Page 122 of Their Princess

“Not in the community where I grew up,” he said. “It rarely came down to a specific number, and usually it was the woman who had more than one partner.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “And no one gets jealous?”

“Well, sure.” Graff shrugged. “But that’s why you talk it out.”

“Seems sketchy.”

“Not at all. It just makes sense to build families and relationships that involve more than just two people. I mean, once you have kids, three hands—or four, or five—make life much easier.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth as if I could find one last taste of Adelina. “Didn’t that shit get confusing growing up?”

He snorted. “It was all I had ever known, so no. It was my life.”

“Did you have like three moms?”

“Dads.”

“That’s fucking cracked, man.”

“Not if you do it right.” Graff smirked.

“But you know which one is your real dad?”

“You’re not getting it.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “They’reallmy real dad.”

“I mean your biological father.”

“Does it matter?” Graff lifted one eyebrow. “Dada Keir picked us up from school, Dada Rory was the cook in the house, and Dada Boyd kept everything from the washing machine to the truck in running order. Everyone contributed, and it worked perfectly as long as everyone was open about what they were thinking.”

“Us?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said us, so you have brothers and sisters?”

Graff shifted and scratched the bridge of his nose near his eye. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Not real convincing,” I said.

“I have a sister who left and brought the law down on the community. There wasn’t legal room for recognition of non-traditional relationships back then.”

Pursing my lips, I gave a nod. We still stood shoulder to shoulder, and I asked, “Are you looking for that kind of relationship?”

“We’re all looking for people we are comfortable with. No? People we love, want to protect, and trust,” he listed, voice soft.

I huffed. “You really are the artsy type.”

Graff laughed. “Just figuring that out?”

“The tattoos send mixed signals,” I said, motioning down to his hands.

He flexed his fists and then released his fingers, where it seemed like a hundred small tattoos were connected on his skin. Everything was darkened by the orange hue of the bonfire.

“I get it,” said Graff. “But that shit’s appearances. Signals are normally crossed by those receiving the message and interpreting it.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. “Too deep for me.”

“What we do”—he lowered his voice—“meaning our actions, don’t define who we are. Our boy Celt, for example. He’s murdered people in cold blood, but he’s a cop. Conundrum, huh?”

---