Chapter 17
Eight and a half months after the Sun Clan’s Lunar New Year party, the rumors that had long since simmered after that fiasco’s
jaw-dropping display of equal parts family drama and plumbing catastrophe were abruptly whipped back into a frenzied boil
by an official announcement, confirming a long-gestating open secret.
Wayward Sun, their former gay black sheep turned president of Sunfang Global, was expecting a baby boy!
Other than a family-only baby shower to be held in the Sun Clan’s storied Big Bear sanctuary in the San Bernardino Mountains,
no other details were given. Hence everyone eagerly filled the holes with their own assumptions, each more salacious than
the next. Though the Sun Clan were a largely private people (save for a particular couple of notable exceptions), even observing
them from afar could yield juicy tidbits.
Firstly Wayward’s uncanceled cousin Sunbern and his on-again girlfriend, Shannon Shoo, had managed to sustain and even grow their infamy with their own special announcement: They too were pregnant!
Yet, no doubt demonstrating Shannon’s PR savvy, what really kept them in the spotlight was the fact that she was often papped coming in and out of the controversial MiNT Wellness of Venice Beach.
Meanwhile, April Sun, it-girl socialite of yesteryear and daughter of Sun matriarch Roses, had been spotted shopping for groceries
on numerous occasions at a Ralph’s in Gardena, far away from the glamorous farmers markets of Malibu, lending credence to
hearsay that she had moved out of the her mother’s massive compound to the humble Southland—perhaps an act of protest against
the arrival of Wayward’s baby? Unnecessarily some of the crueler tongued also pointed out that the Sunfang princess no longer
had the svelte figure of her glory days.
As for expectant father Wayward, he had taken on his new position as president of Sunfang Global with aplomb, replacing Roses
at the helm of the corporation’s operations and launching a billion-dollar project called Sunfang Promessa in South America
focused on, of all things, green sustainability. He did seem to have an extra pep in his step, a certain cheeriness replacing
his usual stoic nature that earned double-takes from his colleagues. The ambitious Wayward’s ascension alone could have been
cause for his improved mood, but some suspected that there might be another reason behind his smile . . . postulating that
it was the love-drunk smile of someone who was getting very well laid.
There was a further mystery connected to him at the office. Where was Bessie Machado? His closest workplace collaborator had
vanished suddenly, with nary a word about where she might have gone. There were theories that she and Wayward had had some
sort of falling-out. Why else would the undividable associates be separated at this crucial time for him, especially when
Sunfang Promessa had been their brainchild?
One would think that this very lively rumor mill would grind the hardest around the matriarch of this family, but that was the thing about Roses Sun—she commanded such respect that no one ever dared to speculate mess about her, even from afar.
Like the sun itself situated in the center of our solar system, she wielded an inescapable gravitational pull on every person in her orbit.
Yet it was this same godlike gravity that kept it all at a firm arm’s length from Roses, seemingly allowing her to enjoy peace of mind even in the most torrid of situations.
Peace of mind, that was, except for her new housemate.
“CARRY ON, MY WAYWARD SON!”
With a gasp, Roses was jerked awake by the head-pounding riffs of a classic Kansas song blasting over the Malibu compound’s
master Bluetooth speakers.
“THERE WILL BE PEACE WHEN YOU ARE DONE!”
Next to her in their California king, Teddy clamped his pillow over his head. “Not again,” he groaned, his voice muffled.
Grabbing her silk peignoir, Roses rushed out of her bedroom, flying down the two flights of stairs, knowing full well where
the culprit would be. As she did every time she landed upon the ground floor of her home, she winced at the high ceiling,
which still was not the right shade of Wimborne White even after extensive renovations and repairs.
She slammed into the kitchen, her hands over her ears, shouting.
“Kat! KAT!”
Still thrashing her head to the beat over the heat of the stove, Kat Norfolk spun around, gripping an oily spatula. “Morning,
Roses! Want some breakfast stir-fry?” She quickly toggled the music volume down on her phone.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Roses leaned against the kitchen island. “Kat,” she said through a pained grimace, “you did it
yet again. Your music was playing all over the house.”
Kat gasped. “Oh shit, I can’t for the life of me figure out your Bluetooth system.” She went back to tending to the sizzling
veggies and potatoes in Roses’s prized wok, still humming to herself.
Roses bit her tongue, a still-unfamiliar and wholly unpleasant sensation. Kat’s arrival had been a Faustian compromise for
the Sun matriarch. Kat’s penchant for blasting seventies rock music whenever she cooked—It’s not even real food, it’s vegan!
Roses had bemoaned to Wayward—was just one of many grievances.
But after quite a few initial power struggles between Roses and Kat, the elder woman had largely yielded to her guest.
After all, as Roses continually reminded herself, this living situation was not forever, but it was, for now, essential.
“Do you want to bring them breakfast together?” Kat asked in a form of peace offering, finishing off the meal with a generous
squeeze of fresh lemon.
Roses brightened immediately. “Of course I would!”
As this unlikely duo walked back up the second floor with the steaming breakfast, Kat said, “I’m sorry again about the music.
I’ll wear headphones from now on.”
They paused outside the room that had once belonged to April and Cristiano. “She really can sleep through anything, can’t
she?” Roses marveled, gesturing at the occupant inside. Her tone had shifted softer, a small smile forming across her lips.
Kat chuckled. “Yes, anything. Even more now, somehow.”
But still, they opened the door carefully, if not to awaken the slumberer, but rather to display a certain reverence as they
peeked into the bedroom.
Sound asleep on her left side, Bessie Machado had shifted out from under the blanket, but she looked blissfully cozy. Her
hand was placed gently on the growing bump of her belly, as if protecting the precious baby heir within.
Wayward was used to getting up early for his runs, but as of the last half year, he had joyously reintroduced a more collaborative
form of cardio to his mornings.
“Oh, J!” he groaned into the crook of Jamaal’s neck as he braced himself again for the full length of his boyfriend.
“You want it?” Jamaal whispered hoarsely into Wayward’s ear, teasing him down there with his tip. Wayward could only nod voraciously,
gasping as he bit his lower lip.
Slowly, Jamaal penetrated him again, confidently pushing himself into Wayward. Each time Jamaal was buried to the hilt inside him, Wayward would black out for just a second, as his body remolded itself around Jamaal’s unique shape.
Jamaal had a wicked curve to him, a rainbow-shaped arch to his manhood that provided a signature lovemaking experience. This
curve, once fully embedded in Wayward, would actually hook the two men together, so that each time Jamaal withdrew from him,
Wayward would have been pulled toward Jamaal unless he held onto the bedposts behind his head.
Sure enough, Wayward was gripping the posts, his thick biceps on either side of his head already flexing at the ready to hold
himself steady. He let out a stuttering moan as Jamaal slowly pulled out of him, that downward curve gloriously dragging itself
through him like an anchor on the ocean floor. Right before Jamaal pulled out completely, he paused, pulsing himself to swell
with more blood, teasing a squirming Wayward right at his entrance. Then Jamaal slammed himself back deep inside, as both
men let out full-throated cries of uncontrollable pleasure.
“Again, again!” Wayward sighed.
But instead, Jamaal leaped out of the bed. “Dammit!”
Wayward reached out for him. “What’s wrong? Don’t stop!”
Jamaal then held up Wayward’s Sunfang phone, plugged into the nightstand next to their bed. Its screen lit up. Wayward winced,
and silently shrugged an apology. Jamaal powered it off.
“Shit,” Wayward said. “I forgot to turn it off, my bad.”
Jamaal chuckled as he climbed back on top of Wayward. “Serves them right for listening. Now, where were we?”
Later, while Jamaal was in the shower, Wayward took a whining Bindi out for his walk.
It was a cloudy morning, but the pit bull was exuberant nevertheless.
No longer a runt, Bindi had grown to be a fifty-pound behemoth, just as unruly and adventurous as he had been as a puppy, except now mercifully potty trained.
As Wayward did much of the time these days, he left his cell phone behind at home. This was not because he planned to share
any secrets with Bindi on their walk. Wayward was just hyperaware that his phone had been weaponized, and he was happy to
be away from it whenever possible.
Now that he knew the truth about the Sunfang phones, it felt so obvious. But that was the sinister nature of this espionage:
It was so obvious that no one suspected it. Why would any member of the family believe that their customized phones—supplied,
paid for, and regularly updated by Sunfang Global—be spying on them?
But what else could explain Sunbern’s leaked audio, when it had been just him and Wayward . . . and their Sunfang phones?
And what else could explain Galahad Chu’s godlike knowledge of all their secrets?
As Bindi spotted a squirrel and chased after it, loudly barking on his hind legs, his tongue wagging wildly, Wayward felt