Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 16: Communication Breakdown
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 16: Communication Breakdown - The ninth book in the long-running Intemperance series finds Jake Kingsley balancing family, music, and media chaos as his world grows stranger—and more fiercely loyal—by the day. With fame fading and life deepening, the Kingsleys and their inner circle face new challenges in love, trust, and the price of peace.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa BiSexual Fiction
Oceano, California
July 9, 2004
It was Sunday afternoon and at Kingsley Manor Capriccio Roberto Kingsley was celebrating his first birthday party—an event he would retain no memory of but was a milestone in western culture nonetheless.
The scent of Westin’s spaghetti sauce—an all-day reduction of San Marzano tomatoes, roasted garlic, veal stock, and the crushed dreams of everyday Italian housewives—filled the Kingsley kitchen like a prayer answered. It simmered on the back burner of the stove now, lid slightly cracked, sending up lazy clouds of aromatic steam. Jake was responsible for preparing and fielding dinner for seventeen people on this Sunday—the motherfuckin’ Lord’s Day!—but he had not made the spaghetti sauce. His version was pretty good but Westin’s was an absolute masterpiece and he had been kind enough to whip up a double batch of it on Friday and package it for easy reheating.
Jake moved with casual precision—barefoot, Iron Maiden t-shirt, glass of Inglenook 2001 chardonnay at hand—stirring a pot of spaghetti noodles as he brought the meal to completion. His garlic bread had already been broiled to a perfect edge-of-burnt crisp, the salad was chilling, and the pasta had been boiling for nine minutes now. It was time to check doneness.
He fished out a noodle, twirled it thoughtfully, and, with the calm grace of ritual, flicked it upward toward the ceiling.
It hit with a satisfying slap and stuck.
“One Mississippi ... two Mississippi ... three Mississippi ... four Mississippi...”
It peeled away and fell to the tile floor.
Jake nodded. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“What in the name of God do you think you’re doing?!”
The voice came from the doorway. It was the voice of a man who had just walked in and found his wife riding on the cock of another man and begging him for more.
Westin stood there—again—arms crossed and face fixed in horrified disbelief. This was his sixth time popping in “just to see how things are going,” which everyone knew was code for make sure Jake doesn’t screw up my sauce.
“What?” Jake asked, all innocence.
“You did not just ceiling-test that pasta.”
Jake shrugged. “Four-second hang time. Right in the pocket.”
Westin stepped inside like a man entering a crime scene. “That is not a test. That is vandalism.”
Jake tilted his head. “Wes, chill. It’s how I was trained.”
“Trained by who? The fucking Muppets? What atrocious culinary instructor told you that was a proper method of testing the firmness level of pasta?”
“My mom,” Jake replied. “She taught me that if it sticks and drops between three and five seconds, it’s done. Been cooking noodles that way ever since high school.”
Westin closed his eyes and took a breath like he was trying to center his chakra. “Jake, you’re a talented amateur. I will grant you that. You have real instincts and your grilling and smoking prowess is beyond reproach in any form. But this—” he gestured upward, then downward at the limp noodle on the tile “—is not technique. It’s a goddamn food fight.”
Jake chuckled. “Hey, it’s tradition.”
“It’s why there are weird-ass oily blotches above the stove,” Westin snapped. “You know who has to get on a ladder to clean those? Me. Not the rock god. Me.”
Jake twisted the knob that controlled the back burner, dousing its flame. “You’re overreacting.”
Westin’s hands went up like he was warding off a demon. “Overreacting? Earlier, you were about to heat my sauce in a crockpot. A crockpot! That is the culinary equivalent of playing Mozart on a fucking kazoo.”
“I just wanted it to warm evenly without scorching.”
“It’s sauce, not bathwater!” Westin shouted. “It needs heat. It needs attention. You don’t just toss it in a crockpot and walk away like it’s chili at a church potluck!”
“I didn’t heat it that way,” Jake said, holding up his hands. “Not after I saw how seriously you take your application of the laws of thermodynamics.”
“You were going to though! That’s enough.”
At that moment, Mary Kingsley entered the fray, wine glass in hand, wearing the expression of a woman who had raised two children, survived three remodels, and never once apologized for her opinions.
“Now hold on,” she said. “I taught him that ceiling test. And it works.”
Westin turned to face her like a man being slowly surrounded by lunatics. “Mary, that test is not scientific. It’s not even consistent. The texture of the ceiling surface, the diameter and length of the noodles, the amount of humidity in the air ... all of those are variables that would affect the stickiness of the pasta and the bonding potential of the ceiling.”
“And yet,” Mary said, sipping her wine, “he never overcooks it.”
Westin looked skyward again, like he was searching for divine intervention.
Caydee’s voice floated in from the living room. “Can I throw one up there?”
“No,” Westin barked.
“Maybe later,” Jake called to her. “When Westin goes back to his house and isn’t sticking his nose in my cooking.”
Westin pointed a stern finger. “No one throws food at my ceiling. Bite test, Jake. That’s the rule. You want to know if pasta’s done? You bite it. You taste it. You do not conduct mid-air adhesion trials like some carb-hurling barbarian.”
Jake gave a theatrical sigh. “Fine. No more ceiling tests.”
“Say it like you mean it,” Westin snapped.
Jake saluted. “Bite test only. Understood.”
Mary and Jake shared a subtle glance of solidarity—two generations of ceiling testers, proud and unbowed.
Westin, muttering something about “culinary Neanderthals,” went back to the living room to monitor the wine levels.
Jake pulled another noodle from the pot. Bit it. Chewed. Nodded.
He wasn’t about to say it out loud, but yeah ... it was ready. So ... did that prove Westin right or did it prove Jake and Mary right? Could they both be right?
Something to ponder while under the influence of marijuana perhaps.
He dumped the spaghetti noodles into the largest colander they owned. This sent a huge cloud of steam billowing into the air. He let the pasta drain and then transferred it into a large stainless steel bowl for serving. He mixed in a little olive oil to keep the noodles from sticking and then set the bowl on the kitchen island. Next, he took a little bowl out of the cabinet and ladled a scoopful of sauce into it, making sure to go heavy on the meat and light on the mushrooms.
He set the little bowl aside and poked his head into the entertainment room, where the rest of the family visiting for Cap’s birthday party were sitting.
“You can start making Cap’s plate, C,” he told his legal ex-wife yet spiritual second wife with all the rights, responsibilities, and privileges thereof. “I set a little bowl of sauce aside to cool off.”
She was sitting on the couch next to Mama and Papa Valdez, who were holding Kira and Cap in their respective laps.
“I’m on it, Rev,” she told him with a smile. She looked very happy today. Family gatherings—warm family gatherings that did not involve Laura’s mother or sister—were right up there with spiritually sanctioned marital threesomes on her list of cool things about her life.
Eight minutes later, everyone was seated at the formal dining room table except Jake, who, as official cook, waited until everyone else was served. With a smile at those enjoying the meal, he walked over to the bar to get another bottle of chianti to open. It was as he was peeling off the plastic seal thingy that kept the cork in place that his right butt cheek began to buzz from the cell phone in the back pocket of his shorts.
He looked at the screen. It was Pauline. Maybe just calling to wish her nephew Cap a happy birthday? he thought hopefully.
Of course not.
“Trouble brewing, little bro,” she said.
“The Tif and her singing ointment thing?” he asked, resigned.
“It’s like you’re a fuckin’ psychic or something,” she said wearily. “Bad time?”
“I just served Cap’s birthday dinner.”
“What did you make?” she asked.
“Spaghetti.”
“Your sauce or Westin’s?”
“Westin’s,” he said. “But only for convenience and because he offered. My sauce is pretty fuckin’ good too.”
“I’m not saying it’s not,” she said. “But that’s like comparing my voice to Tif’s voice. We’re both sopranos, but she’s a trained professional vocalist with natural talent while I’m just a slightly gifted amateur with no official training. Which one of us sounds better in the studio? Or up on the stage?”
Jake sighed. “Point taken,” he said. “Let’s get this over with. Give me a second to step outside.”
“I got all night, bro,” she told him.
Jake opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the back deck, leaving behind the cheerful sounds of forks clinking and Westin explaining about proper pasta portioning. The air outside was a few degrees cooler, kissed by a soft ocean breeze, and heavy with the scent of salt and that faint, funky tang of decaying kelp and microscopic sea death—the perfume of paradise. The Pacific stretched out before him in endless silver-blue layers, streaked with gold where the lowering sun caught the water just right. A few sailboats bobbed lazily to the north, and one of the big container ships was holding steady on the horizon, pointed south toward Long Beach or Los Angeles.
He closed the door behind him and put the phone back to his ear.
“All right,” he said, “I’m outside now. Give me the poop.”
Pauline didn’t hesitate. “Amanda Sloan got wind of it yesterday afternoon. I don’t know how. Gossip, maybe. Cop’s wife. Cop’s husband. Fuck if I know. But it’s Sloan. And she’s locked in.”
Jake winced. “Jesus. And she knows what actually happened?”
“She knows enough. Tif. The judge’s kid. Doggie style. Cops called. All of it.”
“She doesn’t have names though, right?”
“She does now. Amanda has the fucking police report.”
Jake turned toward the sea and let out a long breath.
“Of course she does.”
“She also has at least one quote from one of the Nerdly’s neighbors. She tried knocking on the Nerdly’s door earlier today but no one answered. I assume they were at your house.”
“They are. Nerdlys are all here. Tif and Owen are not. They were instructed not to open the door or talk to anyone. They were probably working their way through the fuckin’ Kama Sutra when she knocked anyway.”
“Good call keeping those two secluded,” she said, as if Jake or Nerdly had planned that in advance.
They hadn’t. The two housemates likely had just wanted to stay home and fuck as loudly as they wanted and for as long as they wanted. But ... he was not above taking credit for God’s work.
“It seemed appropriate for the situation,” he told her smoothly.
“Sloan’s already got a story outlined,” Pauline said. “She’ll start calling people officially tomorrow, but she has a headline in her head, and it’s not subtle. Something like ‘Judge’s Son Seduced by Kingsley-Connected Singer.’”
Jake made a soft noise, halfway between a growl and a sigh.
“Why does she have to put our name into it?” he asked. “When you come right down to it, no one with the last name Kingsley is even involved. Not even superficially.”
“You’re hot commodity, bro. You know that shit.”
He sighed. “I suppose. So ... she’s spinning it like Tif’s a sexual predator?”
“Yup.”
“She’s thirty-one years old and built like a fuckin’ fertility goddess,” Jake said. “You’d have to be in a coma to not want to hit that. Or at least Charlie in his gay phase.”
“Well,” Pauline said, “the judge sees it differently. And Sloan is going to lean hard into the religious angle. Public morals. Judicial disrespect. Sex, sin, scandal—all the candy words. And the Kingsley orbit makes it gold.”
A crow gave a rough caw from the nearest tree.
Jake looked up and saw Pa-Ho, perched in his usual spot. He cawed again, clearly disappointed that Caydee wasn’t the one out here.
“Hey, Pa-Ho,” Jake greeted.
Pa-Ho ruffled his feathers, unimpressed.
Jake looked back toward the ocean.
“Is there any chance we can kill it? The story, not Pa-Ho. He’s actually kind of cool.”
“Dream on,” Pauline said. “The best we can hope for is containment. I’ve already lined up Barb and prepped a few of our softer contacts in the entertainment press. If Sloan goes hard tabloid, we might counter with a think-piece angle. Female agency, quirky lifestyle, no crime committed. But the judge’s status is going to make it sticky.”
“Any sign he’s going public himself?”
“Not yet. But he’s angry and self-righteous. And, according to what Nerdly and Owen told me last night, possibly going insane in the fuckin’ membrane and slipping into all-out Christian jihad blow up your fuckin’ house psychosis. That’s a volatile mix. If he tries to make it about moral decay or media-enabled hedonism, you can bet someone on the right will pick it up.”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Fucking great.”
“She’s calling me tomorrow,” Pauline said. “That’s her play. Give us a chance to comment on the record, or react badly and make ourselves look guilty.”
Jake watched a crab boat cutting south, its mast rocking gently in the afternoon chop.
“We’re still in the ‘no comment’ phase at this time?”
“Holding the line,” she said, “though I did give Sloan a few off-the-record tidbits. She owes me one after we gave her the scoop on you and Teach hooking back up officially.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said. “I’ll talk to Nerdly tonight. Prep him. Tif’s a lost cause, but we’ll keep her quiet.”
Pauline exhaled. “Okay. I’ll put together two draft responses tonight—one direct denial, one pivoting into lifestyle quirk coverage. I’ll email them to you for review. And maybe warn your guests not to talk to any journalists if someone comes sniffing.”
“I’ll make the rounds.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
Jake ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. He stayed out there for another thirty seconds, listening to the wind and the cawing of Pa-Ho in the tree.
Then he went back inside.
Time to finish dinner before the press ruined dessert.
In the end, they decided to hold the line at “no comment”. They would see what Amanda Sloan had whipped up and which way the wind was blowing in her slant and then respond accordingly.
To this point, no one outside of the Kingsley and Archer inner circles knew there were two grainy digital video recordings in existence. Recordings that just might be the scaffold door that would spring open if the powers that be played out enough rope.
As such, the story appeared without rebuke by KVA Records.
Judge’s Son Entangled in Scandal With Kingsley-Connected Singer
By Amanda Sloan, Staff Writer
San Luis Obispo — A well-respected Superior Court judge is calling for a deeper investigation into what he describes as the “coercive and predatory actions” of a singer affiliated with the Jake Kingsley media empire, following an incident involving his teenage son in the family’s home.
The judge, Michael Olson, appointed in 1997 by former Governor Pete Wilson and widely known for his tough-on-crime stance, says his 19-year-old son Owen was taken advantage of by Tiffany Moreland, a 31-year-old backup singer for Celia Valdez-Kingsley, a longtime Kingsley collaborator, business partner, and former wife. Moreland, who resides in the same upscale neighborhood as the Olsons, is a frequent fixture in Kingsley-related projects and is currently living with other Kingsley-affiliated performers while working on a new album.
“She was in his bed,” Judge Olson said, holding up a framed photo of Owen—his son smiling awkwardly in a Boy Scout uniform. “In my house. With the door open. This was not an equal encounter. This was manipulation. It was psychological coercion.”
According to police reports reviewed by the Register, officers from the San Luis Obispo Police Department responded to the Olson residence on Friday evening after Judge Olson arrived home unexpectedly and discovered Moreland and his son engaged in a sexual act. Officers found no evidence of force or illegality; both participants confirmed the act was consensual and over the age of legal consent. No arrests were made.
Still, Judge Olson insists that the situation is far from benign.
“My son may be of age, technically,” he said, “but this was not a relationship of equals. This woman is a decade older. She’s a professional performer with access, influence, and—let’s be honest—certain methods of persuasion. My son was not capable of making a fully informed decision in that moment.”
Olson, whose rulings have shaped state precedent on tougher juvenile justice and victim protection, is now calling for additional charges—specifically, witness intimidation, citing the fact that Moreland continues to reside across the street in the home of Kingsley’s longtime associate, William Archer.
“This is textbook witness intimidation,” he said. “She’s parading around like nothing happened, laughing and sunbathing in a bikini, while my son hides in a room with the blinds drawn. There is pressure on him to keep quiet, and that pressure is real.”
Moreland has not issued a public statement. A representative for Celia Valdez-Kingsley declined to comment. Efforts to reach Pauline Kingsley, spokesperson for Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez-Kingsley were unsuccessful.
Jake Kingsley himself—current frontman of the notorious rock band Intemperance, and also a prominent figure in West Coast music production—is not accused of wrongdoing. But questions are swirling about how far his influence reaches. Kingsley is known to be a close business partner of Andre Heliodorus, the controversial Central Coast real estate developer whose aggressive expansion projects and political donations have long drawn criticism. The Register has previously covered community resistance to several Heliodorus backed developments.
“The more you look into this,” said Olson, “the more it reeks of celebrity protection. If this had been a regular woman—if she didn’t have famous friends and powerful backing—she would have been arrested, no question.”
The Register reached out to both the San Luis Obispo District Attorney’s office and the SLOPD. A spokesperson for the DA’s office reiterated that no charges are currently being filed, and that both parties were deemed legally capable of consent despite their twelve year age difference.
Legal experts consulted by the Register confirm that California law sets the age of consent at 18, but note that power imbalance, coercion, and undue influence can still be considered when determining whether criminal charges—or civil action—may be warranted.
So far, neither Kingsley nor anyone from his label has publicly addressed the incident.
“This is about more than just one encounter,” Olson said. “This is about influence. It’s about power. And it’s about how easily justice gets derailed when the people involved have money, connections, and publicists.”
It was 8:30 AM and almost time for Grandma and Grandpa Kingsley to hit the road for their return trip. This time, they were leaving with a little more than they came with. Caydee and Kelvin were both going with them to spend a few days with their respective grandparents. Both kids thoroughly enjoyed grandparent time—especially when it didn’t include parents. Rules, expectations, and the enforcement of such things operated on an entirely different plane of existence. Snack distribution too.
On Saturday morning Jake would fly up to Cypress and retrieve them. Assuming, of course, that the shitstorm that was now erupting did not engulf them and choke them with fallout.
“I’ll still can’t believe how biased that paper is,” his Mom told him, shaking her head in a mixture of sadness and anger. “They completely flipped the story around!”
“It’s what they do, Mom,” Jake said, sipping from his own coffee. As soon as the parents and the kids left, he, Laura, and Celia would need to get to The Campus to put in a day’s work. “You should know that after all the stuff they’ve printed about me over the years.”
“Like that horrible cocaine from the butt crack story,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Like that.”
Tom cast his eyes to the side. Jake had never actually admitted it to him, but Pauline had once implied that that particular tale was true.
His son certainly led an interesting life—more interesting than Tom cared to contemplate most of the time. He effectively had two wives, both beautiful, loving, intelligent women and excellent mothers to his grandchildren. They not only had sex with Jake, but with each other. Sometimes all at the same time. Incredible. Tom’s upbringing struggled to approve of any of it—but damned if they didn’t seem like the happiest three married people he’d ever met.
The conversation about the developing scandal had been a bit awkward for Tom and Mary. They were fine with the basic facts: Tif, the singer, had been caught having sex with Owen, the son of a superior court judge. The judge was upset and making a big poop about it, as Mary would say.
But when the details got more explicit—rear-entry intercourse, belief in the medicinal properties of semen, being asked to be called a dirty girl while being spanked—that led to some blushes and averted eyes. The three adults had been talking about it like it was a routine inconvenience, something on par with a broken washing machine or a power outage.
That said more about his son and the lifestyle he led than anything else.
And now Jake was in the papers again. Only a week ago it had been the Holy Bongwater thing—Tom and Mary had both found that story absolutely hilarious and had made both of them wonder if maybe it was time to score one of those medical marijuana cards. Now, it was because Celia’s backup singer had indulged in consensual sex with the much younger son of a superior court judge. There was scandal there to be sure, but Jake was not even involved and his name had been in the very headline.
Absurd. How did they live like this? They certainly did not thrive on the attention like other celebrities did. Their solution seemed to be to simply lock themselves away in their house.
At least it was a nice house.
Caydee came slamming down the hallway and through the entertainment room, heading for the front door, where they were piling their luggage in preparation for departure (as Kelvin would say). It was their second trip through.
“Is that everything, Caydee girl?” Jake asked as she went by.
“Yep!” she said brightly. “I just need to grab my guitar.”
“I am ready for the journey as well,” Kelvin announced. “I estimate 4.36 hours of travel time, assuming normal traffic conditions and no more than two bathroom stops involving urination only. The estimate will need to be increased if anyone develops diarrhea, of course.”
“Uh ... of course,” Mary said slowly.
“Four point three-six hours, huh?” Tom said, nodding. His GPS—already programmed for the Carmel Mission Inn, where they’d stay overnight—predicted four to four and a half hours. No decimal points. He put his faith in Kelvin. He’d known the kid all his life, after all.
“Unless we stop for lunch,” Mary said. “Which we most certainly will do.”
“I’ll have to adjust the estimate with this new information,” Kelvin said.
“You’ll have plenty of time to work on that in the car,” Jake told him. “Go drop that last bag off so Dad and I can get us loaded.”
“Is that a backhanded reference to marijuana use?” Kelvin asked.
“Of course not,” Jake said, deadpan serious.
“That’s unfortunate,” Kelvin said. “It would have been moderately humorous in that context.”
Kelvin dashed off. The two men drained the last of their coffee and stood up.
“Let’s get her done,” Jake said, borrowing a phrase from his brother-in-law Joey.
They got her done, packing all the kids’ bags, blankets, and pillows into the back of the Toyota 4-Runner. Tom slammed the hatchback and made sure it latched. He turned to his son.
“You got a second, Jake?”
“Yeah, sure, Dad. What’s up?”
“I was just wondering ... well ... how much this latest scandal is going to hurt you and the rest of your family.”
“It’ll blow over, Dad,” Jake said, brushing it off. “This one doesn’t even involve me.”
“Your name was in the headline this morning,” Tom said. “That sounds like it involves you.”
Jake shrugged. “What can you do? It’s the life we choose.”
“They were suggesting you’re involved in political corruption,” Tom said. “That’s a terrible accusation to lay on someone. Quite frankly, I’m appalled.”
Jake grinned. “It’s that First Amendment you spent your career defending like a wolf defends his den. And now it’s biting your son in the ass.”
“Yesss,” he said slowly. He had to admit, the point was fair. But he didn’t want to chase it. “Still ... how do you live like this? What would be a minor scandal for anyone else is going to be nationwide news tomorrow, once all the other papers pull it off the wire. They’re probably already camping out at that Johansen Spot, right?”
“Undoubtedly,” Jake said with a sigh. “Still, we’ve been through this before. And we have a trump card. Two of them, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
Jake explained about the two videos Nerdly had taken during the judge’s religious and legal rampages.
“Cell phone video, huh?” Tom said. “I read about that ... I think while I was in the waiting room before my colonoscopy.”
Jake would have made a crude joke if literally anyone else had said that—Papa Valdez, Andre Heliodorus, or even JP2, the head holy man Himself—but this was his father. One did not joke about one’s father’s butthole and the penetration of said orifice.
“It’s all true,” he said. “Nerdly’s always got the latest tech. He filmed both encounters—the original blow-up and the follow-up when they went back for the kid’s stuff.”
“Have you seen them?”
“I did,” Jake confirmed. “Nerdly sent copies to me and Paulie. Email. Isn’t technology badass?”
“It is indeed,” Tom agreed. “How’s the quality?”
“Shitty,” Jake said. “The video part, anyway. But the audio’s crystal clear, and the resolution’s good enough to ID the judge, Owen, and the cops.”
“Do you think you’ll have to use it?”
Jake nodded. “If the media keeps painting the story the way they are—and Olson keeps flapping his jaw about what he thinks happened—we’re gonna have to.”
Tom was quiet for a moment. Then: “I’m not sure I like the world you live in, Jake.”
Jake nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said. “It does have its downside.”
Pauline arrived at the KVA office in Santa Clarita at 8:55 AM on Monday. Three news vans and five sedans were already waiting. She parked in her usual spot—right in front of the building, next to the handicapped space the city had insisted they install and maintain—then got out quickly, grabbing her briefcase.
The cameras snapped toward her like rifles in a firing squad. The mob advanced on her, everyone without a camera on their shoulder shouting questions.
“Can you comment on the scandal involving one of your singers?”
“Is it true that she used drugs to seduce him?”
“It’s being reported that Tiffany Moreland has a restraining order out against Jake. Is that true?”
She pushed her way through them and they parted like the red sea. Most had had dealings with Pauline before. If they blocked her path she would run right over them and then call the police and have them cited for 647C—obstruction of a public way. She would follow through with a citizen’s arrest and refuse to allow the DA to drop the charges, playing the “do you know who I am?” card if necessary. Three photojournalists and two reporters now had misdemeanor convictions on their records thanks to Pauline.
Pauline paused just before reaching the door, turning slightly so her voice would carry to the microphones being shoved over each other for dominance.
“We are aware of the article. KVA Records has no comment at this time.”
With that, she turned her back on them and walked straight through the door beneath the NO ADMITTANCE TODAY sign, ignoring the shouted follow-ups and the desperate clicks of camera shutters.
The door closed behind her with a soft thunk.
Inside, the world was still. The blinds were drawn, blocking the camera lenses that would otherwise be pressed against the glass. The phones had not yet been activated. The front office was preternaturally quiet.
Barb Macready sat at her desk with a large travel mug of KVA’s coffee and her feet on the edge of the reception counter. She was dressed for combat—black pants, a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, and a scowl that looked well-practiced. The nameplate on her desk read: Barb Fucking Macready – Gatekeeper. Pauline had bought that for her and presented it, as promised, when she successfully made it through the first KVA crisis.
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