Chapter 19
Callie
That evening, after the families have dispersed and everyone has left for home, the four of us end up at Jesse’s place on the ranch. It’s the biggest of the McCoy brother cabins, which means it has rooms you can actually turn around in without hitting someone.
“So,” I say, sprawled on his lumpy couch, “we need to talk about the logistics everyone’s so worried about.”
“Sexy logistics?” Boone asks from the floor where he’s doing something weird with his back.
“What are you doing?”
“Yoga. Or dying.”
“Why?”
“Pulled something building a fence. Or maybe running from Mrs. Delaney when she realized Rita ate her Xanax again.”
“Rita ate prescription drugs?”
“She’s fine. Probably. She’s been really calm though. Like, suspiciously calm.”
“Good lord.”
Wyatt walks in with his laptop because of course he brought his laptop to a relationship discussion. “I made a spreadsheet.”
We all groan. He doesn’t care.
“It’s color-coded. Green for Jesse, blue for me, orange for Boone—”
“Why am I orange?” Boone complains from his pretzel position.
“Because you eat so many Doritos.”
“Fair.”
“And pink for Callie.”
“Why am I pink?”
“You had pink hair in high school.”
“That was a phase!”
“A documented phase. Mrs. Delaney has photos.”
“Mrs. Delaney has photos of everything,” Jesse points out. “She probably has photos of this conversation.”
We all look around the room. No visible cameras, but that means nothing in Cedar Ridge.
“Anyway,” Wyatt continues, “I’ve organized a schedule.”
“A sex schedule?” I ask.
“A relationship schedule that includes but is not limited to intimate activities.”
“So a sex schedule with extras. That’s creepy.”
“It also includes chores, date nights, and family obligations.”
“What a dork,” Boone complains.
“Seriously. And you scheduled family obligations?” I ask.
“Your dad wants weekly dinners. My dad wants monthly check-ins. That’s a lot of obligatory family time.”
“How are we supposed to have sex with a schedule?” Boone asks. “That’s like... the opposite of sexy.”
“Structure is sexy,” Wyatt insists.
“Structure is what people have when they’ve given up on spontaneity,” Jesse counters.
“Says the man who schedules his hair care routine.”
“That’s different. Hair is important.”
“Boys,” I interrupt. “Focus. We’re not scheduling sex. We’re adults who can figure out when we want to bang without a spreadsheet.”
“But the spreadsheet has optimization algorithms,” Wyatt protests.
“The day I need an algorithm to get laid is the day I move to a convent.”
“Do convents take people in polyamorous relationships?” Boone wonders.
“Probably not.”
“That’s discrimination.”
“Moving on,” I say firmly. “We need to talk about the actual important shit. Like boundaries.”
“Sexy boundaries?” Boone asks.
“Why is everything sexy with you tonight?” Wyatt asks.
“ANYWAY,” I continue louder, “boundaries. First, we’re completely public. No hiding, no sneaking.”
“Done,” Jesse says immediately.
“Second boundary,” I continue. “No competing over me. I’m not a prize at the county fair.”
“But you’re definitely prize-worthy,” Boone says.
“Smooth,” I say.
“I thought so.”
“Third, and this is nonnegotiable, Rita sleeps outside.”
“What about work boundaries?” Wyatt asks, because he’s incapable of not being practical. “Ranch work, I mean. Not...” He gestures vaguely at all of us.
“When we’re working, we’re working,” I say. “No grabbing my ass when I’m trying to fix a fence.”
“You were bending over!”
“That’s what people do when they fix fences!”
“It was distracting.”
“Then get better self-control.”
“Unlikely,” Boone and Wyatt say together.
“What about sleeping arrangements?” Wyatt asks.
“We wing it,” I interrupt.
“You can’t wing sleeping arrangements.”
“Watch me.”
“But the spreadsheet—”
“Wyatt, I love that you made a spreadsheet. It’s very you. But if I wanted my relationships run by Excel, I’d date an accountant.”
“I could learn accounting.”
“Don’t,” we say simultaneously.
Jesse moves closer on the couch. “So we’re really doing this? The family dinners and holidays where our dads pretend they don’t hate each other? The town events where everyone stares? The inevitable Madison meltdown?”
“She’s already had three meltdowns today,” Boone points out. “She started a prayer circle for Jesse’s soul.”
“How many people joined?”
“Just her mom. Out of obligation.”
“We’re doing this,” I confirm. “All of it. The weird, the problematic, the probably illegal in some states—”
“It’s not illegal,” Wyatt interrupts. “I checked. Thoroughly. We’re technically just cohabiting with intent to... cohabit more.”
I stand up and move to where I can see all three guys. They look hopeful and terrified, which is probably how I look too.
“Here’s the deal. No bullshit. We’re gonna fuck this up sometimes.
One of you is gonna get jealous. I’m gonna have favorites on different days.
Someone’s gonna forget an anniversary because we’ll have too many to track.
The town’s gonna talk shit. Our families are gonna be weird about it forever.
Madison’s probably gonna try to exorcise each of us over time,” I say.
“But,” I continue, “we’re doing it anyway. Because the alternative is pretending we don’t want this, and we’ve already tried that. It sucked.”
“So eloquent,” Boone says, but he’s smiling.
“I’m not here to be eloquent. I’m here to be honest. This is probably not smart. Definitely problematic. But I’d rather be problematic with you three than simple with anyone else.”
“That was almost romantic,” Jesse says.
“Should we seal it with something?” Boone asks. “A handshake? Blood oath? Group hug?”
“How about we seal it by going to your bedroom and traumatizing Rita with how loud we can be?” I suggest.
Jesse’s bedroom looks like a tornado hit it. There’s a dresser that doesn’t match anything, a nightstand that might be from the 70s, and a bed that’s definitely seen better decades. But it’s king-sized, which is all that matters right now.
“So,” Jesse says, pulling his shirt off because subtlety is dead and he can’t wait to get his hands on me, “we’re doing this.”
“We’ve been doing this for weeks,” I point out, enjoying the way his abs flex when he tosses the shirt aside.
“Yeah, but now we’re doing it officially. Publicly. With spreadsheets, even.”
“Nobody’s fucking me according to a spreadsheet,” I clarify, but I’m already unhooking my bra because why waste time.
“But hey—” he starts to protest.
I shut him up by dropping to my knees and showing him exactly where he can file his notes. His hands immediately tangle in my hair, and the sound he makes is worth every second of his earlier organizational nonsense. I take him deep into my mouth and close my eyes. I’ve missed this.
“Unfair advantage,” Jesse complains, then proceeds to demonstrate his own advantage by pressing against my back, his hands sliding around to cup my breasts while his mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes me forget why I ever pretended not to want this.
Boone, not to be outdone, manages to get my jeans off one-handed while I kneel before Wyatt.
“How did you—” I ask, letting Wyatt go.
“Practice, dedication, and a lot of YouTube.”
“YouTube teaches that?”
“YouTube teaches everything if you know where to look.”
What happens next requires coordination we definitely didn’t have three weeks ago. Jesse’s on his back, pulling me on top of him, and with the first thrust, we groan long and loud.
“God, you feel—” he starts.
“Less talking, more fucking,” I sputter, watching the planes of his face while I move up and down on him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Wyatt’s behind me now, cupping my breasts, pinching and pulling my nipples.
“Where’s Boone?” I manage to ask, though talking is increasingly difficult.
“Right here,” he says, appearing in front of me with a grin that promises trouble. “Thought you might want something to do with your mouth besides boss us around.”
“I don’t boss—”
He cuts me off by offering me his cock, and okay, fair point. My mouth is definitely better used for this than arguing about who’s bossy.
The bed creaks ominously with every movement.
“Gonna break,” Wyatt warns.
“Don’t care,” Jesse grunts, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
“Same,” Boone agrees, one hand tangled in my hair while the other traces patterns on my shoulder.
“Fuck, Callie—” Jesse groans.
“Mmmm,” I groan, even though I’m already over the edge.
“I—fuck—”
He explodes, followed by Boone, who fills my mouth and throat.
We collapse in a heap, and that’s when the bed gives up. There’s a crack, a shift, and suddenly we’re all rolling toward the left as one corner crashes to the floor.
“Called it,” Wyatt says breathlessly.
“Your spreadsheet didn’t predict this?” Jesse laughs.
“’Fraid not,” Wyatt says.
Still naked, because Boone goes to inspect the damage. “Damn. It’s definitely broken. Like, call-a-carpenter broken.”
“Maybe buy-a-new-one-broken,” I suggest.
“Absolutely,” Jesse agrees, pulling me against him.
“Should probably check on Rita,” Boone says, because even post-orgasm, he’s still thinking about the goat.
As if summoned, Rita bleats.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Maybe confused about the noise.”
“We were pretty loud,” Boone observes, flopping back down and making the bed tip further.
“We were exactly loud enough,” I correct.
We lie there in comfortable silence on our broken bed, four people who just permanently altered both Cedar Ridge’s social structure and Jesse’s furniture.
Chaotic, messy, difficult, and exactly right.
The morning after the festival I sneak home, although I have no idea why, since my secret is now public knowledge.
Dad’s in the kitchen staring into his coffee, lost in thought.
I suppose it’s fair, considering his life just went from feuding with a neighbor to his daughter banging three brothers while he’s screwing the woman who documents everyone’s personal disasters for fun and profit. Who also used to be friends with Mom.
You can’t make this shit up.