Page 14

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kenzie

The plane hums beneath me, a steady vibration that resonates through the seat as we carve our path through the vast sky.

The cool glass of the window presses against my forehead, offering little solace as my mind churns with a storm of thoughts that refuse to settle.

Beyond the glass, an endless expanse of clouds drifts by, the sun painting the horizon in rich, warm hues of orange and pink, but the breathtaking view barely registers in my preoccupied mind.

All I can think about is them.

Ambrose. Braden. Reggie.

Their names echo in my thoughts. I’ve been with each of them, together in a whirlwind of passion, and now, separately.

My stomach twists, not with regret, but with a deeper, more unsettling feeling that gnaws at me.

Surprisingly, none of them have shown any jealousy. There’s been no possessiveness, no tension, just an easy acceptance of this wild, tangled web we’ve woven around ourselves.

They seem perfectly content to share me, to coexist in this complex and unconventional relationship we’ve stumbled into.

I bite my lip, my fingers clenching the armrest with a mixture of anxiety and disbelief. Could it really be that I am enough for them? The thought seems both thrilling and impossible, a tantalizing dream just out of reach.

I close my eyes, letting out a soft exhale. The stale scent of airplane air mingles with the aroma of brewed coffee and the mingled colognes of my fellow passengers, creating a nauseating mix that turns my stomach.

My mind keeps flickering back to the three of them: Ambrose’s hands tracing my skin, Braden’s tender kisses, Reggie’s teasing smirk that always makes my heart race.

My body tingles at the vivid memories, but reality quickly dampens the warmth of those moments as I remember my destination.

Ohio. Home.

The word feels heavy, laden with an impending sense of dread.

I suppress a sigh and shift uncomfortably in my seat as the flight attendant’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent.

This trip promises to be a journey through hell.

The plane lands with a gentle yet unmistakable jolt, pulling me from my daydreams back into reality. The familiar ding of the seatbelt sign turning off serves as my signal to reach down and retrieve my bag from beneath the seat.

I sling it over my shoulder, joining the slow-moving procession of passengers shuffling toward the exit.

As I step off the plane and into the terminal, I weave my way through a bustling sea of travelers, past chattering families, bored businessmen with their eyes glued to screens, and weary college students looking like they’ve just pulled an all-nighter.

Finally, I make my way to the rental car counter.

Ten minutes later, I slide into the driver’s seat of a sleek silver sedan, the interior suffused with the overwhelming scent of artificial pine. I wrinkle my nose in distaste and crack the window, letting in a breath of fresh air as I steer out of the airport and merge onto the highway.

Driving through Hayesville, Ohio feels surreal, like stepping into a recurring dream that I can never quite shake off.

It’s a nostalgia tinged with unease, the kind that knots my stomach and drags me back to a time when I was sixteen, suffocating under the weight of expectations that never seemed to lift.

Everything remains stubbornly familiar.

Instead of heading straight to my parents’ house, I veer toward my hotel, seeking a final night of solitude before the inevitable barrage of questions and prying begins.

I crave one last moment of peace, a brief respite before diving into the deep waters of family expectations and history.

I settle into the hotel room, slinging my suitcase onto the stiff, unyielding mattress before flopping onto the drab, patterned couch.

With a sigh, I reach for my phone, my fingers flicking through the endless stream of notifications, but my thoughts inevitably drift back to the boys.

No matter how earnestly I try to anchor my focus on something, anything, else, they stealthily weave their way into my mind.

I envision Braden’s teasing smirk, the curve of his lips always hinting at mischief. I think about Reggie’s strong, playful hands, the way they always seemed to find mine with a comforting, effortless ease.

Then there’s Ambrose, his intensity palpable, the way he makes me feel desired in a manner that doesn’t send my heart racing with fear but with a thrilling sense of belonging.

Its madness, I muse.

I spent my entire childhood absorbing the lesson that love is supposed to be a sacred bond between a man and a woman, a one-on-one connection that anything else defies.

Yet, when I was with them…it didn’t feel like defiance. It felt extraordinary.

I groan, tossing my phone onto the wooden table where it lands with a soft thud. The muted glow of the TV flickers across the room, casting shadows that dance intermittently, but my eyes are unfocused, not really absorbing the images on the screen.

Sleep proves elusive, no matter how heavy my eyelids feel.

I struggle not to think of them, not to imagine the look on my mom’s face if she ever discovered the truth. But the images persist, and despite everything, I feel no shame.

I slowly get up and try to prepare myself for a long day.

The searing hot water cascades over me. A cloud of steam swirls around me, carrying the scent of the hotel shampoo, a vaguely floral aroma.

It hasn’t been very long since I let myself fall into all of their arms.

And now, here I am, preparing to walk into church like a dutiful daughter.

I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my forehead against the cool, smooth tile, the contrast a welcome relief.

I should feel guilty, perhaps even ashamed, but those feelings elude me.

Instead, what courses through me is a vibrant sense of life, a thrilling awareness of being more myself than ever before.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in a plush towel, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. My skin is still flushed.

A genuine smile tugs at my lips, an expression of pure, unfiltered joy. Then the thought strikes me.

What if I do just burst into flames the moment I cross the church's threshold?

I shake my head at the absurdity of it, drying off quickly before slipping into the most conservative dress I packed.

The high neckline and knee-length hem are strategic choices, masking any hint of the transformative encounters I’ve experienced with three remarkably different, incredibly amazing men.

I grab my purse, smoothing the fabric of my dress with care, and exhale deeply.

It's time to face the music.

I send a quick text to my parents.

See you at church.

With that, I step out the door, ready to face whatever awaits.

The church parking lot is overflowing when I pull in.

As I step out of the rental car, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath my feet, my parents are already making their way toward me.

My mom’s face is pinched with barely concealed disapproval, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Why did you waste money on a hotel?” she asks, shaking her head with a hint of exasperation. “You know you could’ve stayed at home.”

“We kept your room just as it was,” my dad adds, his voice softer, laced with a hopeful note. “It’s still your home, Kenzie.”

That’s exactly why I got a hotel.

I force a small, strained smile and shift my purse higher on my shoulder, the leather strap digging slightly into my skin. “I just wanted to keep things simple.”

Before they can press the issue further, a wave of familiar voices rises around us. Friends of my parents, churchgoers I’ve known since childhood, all with warm smiles and open arms, welcoming me back.

My stomach knots painfully.

I shake hands, exchanging polite greetings, nodding along to comments about how much I’ve “grown” and how they “haven’t seen me in ages”. Each interaction feels like a small performance, exhausting in its own way, and we haven’t even gone inside yet.

I catch sight of the church doors, the heavy oak entrance looming ahead, the same doors I used to walk through every Sunday like clockwork.

The urge to turn around, to run back to the safety of my car, is almost overwhelming, but I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and follow my parents inside.

This was a bad idea.

As soon as I step into the church, it feels as though I’ve been whisked back in time. Nothing has changed. The same wooden pews line the sanctuary, each polished to a high gleam yet still emitting familiar creaks under the weight of the gathering congregation.

Tall, flickering candles near the altar cast a warm glow, their waxy scent thick and sweet in the air. The stained-glass windows, vibrant and colorful, scatter patches of light across the floor, depicting saints and angels frozen in time.

Even the pastor remains unchanged. I watch him with a tightening in my stomach as he slowly shuffles toward the pulpit. His frail body is hunched over, his voice a raspy whisper as he greets the congregation, looking every bit like he’s at death’s door.

I shouldn’t be this irritated. It’s not his fault I don’t want to be here.

I exhale deeply, trying to push away my swirling thoughts as I slip into the pew beside my parents. My mother glances at me with a knowing look, likely sensing my internal struggle, but she remains silent as the service begins.

I make an effort to concentrate. I truly do. But everything is overwhelming. The air is overly warm, saturated with the musty scent of old hymnals and the faint musk of aging wood.

There’s a distant murmur of someone coughing, and the way sunlight slants through the stained glass makes everything feel surreal and dreamlike.

I cross my legs, willing myself to sit still.

I just need to endure this.

Then, it’s on to the potluck.

Then, I can go back home, to Minneapolis.

The sermon washes over me, a distant murmur that barely registers in my mind. It's not that I lack belief entirely.

I do believe, just not in this rigid, stifling form of faith.

I don’t believe in a God who wields judgment like a weapon, demanding blind obedience rather than fostering love and understanding. This version of Christianity that loudly preaches acceptance but whispers condemnation behind closed doors isn’t for me.

I believe in kindness, in allowing people to make their own choices and live in a way that brings them happiness without causing harm to others.

Most importantly, I believe in truly refraining from judgment, not just claiming not to judge while secretly looking down on others.

My gaze sweeps across the congregation, taking in the sea of bowed heads and tightly clasped hands.

Once, this was my world. Now? It feels like a foreign land I struggle to comprehend.

The pastor's voice drones on, a monotonous hum that fails to penetrate my consciousness.

Instead, my thoughts drift back to Minneapolis. To Reggie, with his lilting Scottish brogue that dances in my ears.

To Braden, whose open-hearted charm lights up every room. To Ambrose, whose deep, quiet intensity twists my stomach.

I feel my phone vibrating with messages, and one small look has me turning the phone on mute.

My cheeks flush with heat, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to dispel the images.

Yeah. I'm definitely heading straight to hell.

The sermon finally concludes, the soft murmur of "amen" rippling through the crowd. I join the flow of people moving toward the banquet hall for the potluck.

The banquet hall smells just as I remember, a blend of casseroles, freshly baked dinner rolls, and the distinct scent associated with gatherings of elderly people.

There's a sweet undertone in the air too, likely the inviting aroma of peach cobbler wafting from the dessert table.

Long folding tables span the room, dressed in white plastic tablecloths, each one adorned with an array of covered dishes lovingly prepared and brought in by different families.

The room buzzes with activity, people bustling about, their voices merging into a lively din as they heap their plates with a variety of homemade delicacies.

It’s overwhelming.

I barely make it two steps inside before I’m engulfed in a wave of eager faces, each person clamoring for attention, wanting to know if I’ve finally decided to move back home.

“No,” I reply, my voice tinged with the weariness of repeating it for what feels like the hundredth time. “I love Minneapolis.”

Beside me, I can almost hear my mom's disappointment as it manifests in a subtle deflation.

I haven’t even managed to pick up a plate when she suddenly clutches my arm, her nails pressing into my skin just enough to make me wince slightly.

“Oh, sweetheart, I have to introduce you to someone,” she insists, her tone far too eager.

I already anticipate what's coming and steel myself as she pulls me toward a lanky figure standing awkwardly by the dessert table.

“This is Peter,” my mom announces with forced enthusiasm, practically thrusting me in his direction. “He’s such a nice young man, just moved back to town.”

Peter stands there with noodle-like arms, his head already showing signs of balding, and his voice emerges as a timid whisper.

He’s the complete antithesis of the three men in Minneapolis who have thoroughly set my standards sky-high.

I attempt to focus, but my interest barely rises to the level of polite acknowledgment. Fortunately, Peter seems to sense my disinterest, and after a few strained moments, he excuses himself and drifts away.

My mom sighs, a sound laden with unmet expectations.

I groan inwardly, putting my phone back on vibrate.

This is going to be a long afternoon.

I jab my fork into the casserole on my plate, nodding absentmindedly to whatever conversation swirls around me, though the words barely register.

My phone buzzes again in my lap, and I steal a quick glance at the screen, trying to appear nonchalant.

I see one of the guys has named our group chat. Kenzie’s Entourage. I giggle inside.

I open the thread, and a flush of heat rushes to my cheeks, turning them crimson.

Reggie Missin’ ye, lass. Church as fun as ye remember?

Braden More importantly, what are you wearing?

Ambrose I bet you’re squirming in those pews thinking about us.

And then, it gets worse.

The next few messages aren’t words. They're images.

Dirty, dirty images of three gorgeous cocks that I wish I was enjoying.

I slap a hand over my mouth, feeling the heat spread across my skin, a fiery blush that seems to sizzle in the cool of the church basement. The sacred space, with its low ceilings and walls lined with faded portraits of saints, feels unbearably inappropriate for such content.

My fork clatters against the plate, slipping from my grasp.

Clutching my phone tighter, I squirm in my seat, trying desperately to maintain a facade of calm, but my mother’s sharp gaze zeros in on me, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Kenzie,” she hisses, her voice low but firm, “you’re being rude.”

“I … ” I pause, clearing my throat to mask my flustered state. “Sorry, just got an important text.”

“More important than God?” she challenges, her eyebrows raised in a silent reprimand.

“I need to take a call,” I fib, pushing my chair back with a soft scrape against the linoleum floor.

Before she can voice any objections, I’m on my feet, slipping quietly toward the shadowed hallway that promises a moment of solace.

I need a minute to myself, is that too much to ask?

I push into the nearest bathroom, the door clicking shut with a resolute lock behind me. My breath escapes in sharp, heated gasps, each one echoing off the tiled walls.

My phone vibrates persistently in my pocket, an incessant reminder of the situation at hand. Another picture arrives. This time, it’s from Braden.

I bite my lip so hard I fear it might bleed. This is a terrible idea, I know it deep down. Yet, my hands move of their own accord, trembling fingers fumbling as I flick open my camera.

I angle the phone carefully, capturing just enough to be provocative without revealing everything.

With a quick press, I snap the picture.

For a moment, I simply stare at the image, my heart pounding in my chest like a relentless drum. Then, before my courage falters, I send it off.

Braden responds instantly.

Fuck, baby.

Reggie chimes in.

That’s our girl.

Ambrose's message comes on the heels of Reggie’s.

Are you in the fucking bathroom at church?

A wave of guilt crashes over me, immediate and overwhelming.

Oh. Shit. I clutch my phone to my chest, the cool metal pressing against my skin, and gaze up at the ceiling, half-expecting God himself to descend and smite me for my transgressions.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I draw in a deep breath, then release it slowly, trying to calm the storm within. I can’t do this, not here, not now.

I quickly text my mom, my fingers moving swiftly across the screen.

I don’t feel well. Heading back to the hotel. I’ll call you later.

Resolute in my decision to avoid further mistakes, I slip quietly out of the church. I duck into my car and without a second thought, I peel out of the lot.

By the time I finally reach the hotel, I feel like the day has painted itself on me, layer by grimy layer, and I need to scrub it all away.

I fling my purse onto the plush bedspread, strip off my conservative church clothes, and step into the welcoming embrace of a steaming shower.

The hot water cascades over my shoulders, soothing and cleansing, as I lean against the cool, white tiles and let my mind drift.

As I rinse the conditioner from my hair, I shake my head at my thoughts of my men. Then there’s Peter. I let out a small, derisive snort.

There’s nothing technically wrong with him. He seemed nice, polite, stable, everything my parents would want in a partner for me.

And yet, the thought of spending even five minutes alone with Peter is as appealing as gouging out my own eyeballs.

I step out of the shower. On the nightstand sits a neatly stacked pile of romance novels, their colorful covers promising escapism and adventure. I smirk to myself, a plan already forming in my mind.

It doesn’t take me long to get ready. I brush out my long, dark hair, letting it cascade down my shoulders in soft, silky waves.

My makeup is understated yet alluring, with smoky eyeliner that accentuates my eyes and deep red lipstick that adds a bold pop of color to my lips.

I slide into a delicate black lace bra and matching panties, admiring the fit in the mirror and the way the lace hugs my curves.

Not bad at all.

Grabbing my phone, I navigate to the Kenzie’s Entourage group chat and start typing.

So, I’ve been thinking...

Reggie Oh, aye?

Braden About how much you miss us?

Ambrose Or how much you liked what we did to you?

A smirk tugs at my lips. I snap a sultry picture of myself reflected in the mirror, lips slightly parted, head tilted at the perfect angle, just enough skin revealed to drive them wild. I attach it to the message.

I’m coming back tomorrow. I want you three to think long and hard about what we’re doing. If we’re doing this…we’re really doing this. So, what’s your best idea? Make it good.

I hit send.

Almost immediately, my phone buzzes with responses, a flurry of excitement lighting up the screen.

I giggle, curling up on the bed with a thrill of anticipation thrumming through me.

Tomorrow promises to be an exciting day.