Chapter 26: A Total Win! General Jake's 'Filial-riot' Solution
The living room of the Malibu villa was thick with the scent of freshly ground coffee, momentarily overpowering the usual cocktail of whiskey and day-old pizza.
Alan stood at the island of the open kitchen, concentrating on the high-end espresso machine that looked wildly out of place amid the surrounding chaos.
A rare, childlike grin lit his face as he carefully handled the bag of Blue Mountain beans Sean had just given him.
"Sean, thanks a ton for these beans!"
Alan's voice rang with genuine delight; he lifted a bean to his nose and inhaled deeply.
"God knows this stuff leaves that Folgers instant crap in the dust!"
Ever since Judith kicked him out, Alan's life had nose-dived into a pit of penny-pinching—discount toilet paper at $3.99 for 24 rolls was now the gold standard. This bag of premium beans was an oasis in that desert.
Sean lounged on the trademark mega-sofa, remote in hand, flicking half-heartedly through the massive flat-screen TV.
He glanced around: compared with Berta's usual "controlled chaos," the place looked even more neglected—beer bottles stacked higher, mystery stains on the carpet looked fresher.
"Where's Charlie?"
Sean's gaze slid from the screen toward Alan in the kitchen.
"Still upstairs sleeping it off, or out bar-hopping? Place feels extra… 'lived-in' today. Berta on strike?" He carefully avoided the word "trashed."
Alan looked back while feeding beans into the grinder. "Milk in your coffee?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Coming up."
He hit the grind button; the machine's low growl swallowed the distant surf.
When it quieted, he raised his voice: "Sean, if Charlie were upstairs with some hot date—"
He shot Sean a knowing, theatrical wink.
"—believe me, we'd hear every squeak of that bedframe from here. Wood-frame house, sound travels like wildfire."
Alan carried over two steaming mugs, handing Sean the one laced with milk.
"Charlie bolted to Vegas to return some rental—who even rents DVDs anymore? Boss is away, so Berta unilaterally declared a vacation day. Charlie won't know; we just keep our mouths shut."
He set his own cup on the coffee table, steering clear of a suspicious ring stain, then dropped onto the far end of the sofa with a sigh.
"As for Jake and me? Well, we're the… uh, 'package deal' that comes with Berta's housekeeping service for Charlie."
Sean accepted the coffee, nodding. He thought of his own solid construction where Rose could make all the noise she wanted and neighbors wouldn't hear a thing. This pricey oceanfront beach house, on the other hand, was basically an echo chamber.
Alan straightened, dignity wounded. "Not exactly a freebie! I traded two professional-grade massage sessions a week for Berta's extra attention."
He stressed "professional-grade," then flushed, voice dropping. "Ahem, last time Evelyn walked in mid-session and thought Berta and I were—well, forget it."
Alan snapped his mouth shut as if burned, cheeks reddening, and hid behind a gulp of coffee.
"Try it!" he blurted, eager to change the subject, pride creeping back in.
"Tell me if it tastes like… the holidays?"
Sean obliged, blowing off the steam, sipping carefully. His brows lifted; he savored, then looked up. "Cinnamon?"
Alan's face exploded into a delighted grin. "Whoa, good catch! You nailed it. New trick—dash of cinnamon, instant holiday vibe." He beamed at the recognition.
Thudding footsteps stormed down the hall. Jake shot into the living room like a small tornado, mouth ringed in dark chocolate—looked like brownie remnants.
"Hey, Uncle Sean!" His eyes sparkled with kid-brand excitement, bubbling with energy.
Sean automatically snatched a napkin and wiped the boy's mouth. "Easy, champ. You're wearing dessert."
Jake rubbed carelessly, then brightened with sudden purpose. "Uncle Sean! I've got a soccer game in Sherman Oaks tomorrow—will you come watch?"
He stuck out a foot, showing off brand-new cleats gleaming under the lights, as if footwear alone guaranteed victory.
Before Sean could answer, Alan's warning voice sounded. "Jake!"
He set down his cup, mustering parental authority. "Uncle Sean probably has work tomorrow. And look—it's nine-thirty now."
He pointed at the wall clock. "If he says yes, that means he stays over, so tell me, young man—"
Arms folded, he delivered the existential question: "Is your poor old dad supposed to share your twin bed, or does hardworking Uncle Sean get sentenced to the couch?"
Charlie's beachfront house might boast three or four thousand square feet, but it ironically held only three bedrooms. With the master bedroom occupied by Charlie's stuff, usable space was down to Alan's room and Jake's.
Jake's little head whirred. He tilted it, eyes rolling upward, then lit up with "genius" inspiration.
"Got it!" He clapped, loud and proud, world-problem solved. "Uncle Sean takes your room, Dad! You move to Uncle Charlie's room. If Charlie comes back super-late—"
He flicked a small hand dismissively. "—you crash on the couch! Uncle Sean gets a comfy bed. Easy!"
Silence ballooned for two heartbeats. Alan stared, jaw slack, as if meeting his son for the first time.
Sean bit the inside of his cheek, desperately swallowing laughter behind a gulp of cinnamon-spiked coffee.
Jake blinked, utterly unaware he'd just engineered the most "unfilial" solution ever, still basking in self-satisfaction, face screaming "Praise my brilliance!"
In the discipline of throwing his dad under the bus, Jake Harper had, without question, won outright.
(General Jake and Alan)
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