." he spins in his stool, reaches for an old-style desk calculator, and punches it in. "$409,600. Crypto or stock, now, remember that."

"The fuck are you doing here?" Amber says, when she notices your form shadowing the doorway of the guard shack.

Lily pushes past you. She's better at being nondescript: "hey dad. Got something I need to run by you." She glances Amber's way. "Something I need to run by you, alone."

Amber scowls at you. "Are you fucking Lily now, too, Wes? Slut."

"She better not fuckin' be," Tyrus says. He looks at his daughter. "You don't date. You're not old enough."

"Oh, I don't date anyone, daddy, of course not," Lily assures him.

Amber laughs. Tyrus gives her a confused look. But she lets it be. She pushes back from the table and hops to her feet. "Well, I have to go break the news to dadabaster that he's a few hundo k poorer now. Fucking oof..."

>[x] Let her go. The last thing you need is a wildcard like Amber getting herself mixed up in a delicate hostage situation involving your girlfriend.

[ ] Let her in on what's happening.

"Coming?" Amber asks as she passes you. She waits expectantly on the other side of the door. When you don't say anything, she gives up. "Whatever," she says with a disgruntled and dismissive wave. "Now that's you're a lesbian and everything, of course you're gonna be all moody..." She stomps off, muttering to herself. "Don't need you to have a fun time, anyway..."

Tyrus gently clicks the door shut behind you. He's more perceptive than Amber: "Something the matter? What's up?"

You start to bawl.

Lily does the heavy lifting of explaining for you. Tyrus, pulling his trouser legs up to gather some slack, sits at his desk, behind his PC, and listens carefully. He writes down the plate number when Lily gives it to him. He asks for a description of the kidnappers. You, who saw them from a closer viewpoint, do your best, but it's too vague to be useful:

"White? Average height? Average age?"

"Average age?" Tyrus repeats. "And what's the average age in Palo?"

"I mean--"

He picks up his phone. "Hey Siri. What's the average age in Palo Alto?"

"The median age in Palo Alto, California is 42.2 years old. This is the 422nd highest of California's 1,224 cities."

"So they looked 42.2 years old?" Tyrus asks you.

"I'm trying!" You scream.

"Physical description's out," he says. "Least you got the plates. We can work with that."

He scoots up to his computer. Pulls open a certain program. You, curious, circle around his desk to take a look. It's got the drab gray Windows 95 esque interface of all police software. He's got access to the same database that patrol cops use to run plates.

"Well?" You ask.

He glances up at you. "Well what?"

"Who is it?"

"Okay, Lennie Briscoe, we're not on the case together. This my case. I let you get involved, your daddy really will murder me. And remember what I said? I'm not looking to get my head knocked off. So sit tight. I'll get your girlie back."

"I just want to know who it is," you say, a bit desperate.

He turns towards the screen and types some more. As he does, he says: "the more time I waste explaining shit to you, the more the clock ticks. But if you wanna know, the plates weren't the big break we thought. It's the company car of some little medical office call the Medicine Group... generic fuckin' name. Probably stolen." He pauses. "Well, hasn't been reported missing yet. But still hot, if I was laying money down." He glances over his shoulder. "You said they were after her dad? Name?"

"Gideon... Denali."

"Spell that." You spell it for him. He scrolls a bit. "Crab fisherman. Pipeline worker. Trucker... this guy came pretty fucking far to get back to Palo, ay? Let's see... hmm. Huh."

"Huh?" Lily says, standing from the folding table. "What's huh?"

Tyrus glances at her. "Gideon Denali used to own the Medicine Group. Van's not hot."

"You know the number to the Sizzler?" Tyrus asks.

"Uh," Lily says.

He stands, grips his belt, arches his back. "Call Freddy. Tell him to get his ass down here. He's on shift now at the guardhouse. I'm gonna round up the posse and poke my head in over at the Medicine Group."

"Uh?" Lily repeats, this time with an annoyed lilt.

"Fucking uh what?" Tyrus snaps. "I taught you English, didn't I?"

"I'm coming too, right?"

"You're--" Tyrus's voice goes Soprano as he marvels: "did I raise a fuckin' invalid? You serious with this, Lily?"

She pulls her gun from her waistband and hefts it. "Come on. You know I can watch your back."

One hand still in his belt, the other pointing disapprovingly at his daughter, he shifts his weight forward and says: "I trained you for self-defense. Hear? Not offense. So sit down and call Freddy."

"Or what?"

"Or... or you're grounded."

Lily tilts her head.

He takes a step forward. "Girl. I will take your car down to the junkyard and make you watch me turn it into a cube. Don't try me."

She slumps back into the stool where she was sitting. "I hate you," she harrumphs.

"Good." He nods at you. "I'll get this Summer girl of yours back. Best not to let the folks know 'til it's over. Yours or hers."

"Yeah."

He goes.

When you're alone again, Lily says: "Who the fuck is Lennie Briscoe?"

You turn, putting your back against the door, and slide until you're sitting on the floor with your hands around your knees.

"You're blocking my way," Lily says.

"What?"

"I said you're blocking my way. I've got places to be."

"But... your dad said--"

"Your daaaaad said," Lily repeats in a mocking voice. "Jesus. I thought you grew a spine back at that diner. Guess you're the same fucking wimp you always were. Well now that I know Summer's a lesbian, and that she's only dating a loser like you, I'm what you might call a stakeholder in the situation. Saving her life could pay dividends. So get out of my way. I've got places to be."

>[x] Go with her.

[ ] Stop her.

Lily marches down the drive, towards dad's front gates, but stops when she senses you behind her.

"Really?" She says, without looking back.

"She's my girlfriend. I told you. I'm not going to sit around and let her get killed."

Lily turns on you. "You come tagging along, she's actually more likely to get killed. Have you ever even held a gun before?"

"I've got good aim. You know that."

"You don't even have good aim in a video game!" Lily shouts, throwing her arms up. "That's why you play close-range tanks! Fucking dumbass!"

"I'm the backup sniper for our team!" You insist.

"What's our designated sniper's k:d? 1:10? As a sniper? Yeah. Congrats. You're the understudy for that motherfucker. Great job. Proud of you."

"I'm coming. You can't stop me."

Lily sizes you up. She steps to you. Tries to loom, to make you shirk back -- which doesn't work, since she's even shorter than you. You stand firm.

"Bint," she finally says, double-timing it to her car. "Come if you're coming, then."

The Medicine Group is on the second story of a close-packed little strip mall near Chinatown. To its left is a shady-looking dentist's office, to its right is a catheter-supply outlet. Below is a store selling traditional Chinese medicine, and above is a massage parlor. You smell sewage, vaguely, as Lily pulls up to the curb.

"See anything?" You ask, poking your head through the sunroof, craning your neck this way and that.

"Look more conspicuous," she grunts.

You glare down at her through the roof. "Oh, the unicorn-purple Camaro with a pearlescent finish doesn't do a good enough job of that, huh?"

Lily rolls her window down and surveys the parking lot. "Shit. You right. Don't see Dad's car here yet... and I don't want him to see mine. I'll pull it around and park it somewhere all hidden like." She swings the car around to an alley behind the strip mall, where the smell of sewage is a lot stronger. You see caged chickens along the stucco wall, about a dozen. They're making an awful racket.

"Why isn't he here yet?" You ask.

"Dad?" Lily says. She shrugs. "He said he'd bring the posse. Guess he's getting them all rounded up." She steps from the car and, leaning against the door, she cranes her neck to look up at the backside of the Medicine Group. "Fire escape. Could shimmy up there and take a peek. See what I see."

"Me too," you say. You get out of the car.

Lily rolls her eyes.

"Quiet," she hisses as you clamber behind her on the ladder leading to the second-story landing. You exert a conscious effort to make your footfalls more gentle, although you can't imagine how anyone inside would hear them over the chickens even if you were wearing metal boots. As you climb, you focus on Lily's swaying backside. Or lack of backside. She's almost as scrawny as you.

On the first landing, she sneaks across the length of the mezzanine like she's James Bond, until she gets to the window for the building you want. She visors her brow and tries to peer in, but the window is totally blacked out. "Damn," she says.

"Try the door?" You ask.

"First of all? It's probably locked. Second of all? Probably tied to an alarm system. We're gonna have to take a different strategy. We should--"

She stops as you get your fingers around the rubberized seal of the window and slide it to one side, cracking it open a hair.

"...try the window," Lily says, as if that was her first thought too. "...Good. Good thinking." She pushes you aside and peeks in through the tiny sliver of visible space. She glances back at you. Nods. "No one home. Let's go."

She slides the window the rest of the way open. Parting some thin white curtains, the two of you step gingerly through. What you find is a dull, drab, tiny office that feels like it hasn't been remodeled since the 1990s. The carpet is completely threadbare and the moulding around the walls is peeling back. It smells musty and mildewy. The PC tower under the desk is positively ancient and its fan exhaust is choked with cinerous dust. The rolling chair in front of it is missing a wheel and the fabric over the seat is torn in places to reveal foamy yellow batting beneath. A bookcase along the wall is full of weird-looking books; your eyes scan titles like "Right-Hand, Left-Hand, Middle Path: A Third Way" and "Infinity and the Mind." There are some posters on the wall with a certain disquieting aesthetic. "THE EYES LIE" says one of them along the top, then underneath an illustration of a bugged-out eye staring back at you, "SENSE THE INSENSIBLE." Another poster asks pointedly: "IS THIS THE WORLD YOU WANT?" -- words emblazoned across a collage of images of suffering: war-torn villages, starving Africans, a mushroom cloud, a shot of a chalked-off body outline behind crime scene tape.

"This is the shittiest doctor's office I've ever seen," Lily whispers.

"I don't think it's a doctor's office," you say, feeling queasy beyond words.

Lily holds up a hand to shush you. Her ears perk up. She puts the side of her face against the room's only door and listens closely. After a long few moments, she steps back and gently tries the handle. Cracking the door open, she looks in. The room beyond is much larger, low-ceilinged. It's like an abandoned AA meeting, with folding chairs arrayed all in a circle. The carpet is in a little better shape than the office, and the mildew smell isn't bad -- but still with creepy posters on the walls. More folding chairs lie folded and stacked in the near corner. There are some potted Elephant's Ear plants in a far corner.

Lily steps in. You follow.

"This is fucked up," Lily whispers.

"Yes it is," comes the voice of a man, stepping through a door from the office directly adjacent. He overpowers Lily before she can react, before she can even get her gun out -- sweeps her around in a standing half-nelson, and gets his own gun to her head.

"Lily?!" You hear Summer calling from inside that other office. "What the--" then, after a pause, "oh god... is Wes out there, too?"

"Yeah, worry about me some more, huh?" Lily barks at her.

"Quiet, quiet--" the man tells her, jerking her arm behind her back. "Who the hell are you people?"

You take a step in reverse, thinking to retreat into the room you came from, but the man fixes you in place by pointing his gun at you. "Don't move."

"Wes!" Summer yells. "Run!" You hear the sound of flesh on flesh, a thwack -- then Summer crying out in pain.

You hold your hands up in a show of nonaggression.

"I've got five other people in that room with her, so think twice before you try anything," he tells you.

You do a quick mental calculation. This wasn't the main point-man who confronted Summer outside Shake 'Em Up. He's one of the flunkies. But between him and the others who got out of the van back there, there's only four total. Why would this asshole lie about how much backup he's got, to add in just one extra person? Maybe you're less outgunned than you think. But there's at least one other person in there with him... someone definitely slapped Summer just now.

Lily struggles uselessly against her captor. "Let -- go -- of me," she huffs. The man cocks the hammer of his gun and presses it to her temple.

You're sure it's just a threat. But just a threat is too much. Without even thinking, you blurt out: "I know where Gideon Denali is."

The man loosens his grip on Lily just a bit. He's stunned. Summer, panicked, calls from the room: "Wes! Why did you come here? You idiot! You stupid! Go! Go now!"

"Where is he?" He asks.

"He's at a hotel off the 280. Just outside Cupertino. I can take you."

The man jerks his head, signaling to one of his accomplices, who emerges from the doorway. It's the one who was talking to Summer -- the one who tazed her. Up close he's a pinch-faced weasel of a man, like a nebbishy middle manager who decided to become a mobster but can't quite look the part.

"She's the girlfriend," he tells the man holding Lily. "Yeah. She was with Summer and Liz last night at the grand opening."

"You believe her?" The man holding Lily asks him.

"I don't know. Not really. ... Why should we believe you?"

"Because..." you stutter. "Uh. Because -- I walk the middle path."

They both chuff. Then they laugh.

"Wow. I didn't know we had someone inside the family," the man holding Lily says. "Is she one of ours, too?" He indicates Lily by pointing at her with the muzzle of the gun.

"Of course," you tell him.

He lets go of Lily.

"Come on out," you call to the room where Summer is. "Leave the girl."

"Just us," the other man says. "Didn't know you were a friendly, so we fibbed."

"Oh," you say. "Good."

You grab a folding chair and hurl it at him. It bowls him over, probably more from surprise than anything. Lily, pulling her gun, fires -- and nails her former captor in the leg.

"God -- DAMN it!" the man you hit with the chair shrieks, as he tosses it aside with a clatter. The man who Lily shot still has the wherewithal to dip into the room where Summer is. Fuck.

You bound after him, not thinking of your own personal wellbeing -- Lily does, too. But too late. Summer, sitting in one of those battered rolling chairs, is held at gunpoint, and he's crouching behind her for a shield. He's bleeding profusely from his leg. It's a life-threatening wound that needs immediate medical attention. But his hand is steady and sure as he holds it to Summer's head.

Lily gets her gun trained on him. She can't risk taking the shot, though. It's a standoff.

From behind you, you hear a knock. Someone at the front door. Not a moment too soon. The man you played one-pin chair-bowling jumps to, and closes the office door behind you -- sealing you inside with his buddy, Lily, and Summer. He stays out in the main room. You hear him, then, thudding up to the door and throwing it open. You understand implicitly that the directive is to stay inside and make yourselves unheard.

"Welcome to the Medicine Group, brother," you hear him say.

"Phrasing," comes Tyrus's voice with signature chiding laugh.

"Oh, I mean nothing by it. All men are my brothers and all women are my sisters. Anyone who loves God must also love his brother."

"Oh, a Christian man. You been studying your bible."

You glance over your shoulder. Lily's finger on the trigger is getting twitchy. "Don't," you whisper to her.

"Try it and she's dead," the man confirms, tightening his grip on Summer's shoulder as he squats behind her.

"You'll be dead too," Lily warns him.

"Well... yeah," he says, a bit flummoxed. "That's what a standoff is..."

"Wes..." Summer whispers. "Why? Why did you come here?"

"I..." you begin. But it's hard to complete the thought.

"I'm not exactly a Christian," the man on the other side of the door is saying. "We walk a syncretist path. No one religion has the answers we seek."

"Nice, nice. Well I only seek one answer at the current juncture," Tyrus says. His voice is getting louder and quieter -- you can tell he's pacing in circles around the room like he owns the place. "I'm looking for a little white girl. Bout yay high. Blonde, skin tanned an ungodly shade of orange. Name of, uh..." He snaps his fingers a few times, like trying to jog a memory. "Summer Denali. Yeah, that's it. You seen any Summers lately?"

"Don't know the name. We have some literature, though, if you're interested--"

"You know the name. You've been looking for her daddy. Let's cut it with the coy shit, ay? I want to be home for dinner. My husband's making pizza." There's a long pause. "If you ever ate his pizza, you'd understand. So where is she?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"Summer is my employer's daughter's girlfriend. Now I get that that's a six degrees sounding story there. But if she comes to harm, my employer's daughter is gonna be all sad and shit. So my employer will be all sad and shit. So I'll be all sad and shit. I don't like being sad. I mean, who does?"

Another pause, then Tyrus's voice from a totally different part of the room. "I'll just make the offer clear. I take it that Gideon left y'all high and dry with a mountain of debt. I'm acting on the authority of my employer to make you whole. In other words, I pay you off and you let Summer go. I'm good for it."

"You aren't good for the kind of debt Gideon owes."

"Sure I am. My boss is a billionaire. Palo's full of 'em. Name a price."

"Five million."

"Done."

There's a stunned silence. You glance back. The man holding Summer is clearly seeing dollar signs, too.

There's a clack, and then Tyrus explaining. "You can count it up. That's a million cash right there, upfront. Non-sequential, mixed denomination -- Benjamins, Grants, and Tubmans. The rest I'll leave at a dead drop for you tonight. No cops... I don't like cops."

"...Okay," the man finally replies.

"Oh, and one last thing," Tyrus says. "You pull any other shit with the Denali family, or anyone else I'm responsible for? I'll kill every last one of you cultist-ass motherfuckers. This town belongs to me. I've got friends in high places and low. You won't be able to hide."

"Pah," the man holding Summer grunts.

"She in there?" Tyrus asks. He must have heard that.

"Stay put. We'll bring her out--"

But Tyrus's footsteps are already drawing near.

The asshole in the room with you must be smarter than he looks, because he surmises that Lily is the higher-value meat shield. He bounds across the room, tackles her, and gets the gun to her head just as Tyrus enters.

"Elam, wait--!" The man in the main room cries out. Too late. Tyrus sees him holding a gun on Lily. With the deadeyed and remorseless surety of a fucking terminator, Tyrus puts a hole in the head of this man, Elam apparently, who thought Lily would make a great hostage. Then turning around a full 180 like his feet are mounted on casters, calm as anything, he nails the other man just as he's pulling a gun of his own. Two shots, two kills, in less than a second.

Lily shrieks. Well. All three of you do, but she shrieks the loudest. Tyrus nudges the fresh corpse off of her with his boot. He frowns down at her. "You are so fucking grounded, little miss."

Tyrus takes a handkerchief from his pocket, flaps it so it unfurls, and then wipes the blood from his little girl's face and neck. One of his palms is large enough to encompass almost her entire tear-streaked face; kneeling, he checks her to make sure she's all right, turning her head this way and that, the way a physician might. Only once he's satisfied does he ask you and Summer if you're all right too. He has you all stand with your backs to the carnage he wrought as he goes through the dead men's pockets.

"I... I..." Summer repeats over and over, unable to formulate coherent thoughts. Lily is hardly any more clearheaded. She hides behind her palms and massages her forehead. Her breaths are raggedy, irregular.

"Why did you come alone..." Lily asks her dad. "You said you were bringing people..."

"You said you weren't gonna come at all," Tyrus reminds her, squatting by one of the two corpses. When Lily, shamefaced, doesn't have a good answer for that, Tyrus explains: "My cursory research told me that Gideon left some outstanding debts. Some really outstanding debts. I figured these fools were after was owed. So why go in all bellicose when I could negotiate a peaceable end to the issue at hand?"

"Peaceable..." Summer says. "Yeah..."

You hear Tyrus's knees pop as he stands tall again. "Well, they gave up peace and love and puppy dogs when they put a gun to Lily's head."

You're freaked out too, but you're thinking a bit more clearly than Summer and Lily. A realization strikes you like a bolt of lightning. Turning, you tell Tyrus -- "this is a crime scene now... our DNA is all over the place."

"Naw," Tyrus says. "These assholes don't strike me as the get-the-cops-involved sort. Few hours from now, they'll get themselves to wondering what's taking their friends so long and come here looking for them. They'll find the mess and clean it up however they so choose." He closes the lid of the cash-stuffed suitcase and picks it up. "Well, saved a million dollars, anyway. And we got a nice head start on them. Now we're gonna have to give Summer and her mama some security detail, too, before these freaks go busting down--" he pauses mid-sentence, pondering. He wags his finger at Summer in sudden recognition. "Heeeey. Your mama Liz Denali by any chance?"

Summer nods.

"Bang!" Tyrus says, laughing, making a finger gun at her. You all fail to find the humor in this, at least right now. He clears his throat. "Well. Anyway. We'll get you some security."

"Thank you," Summer tells him softly.

"No need."

"But still--"

"No, really, no need. I'm invoicing Alabaster for that. And rest assured I am going to gouge the fuck out the price. So don't you worry about thanks."

Tyrus drives you back home in Lily's Camaro. Seems he intends to make good on his promise of revoking it. Whether it will soon be cubed is an unanswered question. As he drives, he speaks on the phone to one of his associates. "Yeah. Yeah. Full detail, but stay back all inconspicuous like until I get the chance to talk to the woman one on one. Just have a few guys walking around the store casing for glassy eyed flavor-aid drinker types. She don't know what's going on yet. So try not to freak her out before I get the chance to."

Lily rides up front, you and Summer in the back. The back is cramped and Summer spends the entire ride curled up with you. She strokes your face and rubs her cheeks against your shoulder. She plays with your hair. "My knight in shining armor..." she coos.

"Bitch, what?" Lily says, turning in her seat. "It was my idea to come save you. Wes was lying around crying like a bitch when you got taken."

Summer sticks her tongue out at Lily and hugs you tighter.

"Fucking ungrateful slut," Lily grunts as she faces forward again.

"Do you know where pops is?" Tyrus asks.

"No," Summer says. "He didn't tell us. He thought we'd be safer that way..."

"He owe these folks more than money?"

"Maybe," Summer says. "I never really knew a lot about it. But he wasn't involved with nice people--"

"No shit?" Lily says.

"He was... my dad was an instrumentalist."

"--Like in a band?" You say.

"Like... in a cult," Summer says, cringing with embarrassment. She obviously never wanted you to know this bit of Denali family lore.

"Yeah," Tyrus murmurs. "I heard of them. They do like Scientology. Recruit people through businesses that are just fronts for Instrumentalism. So you get people hooked in before they know they in a cult. Pretty popular religion for the irreligious in the valley these days. Daddy was an early adopter, huh?"

"It's the reason he left my mom..." Summer says.

"Was your mom a part of it too?"

Summer shakes her head.

"That's good. Their business is with Gideon Denali and no one else, then." He taps a jaunty little tune out on the steering wheel, smiles. "I'll get word out through some certain intermediaries that this afternoon was a warning. Shot across the bow. And that if they fuck around some more, they'll more than find out."

You've never seen Dad so angry. It's frightening. The way he gets right in Tyrus's personal bubble without flinching and puts a finger right in Tyrus's face. Maybe it's because you just saw Tyrus kill two men, but you can't imagine acting that way towards him.

"You let my daughter get mixed up in this?" Dad fumes. "And you didn't even tell me about it? Give me one good reason I shouldn't fire you. Actually, give me one good reason I shouldn't fucking k--"

"I'm gonna ask you in a nice civil fashion to get the fuck out my face, Alabaster," Tyrus says. But he's the one who steps away, to sit back at his desk on the other side of the guard shack, and glare severely up at his boss. "Your daughter is the one who got my daughter mixed up in this bullshit. And my fucking daughter was the one with a gun to her head an hour ago, so you better shut the fuck up before I shut you up."

Dad can't leave it alone. He walks to Tyrus's desk, leans on it with both fists, and gets himself just inches from Tyrus again. "I'm paying you a fortune to keep my family safe. My family. But you can't even do that."

"Get back, Alabaster. This strike two now, hear?"

Lily, beside you, whispers, "this is why the world needs less testosterone."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," you whisper back.

Lily picks up one of the doubling cubes from the table and tosses it against the wall, startling your fathers out of the man-off before they can come to blows. They glare back at her.

"We're alive," Lily tells them. "Appreciate the little miracles, huh?"

Dad stops leaning into Tyrus's desk, but as he rights his posture, he says: "You keep me in the loop next time. You really don't want to piss me off. Trust me."

"Uh huh," Tyrus hums.

Summer jumps out of her seat and halfway to the ceiling when her phone rings. A little jumpy lately -- understandable. When she composes herself, she glances at the screen, and seeing who it is, she answers: "Mel."

Amelia's voice is so loud that you can hear it on the other end. "There you are! I've been so worried!"

"--You have?" Summer says. Amelia pipes down, and now you get only Summer's half of the conversation: "Yeah. I, uh, walked back home with Wes. That's why I left the car there." ... "Uh huh, yeah. Totally. I'll let you know next time." .... "You are? You're at-- oh -- you were looking for me?-- oh shit. Oh *shit*. No, I'll be there right away. See ya." She hangs up.

"What is it?" You ask.

Summer's eyes are more frightened than when there was a gun to her head. "Mel just reminded me that I'm like way late to cheer practice."

Tyrus physically recoils in his seat and blinks hard a few times in total incomprehension. "You just got nabbed by cultists, had your life threatened, and saw two people get shot."

"Coach is gonna shoot *me* if I miss practice again!" Summer says.

Tyrus, shaking his head, glances Dad's way. But Dad isn't amused. "What are you looking at me for?" He demands.

"You're bankrolling the little lady's protection now. What say you?"

"No I'm not," he says.

"Dad--" you begin.

"Liz Denali has more than enough of her own money. She can pay for Tyrus's services herself, if she wants them." There's an awkward silence, so at last he says: "whatever. Let's go," and motions for Summer to follow him. "I'll give you a ride."

[ ] Can I come too?

>[x] Stay and talk to your moms about what happened.

"I should tell the moms what happened, huh," you say.

"Better they hear it from you than from me," Dad agrees.

"Good. Y'all hurry on, then," Tyrus says. "I need to have a fatherly chat with my darling little girl." He gives her a look that could pierce diamond. Lily gulps. Just before Alabaster ducks out, though, Tyrus says: "oh. By the way. Not to be a rat, but I think your daughter's dating people. Maybe more than one."

Dad shrugs. "Yeah?"

"Thought I'd pay you the professional courtesy, as your employee, of letting you know."

Dad is mute.

"I mean," Tyrus says. "She's a little young for it yet, don't you think?"

"Tyrus," Dad says, "I'll raise my daughters. You raise yours."

He gives Dad an arched eyebrow and a dismissive head shake. "Whatever you say, boss..."

Out in the drive, Summer hangs off your arm, leaning on your shoulder and gripping your hand with both of hers. Dad isn't the world's most observant person, but he notices it. "You really care about each other, huh."

You smile to yourself, unable to make the warm feelings go away. "Yeah," you say, and writhe your palm to clasp Summer's hands a bit more firmly. Your mated fingers are getting all overhot and sweaty, but you don't care.

Dad opens the passenger-side door of his Volt. Summer gets in, and he closes it behind her. Semi-alone with you, he takes a moment with you. He firmly grasps your arm and purse his lips. He nods at you. He says, "I get it." Which is all he really needs to say. You give him a sheepish smile in gratitude for not making a big production.

He hugs you, then, and adds, "I can't lose you. So tell me if you're in trouble. I won't be mad."

"You'll be mad," you say into his coat.

"Maybe a little. Depending." He pulls away and looks you in the eye. "Never too mad to help. ...Never too mad to love you."

You purr in feigned disgust. Dad smiles, hops into the driver's seat and pulls away. Summer waves at you through the window as the car rolls by.

Both your mothers are shockingly quiet as you relay the story. Sitting side-by-side in the living room, they wince and flinch at each additional detail; N-Mom holds K-Mom's hand down by K-Mom's lap and they worry each other's palms with increasing fervor as you get to the parts with the guns and the cults and the killing. But they hardly say a word until you're done.

Finally, N-Mom is the first to speak. "You... realize that you could have been killed today. Don't you?"

"...Yeah. That's why I'm telling you."

"All of this for Summer?" K-Mom says. "Why didn't you just call 911?"

"Well, I was going to..." you begin. You decide not to get into it.

"Why?" K-Mom presses.

"Because," you say. You mull the next part over in your mind and imagine the words rolling off your tongue before you let them. It's the first time you've ever verbalized it. It feels strange. It makes you sort of shiver. "I think I'm in love with her."

Usually, news about any real or imagined romantic entanglements makes your mothers argue for some reason. Instead, now, N-Mom just asks: "enough to risk your life for her?"

"Well. I did. So."

N-Mom and K-Mom look worriedly at one another, and whatever they communicate is done nonverbally. K-Mom says to you, "stay out of it from now on. Tyrus does good work. And -- so do we."

"What are you two gonna do?" You say, inwardly oofing at how bitchy that came out sounding.

"Tyrus can make trouble for these Instrumentalist people through, let's say, extralegal channels," K-Mom says. "But your mother can make trouble for them with Uncle Sam. And I can make trouble for them with public opinion."

"No one fucks with our daughter or her girlfriend and expects to get away with it," N-Mom says.

You smile.

"Anyway, you're grounded," K-Mom says.

Your smile dies in an instant. "--What?"

"Oh, so grounded," N-Mom agrees. "You have absolutely no idea the plane of groundedness you just landed on."

Now you know how Lily feels. "What the f-- I'm sixt--"

"Go get yourself cleaned up," K-Mom says. "Then get your butt to bed. Lights out."

You stomp off.

On Monday when they come around to pick you up, it's a bit awkward to explain to Amber and Ophie that you, despite being practically an adult, are grounded; and that as part of the terms and conditions, you have to ride to school with Dad. Amber chortles. "What the fuck did you do? Steal Kay's strapon again?"

Ophie blushes and glances away.

"I, uh... played around a little bit with the stock market," you say. This seems like a suitable enough lie to tell.

"Oh my God, Wes," Amber groans. "You didn't fuck around with Apple, did you? Walmart? Amazon?"

Your silence implies the affirmative. Amber slaps you upside the head.

"What is wrong with you?" She yowls. "Meme stocks are the worst shit you can get stuck in! Invest in stable businesses with steady, year-over-year returns like Gamestop or Tesla. Or put it in blue chips like Bitcoin and Doge. Jesus fucking Christ, *Wesley*. You deserved to get your ass grounded for that."

You sigh.

The ride to school with Dad is a bit awkward, made awkwarder by his insistence on small talk. "What's going on?"

"Uh. We're driving to school?"

"I mean with you. What's going on in the world of Wes?"

You have no idea what to say.

"We never talk," he says. "I just want to feel like I know my own kid. Humor me."

"Well... let's see. I have a test in trig tomorrow."

"Ready for it?"

"...my team is playing Gilroy North High on Thursday," you say, answering by deflection. "You went to school there, didn't you?"

"Ohhh yeah. A couple times."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Kick their ass for me. They suck."

"Mm," you say. Ophie's catchall response is really useful.

"Still, though..." Dad muses. "You should do something more respectable than video games. That's my take."

"It's not video games, Dad, god. You're just like N-Mom! It's E-sports..."

"Has Mr. Langley talked to you about being in quiz bowl with Amber?"

"Too many times. Look, I want to focus on what I'm good at. Lily thinks we could make it to The International this year."

"Hey, PAP quiz bowl is national caliber. Your dad went to nationals, you know. You and Amber could make it there too--"

"Not nationals," you say. "The International."

Dad turns his head and looks confusedly your way.

"They're having it this year in Monaco."

"*Monaco*?" Dad says.

"Yeah, I know. It's so lame. If we could have gone last year, we would have been in Tokyo. The year before that it was in Berlin, and before that it was in Taipei. Next year it's in Macau."

"Mona-- but-- it..." Dad grips the steering wheel hard and twists his hands back and forth like he's revving a motorcycle. You can hear the steering wheel's leather squeak. "When I was in quiz bowl, we went to Boise."

"Boise's nice," you lie. "It's got... potatoes..."

"I wanna go to Monaco," Dad says.

"You have lots of money. We can go to Monaco anytime. ...Do you want to go to Monaco, Dad?"

"It's not the *same*," he says, voice kinda whiny.

In World History, Summer is relatively at ease, if still feeling the aftershock of what happened -- somehow both peppy and reserved. "Doing ok, babe?" She asks.

"Yeah. How did your mom take it?" You ask her.

"Dad's lucky he wasn't around. She legit wanted to kill him. ... How did your moms take it?"

"They took it surprisingly well."

"Yeah. Your moms are really cool. They seem like they could take a whole lot." Summer scrunches her lips to one side of her face. Then without warning, she tilts herself forward in her seat and raises her hand high in the air. "Oh-- Ms. Cantor!" She calls.

Ms. Cantor stops lecturing and looks Summer's way. "Yes?"

"Was there a Double Entente, too?"

Maybe life will be back to normal sooner than you thought.

At E-sports practice, Lily hardly says anything at all. You're just fine with that. You work better as a team when she's quiet. You win every match you play -- even a close shave where you catch the rival team's imposter just before they secure a diplomacy victory. You have just enough mana to build a fleet of dreadnoughts, and spawncamp until you win by timeout. Yeah it sucks to win lame, but a win's a win.

Lily's sudden turn for the taciturn is less disquieting than what happens after practice. It's past 8 PM when you and the rest of your teammates call it a day, shut down your PCs, and begin to gather your things -- everyone except for Lily:

"Wes. Wait up."

"Huh?" You grunt, half-standing.

"You wanna stick around a bit? Do some 1-on-1s?"

"I can't. I'm grounded... wait, aren't you grounded too?"

"You fucking wimp. You're really afraid of your parents that bad, huh?" (She should be afraid of her dad more than you're afraid of your mothers, but that's no business of yours.) "Just tell 'em practice went long. They're dumb. They'll believe it."

"But we can do 1-on-1s from home," you say. "We always do."

"In person is better, though, right?" She says. You furrow your brow. Lily makes an annoyed sound and wags her head like a pendulum. "We two gotta bring our co-captain... ness... to the next level. That's the only way the PAP Cross-Players get to Monaco. And nothing substitutes for matchmaking in person. Without the ping, for one thing." She blinks at her unintentional rhyme. Then continues, "Know what I'm saying?"

>[x] Stay for a 1-on-1 session.

[ ] Sorry. I need to keep my mommies happy.

You set your bag on the floor and sit down again. You turn on the PC. "If you wanna get destroyed that bad..."

"Come and fucking try, bitch," Lily says.

Mr. S, who was himself just getting up, notices you and Lily settling back in. "Oh -- you're staying?"

Lily, focused intently on the screen as she makes a room for you, says: "hm? Yeah. Don't mind us. You can head out."

"Well I mean, if you're staying, I can stick around for a little while, too. Wouldn't want you to be lonely!"

Lily's right eye twitches. "We don't want to be trouble--"

"Nah, it's not any trouble at all," Mr. S says with a friendly wave. He sits at his desk. "I can grade tests and stuff while you play. You won't even know I'm here."

Lily's eye twitches again.

"Uhh, you okay?" You ask her.

"Get in the fucking room," she says through her teeth.

Lily's off her game in the 1-on-1 matches. She makes frequent mistakes like letting her land raiders run out of fuel, and she doesn't notice it when you disrupt her supply lines. Her SDI is shit, letting you take stock after stock, and she can't even land hits with the noob tube she picks up. It's a mess.

You're not the paragon of good E-sportsmanship. You needle her incessantly. "Oooh... that's too bad," you tsk when you take her Nexus; "What is this, wood league?" You ask after a game that ends in less than five minutes' time; "I know you're a stupid slut, Lily, but at least try to put up a challenge for me. Please?" You say when you score an assist on her with a CPU set to easy.

Little over one hour in, Lily is a ball of white-hot, seething fury. You're honestly concerned about her mental health if she goes on. But she seems actually more concerned with Mr. S than with you. She keeps glancing up at him, where he sits scrolling on his computer. You doubt, and you know she also doubts, that Mr. S is grading. He's more likely watching anime. "Making progress?" Lily asks him pointedly. "Almost done?"

"Huh?"

Lily tries for polite. "If you want to go home, Mr. S, it's fine. Really."

"I'm good."

Lily inhales deeply through her nostrils and exhales deeply through her mouth. What comes next couldn't have come at a more perfect moment: you noscope her.

"See?" You say. "I have good aim."

"MOTHERFUCKER!" Lily shrieks.

"Langua--" Mr. S says.

Lily jumps to her feet. "GO HOME. GO HOME. LEARN TO TAKE A FUCKING MESSAGE, BOYD. GO. HOME. IS THAT COMING THROUGH CLEAR? DO YOU NEED ME TO SEND YOU A TELEGRAM? NEED IT STAMPED ON YOUR FACE? GOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOME."

"I--" he begins.

With a savage scream, Lily grabs a stapler and chucks it at him. Shielding himself with his hands, Ms. S ducks, and the stapler leaves a dent in the plaster of the wall behind him. He turns in his seat and gazes at it in mute horror for a moment.

"...Good luck have fun," he mutters, as he gathers himself to his feet and hurries from the class.

Lily, still standing, breathes like she just finished a marathon while she comes down from her little tantrum. You're only glad that it was directed at Mr. S rather than at you. And hey, he needed someone to tell him off. Now it's only you and Lily in the practice room. With the sun fully set, this place has a strange energy to it. The fluorescents seem brighter than usual, contrasted as they are against the dark outside the windows. Being on school grounds, by yourselves, so late, is an alien feeling.

You queue up for another game. "Come if you're coming," you tell her.

Lily turns on you. Oh shit. Her tantrum wasn't over. It was just the eye of the storm passing overhead. She's gonna--

She gets in your chair with you. She presses down on the seat with one of her knees, propelling it backwards, and as that small momentum pushes you up against the nearby wall, she brings her other knee up too. She's atop you in a sense, as she holds your shoulders for balance, and gets her lips so close to yours that if either of you puckered you'd be kissing.

"Lily--" you breathe. You hold your hands up as if you're a surrendering soldier, and lean back in an attempt to distance yourself. But there's nowhere to go.

"Knight in shining armor, huh," Lily sneers.

"Summer's words," you tell her. "Not mine. A-are you mad about that? Well, I agree. I'm not a, a, a knight. You know? I'm not knightlike. Knightesque. I mean. I'm so unknightly."

"No," Lily says. "You are. You had my back."

You shake your head. Lily runs her hands up and down the sides of your face. Her palms are warm, but small and dainty, and she feels much weaker than her tough facade tries to suggest.

"We had our lives on the line," she says. "You and me. In the thick of it. And you didn't even have a gun. But you threw a fucking chair at the man. That's some knight shit."

"Lily... I-I have a girlf--"

"I've never got with a girl who I thought could stand up like that. Someone who'd take me in a fight if it came to it." She puts her face against you where your shoulder meets your neck. Kisses you there. Your spine stiffens. Through the smooch, Lily says: "someone I can fucking... I don't know. Respect?"

You slide your hands underneath, and push against Lily's chest, forcing her back a little. She grins at you.

"I'm seeing someone," you tell her.

"Yeah? So? I'm seeing plenty of someones," Lily says. She starts kissing your neck again.

"I don't want her to--"

"Text Summer and tell her to get her ass over here, then." Lily switches sides, kissing you on the other half of your neck. "She owes you, too," Lily adds hotly. "We'll treat you real nice..." Her body, small as it is, is soft, and feels warm against you. It reminds you of being with Amber. When she's all excited, her body gets feverish and her muscles get restless, she gropes and squirms. She writhes. And she softly moans as she showers your neck with increasingly forceful, suckling kisses. You're gonna have hickeys.

It has the effect on you she was hoping for. You let your head hang back and sigh, unable to stop yourself. And as she explores your body, you run your hand up and down her back -- which pulls her closer, encourages her to kiss you harder.

"I got fucking wet when you pulled that shit," Lily tells you. Then corrects herself: "No. I got fucking wet when you told me about Summer sitting on you. I was jealous. You eat pussy, Wes? You a pussy licker?"

"Sometimes..." you admit.

Lily goes for your lips. You let her. You kiss, and Lily's tiny pink tongue dances at the back of your mouth. Like her outside, her inside is all warmed over. You wonder absently whether her cunt is this warm too. You want to find out.

"You like getting eaten?" Lily asks. You nod, your lips brushing hers as you do. "Hmmm~" Lily giggles. "You like getting fucked, too?" She asks, with an obscene enunciated emphasis on "fucked." Her kisses grow bolder. She untucks your blouse from your skirt and peels it from your body. Whipping it around like a lasso, she finally discards it. You're already taking off your bra for her. You're wet now, too. Lily got your pussy wet and now you're gonna spread your legs for her like the slut you are.

With her forearm against the entire left side of your head, she bows and licks you. A long, slow, sensual transit that begins from the space between your breasts, up your neck and over your chin, past your mouth and nose, ending at your forehead.

Then she stands. "Lily--" you moan, sitting forward, startling as the chair's seat tips to become parallel with the floor again. You're worried she's going to leave you in need. But she only got up to strip. Her underwear is strapless: an adhesive backless bra that accentuates what little she has in the way of breasts, and a C-string panty that hardly covers her bald slit. You spy the top of her quivering pussy, and nestled in it her clit, both totally unconcealed by the too-small undergarment.

She catches you staring and admonishes you. "Slut. Are you hot, too? You're dripping. Don't lie."

You nod. How could you not be dripping, confronted with Lily's itty bitty, nearly nude figure? Of course you are. Your twat is twitching and leaking inside your underwear.

"Show me," she says.

You show her. You unhook your skirt and let it lay flat against the chair. Your plain white panties are turned gray by the spreading wet spot. Lily rewards you for letting her peek, by letting you get a peek too. She pulls her bra and C-string off. Her nipples are the color of raw umber, her pussy lips too. Not the inside of her pussy, though. She spreads herself with V-shaped fingers, revealing flamingo pink inner walls. Her soft and supple mound visibly compresses from the heel of her palm pressing down. Her genitals glisten under the light. Lily giggles at how you gawk.

"Let's be sluts together," Lily says. She rubs her pussy. It's not for show, or to turn you on, she's simply masturbating. "Don't you like being slutty?"

"Uh huh," you groan, and rub your pussy too. Facing each other, you frig yourselves -- you sitting, Lily standing. You're not worried about dignity right now, so you get your hand inside your panties and dig at your itchy hole directly, the way you would if you were by yourself. But it doesn't matter how shamelessly you dig and claw, you still itch unbearably. Your cunt aches for real relief. Lily, staring, lets her mouth hang open.

"Here," Lily offers. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bright purple toy. It's shaped like a lazy cursive U, with two semi-flattened heads at either end. Lily flicks a switch. The thing comes to life. It buzzes and hums, and undulates like a snake. "Trib with me," Lily says, "let's cum together."

She sits on the floor and spreads her legs so far apart that she's nearly doing the splits. Her toes wiggle in pleasure and her eyes roll back when she gets one half of the toy inside herself. Desperate, you weakly slide from your chair, pulling off your panties, and get down there together with her. She bites her lower lip in concentration and steers the other half of the toy towards your waiting pussy.

"Fuck," you breathe. This thing vibrates more resonantly than any toy you've ever used. Though it can penetrate only shallowly, it feels like it's sending seismic waves straight into your womb. It hits some sort of harmonic frequency that turns your cervix to jelly and rattles your uterus. You understand the reason for its shape now: when inserted like this, with the partners facing one another, that snakehead of hard silicone presses cruelly on your G spot. And as the toy flexes up and down, it's like you're getting a five-star massage directly on your cum-button. "Unnnhhh," you grunt, swaying, losing control of yourself. Your genitals shudder and you squirt against Lily.

Lily hugs you, holding her wrist with her other hand behind your back, and scoots herself closer. You imitate this with your legs, locking your ankles together just above her tailbone. The toy disappears inside your bodies. Your cunts kiss. Your mouths kiss, too. "Oh fuck, baby..." she whispers in your ear. "Cum with me. Let's cum all over the fucking place."

She starts to bounce on her butt. The vibrator rubs back and forth against your inner walls. The room's only sounds are the steady bzzz, bzzz, bzzz of the rotors, still so loud even buried to the hilt in your cuntmeat. Plus then your desperate, girly groaning -- yours as well as Lily's -- and the sucking squelches of your messy pussies sliding over each other's. You're fucking her and getting fucked at the same time. And yet it's also masturbatory. Naked on the floor in the middle of this classroom, you're masturbating together. And you're making out. Lily's spearmint breath and tongue reach all the way to the back of your throat.

"I wish you could cum inside me," you mewl.

"I am gonna cum inside you," Lily promises. Her voice is rough and raspy. "You want it that bad, slut bitch?"

"Yes... yes!"

"Little cunt. Messy fucking little cunt..."

Your fingertips play against each other's faces while you kiss and hump yourselves into oblivion. Your hips wag like copulating dogs. "I'm gonna cum inside you, too," you tell her.

"Yeah?" She says, high pitched and breathless. "Gonna make me your slut?"

"Fuck, yes."

"Gonna cum from rubbing our pussies? Gonna make your clit quake? Raping me get you off?"

You cup one of her tits in your hand, stoop, and suck on the nipple. It's springy and hard. Her skin tastes salty. Suckling her like this makes her bite her knuckles to suppress a scream, but she pets you to encourage you to keep going. "You're gonna make me lose my load," she warns.

"Do it, you stupid slut, do it!"

She slaps you. You, reeling in shock, haul back and slap her too. That startling combination -- the sting of your reddening cheeks paired with the continuous cresting of pleasure deep inside your quim -- is so perfect you feel like you could get addicted. From there, you alternate slaps and kisses. Your humping turns erratic and uncoordinated. The room fills with the heavy thwacking of your blows and the deep, guttural grunts of pain they elicit.

And finally it happens. You cum all over each other's pussies. When Lily hits orgasm, her voice is at its most feminine. She wrenches her eyes shut and goes "ahhhn~" as she lets go. The space between you becomes a sloppy mess as you cream in tandem. The toy is relentless, and it's as if you're getting milked as you dump your juices all over the ground. You slap each other until you see stars. You cum until you're empty. And as you fall onto your back, totally spent, Lily falls with you. She lays over top of you and sucks your face as you drift in and out of a half-conscious stupor. That goddamn toy is still vibing, and your over-sensitive insides can't handle it anymore. You feel your brain cells dying one by one from the overwhelming magnitude of pleasure.

It's really, really fucking good.

"Dumb bitches. Haha."

Lily's eyes bug out. That voice just now, tinny and static-soaked, came from her headset. She dismounts you, stumbles to her feet, checks her PC. "FUCK!" She shouts. You prop yourself on an elbow and watch. Lily frantically takes her seat again and hops into the game. The two of you must have stayed in the lobby by accident, and some pub randos joined while you were afk.

"Wes! Come on! Fuck!" Lily shouts.

A little less harried, you join Lily at the table. Stark naked, the two of you play the rest of the match out, trying to salvage things. Of course, you lose anyway. Lily blames you.

GIRLS FUCKED: 3/9

Leaving campus, as you and Lily pass through the front gates, you find Tyrus waiting in the otherwise empty parking lot, leaning against his beamer, his arms folded and a stony expression plastered across his face.

"Hey daddy!" Lily says, her voice childlike and sing-song as she practically skips towards him. You stop in place at the curb, intimidated.

Tyrus points at you. "You," he barks.

You point at yourself. "Me?" You mouth without speaking.

"I know what you was doing in there. Don't you play all innocent like."

Klaxons wail in your mind. Your endocrine glands go into overdrive. Your reptile brain selects among fight and flight -- it chooses its favorite flavor, flight -- but your muscles miss the memo, and you stay firmly rooted. "M-Mr. Kang-- Lily... we--"

"You was fuckin' around with my little girl. Against my expressly stated desires."

You're ready to sob. "I'm sor--"

He pushes off his car and stands tall. Six foot two or so of pure muscle and sneer. "We gonna have a problem?" He demands.

"No!" You squeak.

"Will you calm down?" Lily says. "We were practicing. Ran long."

"Playing with your team is practicing. Playing with just one teammate is playing."

"Daddy--"

"Don't you Daddy me," Tyrus tells his girl as she circles the car and reaches for the passenger door. He points at her. "You're goddamn lucky I'm making a distinction between practicing and playing at all. You're grounded from playing. Don't make me ground you from E-sports completely."

"Yes, *Dad*..." She gets in the car.

As much of a hardass as Tyrus is, you make mental note of the fact that even he can distinguish video games from E-sports. A feat your parents have yet to master.

Tyrus closes the door after her. He leans in through the window and demands: "What's that smell? That weed? Are you smokin' weed, Lily? Don't you lie to me."

"No," Lily says, in perhaps her first truthful statement ever. "You can drug test me if you want."

"Then what is it?"

Lily rests her cheek on her own shoulder and gives her father a withering stare. "Something you won't ever have to worry about," she says.

Tyrus steps back from the car. He asks you, "have you called your daddy to pick you up yet?"

"No. I was just going to walk home."

"Good. I want you to take a ride with me."

You feel like it's an offer you can't refuse.

Tyrus cruises at 15 MPH down a cutesy little tree-lined, pedestrian-friendly, garland-light-strung commercial drag in the downtown area that you're familiar with. He parks alongside a curb right in front of the store you're the most familiar with of all.

"Why are we going to the Blue Sprocket?" You ask.

Tyrus is on the phone, though. "I got eyes on them now, yeah," he's saying. "Thanks for keeping me updated. I'll take it from here." He hangs up.

You feel like a little kid sitting in the back while the grownups talk. You put a hand on either backrest of the seats up front and lean in. "Why are we going to the store where my dad's live-in bunnygirl used to work?"

Lily's eyes grow wider than a fat kid's at a cake factory. "Your dad has a live-in bunnygirl?" she breathes.

"We're not here for the Blue Sprocket," Tyrus tells you. "Ever notice the place across the way from it?"

"Who's this bunnygirl?" Lily says. "What's her name?"

You glance out the opposite window. "Yeah, I guess I've noticed it. It's a bookstore."

"You used to come this way a lot," Tyrus says, "so you ever notice anything unusual about this bookstore? Anything strange or outta the ordinary?"

"When you say bunnygirl," Lily asks, "do you mean the whole getup? Ears and cottontail and fishnets and one-piece? And those cute little cuff links and--"

"I don't know," you say.

"You don't know about your dad's bunnygirl?!" Lily snaps.

"I mean -- about the bookstore..." you say. You and Tyrus both give Lily a somewhat befuddled look. She zips it.

"Well, here comes someone who could fill you in quite nicely," Tyrus says. He points out the window. Amelia is walking down the street.

She wears a concerned expression on her face -- more concerned than normal, even. She keeps glancing around as if afraid that someone is following her. You're somehow ashamed that you're one of the people making her paranoia legitimate. From outside Tyrus's tinted windows, she can't tell you're spying from just across the road.

She stops outside the bookstore, casts one last uncertain glance about, and slips inside.

"Your dad would kill the fuck out of me if he knew I took you here, but I thought you'd wanna know this woman has some skeletons in her closet. Since you and Amber and Ophelia and Summer are so close with her and all, you deserve to know."

"You're close with that weird woman from Shake 'em Up?" Lily says.

"Close-ish... she hangs out sometimes."

"What the fuck," Lily fumes. "Summer... live-in bunnygirl... fatass MILF waitresses hanging off of you... can we swap lives for like a day?"

Tyrus glares at her. She zips it again.

You feel the reflexive need to defend Amelia from whatever Tyrus is accusing her of. "So she goes to a bookstore," you say. "So what."

Tyrus ducks his head a little, and squints, as he stares out of his windshield. The driver's side visor is hanging down, which casts a diagonal shadow across one half of his face, the other half illuminated by the street lamps outside. He purses his lips and wags a forefinger in direction of the storefront. "The thing about this bookstore is that it's closed for business," he says. "Bosphorus Rare Books shut down during Covid. Hasn't been open since."

"Covid?" You say. "19 or 24?"

Tyrus lightly slaps the center console beside him. "19 or-- the fuck you think, Wes?" He puts his hands back on the steering wheel, shaking his head like he can't believe what he's hearing. "19 or 24. God have mercy. Who the fuck talks about 19 anymore."

"Total trivia-brain," Lily says. "Her sister's got it bad, too. Needs everyone to know how smart she is for knowing random stuff like how there was also a 19."

"Anyway," Tyrus says, "despite being closed nigh-on a decade, and occupying one of the most lucrative commercial locations in Palo, a very commercial city, mind... it hasn't been replaced with a business that actually, you know, conducts business transactions. Its owner is some world traveler I guess. Keeps the lease paid up. The real estate company says she's their most punctual lessee, fact."

You watch the facade of Bosphorus Rare Books. The sign above it sports faux Olde English lettering, painted a deep forest green, in front of an unpainted woodcut depicting stacks of leatherbound books. The wood is a single knotty slab of raw pine, though singed around the edges to give it an aged look. A sturdy windowless oak door is inset between two bay windows that afford a view of only a couple darkly shadowed bookcases. You can see, through the right-hand window, albeit only dimly, a glowing amber light that seems to originate from the store's back half.

"What does this all have to do with..." you begin, but trail off. You're not even sure what to ask what it has to do with.

"Amelia's there with a friend of yours," Tyrus says. "Gideon Denali. Put feelers out -- tracked him here. This the second time they've met."

You step out of the car before you even realize your legs are carrying you.

You hear the clack of Tyrus's car door opening. Then he's shouting at you over his BMW: "Hold up! Don't make me come tackle you! Crazy ass!"

You're no fighter, and Tyrus intimidates you. Nonetheless you wheel around, right there in the middle of the two-lane street, and say: "Dad pays you to keep me safe, yeah? He doesn't pay you to tell me what to do. Just make sure there aren't any of those Instrumentalist freaks coming for me while I go talk with Mel."

Tyrus pounds the roof of his car with a flattened palm. "She could BE one of those Instrumentalist freaks, dumbass!"

You turn for the store again. "No," you mutter, "no she isn't."

The door, you assume, has a bell mounted above it. And so you open it as gently as you can to prevent it from chiming.

You step into the musty store. The mahogany floorboards underfoot are dusty, and creak a bit, despite your low BMI and your best efforts to tread lightly. In the grey light and amongst all this clutter it's difficult to tell whether someone might be hiding out in here. You peek around a stack of leatherbound tomes, down a row of shelves that leads to an oaken checkout counter.

Amelia is sitting there, a lone desk lamp illuminating her hands as they hold the vellum pages of a very, very old looking book. It could be a diary, perhaps -- compact and weather-beaten.

Gideon is standing over her shoulder.

"What does it say?" He asks.

Amelia sighs. "I don't appreciate you dragging me into this."

"Is my money not good enough? Does it not spend the way the other money did?"

"This isn't about money anymore. I think they went after Summer, Gideon. Looking for you."

"I know. That's why I need to know precisely what it says."

You skulk a little closer, and grip the edge of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, peeking around it.

"You're the mystic," Amelia says sarcastically. "Big boy medicine man. Don't you know the original Inuit?"

"I do, but those texts are gone. Russian translations are the next best thing." He taps the pages with a forefinger, impatient. "Except I don't speak it. And I know you do."

Amelia's eyes scan the pages. "This... this is gibberish. I don't know what you think you're looking for, but it isn't this. This is just the ravings of a fur trapper who spent too long in the wilderness."

"Just read it, Amelia. Please."

"I-- I can hardly make it out."

"Amelia!"

She stomps. "Excuse the heck out of me, Gideon! Russian cursive is hard! It's especially hard when the person who wrote it was clearly a madman!"

"You're stalling."

"No I'm--"

Gideon draws a pistol. You stifle a gasp. He puts the gun to Amelia's temple. She doesn't stifle a gasp.

"Read," he says.

"I-- I don't know!" Amelia pleads. "It's... gibberish! It doesn't mean anything!"

Gideon cocks the hammer. The sound of it bounces off the walls and makes you sick at the pit of your stomach.

Amelia, fighting her hyperventilation, a panicky lilt to every syllable, reads. "It -- it says-- that the fees are hidden inside a wheelbarrow. Then the wheelbarrow will give a rousing speech... from this, the light of knowledge will gleam. Uhhh... the.... flower? Makes a mistake. A day after the end of the holy season will be a fulcrum... and an instrument of undoing. That's all..."

"...What?" Gideon says. "Give me the English translation."

"I'm speaking it!" Amelia shrieks.

With his free hand, Gideon rips the open book away from the desk and holds it down by his side. He lingers with the gun against Amelia's head for a moment before at last holstering it. "I find out you're making things up to stall me, I'll be back," he growls.

The chime above the door rings. Gideon, calm and swift, steps backwards into a room behind the checkout counter, and disappears from sight. Amelia just sits there like a frightened deer. And you, wheeling around, stand there similarly struck with fright.

The person who just walked in flicks a series of light switches that suffuse the store in a gentle golden glow from the fixtures above. Amelia can plainly see you hiding halfway behind the bookcases now. "...Wes?" She breathes. Then, looking up, even more shocked: "Olivia?"

The woman, Olivia you guess, is wearing a getup like she just got back from summiting Everest. A huge downy parka, ski pants, balaclava, and goggles. Let's say... not seasonally appropriate. She peels off the goggles and the balaclava, fully revealing her face.

"Oh my goodness. I didn't expect a customer so soon," she says. "Amelia, you're so on the ball!"

"You -- are..." you begin.

"I'm Olivia Bosphorus!" She says. "I deal in rare books!"

END OF EPISODE 3.

MEANWHILE...

"Thank you, Shawn," Liz tells the man as she steps forth from her car and he steps forth from his. "The peace of mind is invaluable. Will you let Tyrus Kang know that he can invoice me? I don't want to be trouble for the Kekis. Or the Soliloquys. I can pay for my own protection."

"Sure thing," Shawn tells her. "You want me to go on ahead and make sure no one's in the house?"

"Oh, no, no need," Liz says. "I have an app that tells me if anyone gets past my gates. Just stay out here and keep a close eye on things, okay?"

Shawn nods. Liz motions for Summer to come along.

"I want you to quit your job," Liz tells her as they walk together. "You can work at the store on Middlefield from now on. My office is there now, so you'll be close--"

"Mom," Summer whines. "Cut the umbilical cord already. I'll be fine."

"Are you joking?" Liz says. She stops in place and turns on her daughter. "You got kidnapped right from the parking lot of that place."

"And now we've got beefed up security. It's fine. You worry too much."

"I think I worry exactly enough for the mother of a teen girl who just got kidnapped."

Summer is as firm as she can be: "I'm not quitting my job."

Liz shakes her head and starts again up the gravel footpath, but it's obvious to both that this argument is far from over.

"I'm going to Wesley's house later, too," Summer says.

"No you're not."

"Yes I am. I love her. I wanna see her."

"You don't know what love is," Liz says. "And I'm not letting you risk your life to go have se--"

Liz and Summer both stop bickering as they come upon their front door and find a girl sitting on the porch between two huge suitcases.

"Winter," Liz says. "When did you get to town? How did you get past-- you weren't due until tomorrow-- you should have called me!"

Summer is less enthused. She doesn't say anything, just glares down at Winter.

Winter grins toothily back. "Hey big sister."