Chapter 22: Monday Monday

Oceano, California

September 13, 2004

The sun was barely up over the Central Coast hills when Owen turned off the PCH and merged onto the northbound 101, just past the Kingsley Manor access road. The newly issued KVA Tacoma purred beneath him, showroom clean and still smelling like synthetic upholstery and dealership polish. He hadn’t eaten in it. Wouldn’t. He didn’t even trust himself to breathe too hard in it.

It wasn’t his truck, after all. It was the studio’s. A company vehicle. He treated it accordingly—like a sacred, humming artifact on loan from the gods of competence.

Kelvin sat in the passenger seat, already halfway through an astronomy digest from his backpack. He’d eaten earlier—scrambled eggs with goat cheese, roasted potatoes, fresh-squeezed juice—all part of Westin’s 7:00 AM kitchen ritual. Owen had eaten too, though more quietly, still getting used to mornings that came with cloth napkins, second helpings, and no one judging him for either.

They’d left Kingsley Manor at 7:30 sharp. It was part of his runner duties now—get Kelvin to school before heading to The Campus. A side gig inside the main gig. Jake’s idea. Owen hadn’t questioned it. They were paying him thirty dollars an hour. He wouldn’t kill someone for that kind of money, but he’d maim someone.

The truck’s console held a single stainless steel travel mug filled with Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee—brewed fresh that morning and poured by Westin himself while Owen finished tying his shoes.

“First bell rings at 8:05,” Kelvin said, not looking up from his magazine. “But the school’s clock system is off by thirty-seven seconds. I measured it with the GPS time on my father’s Garmin navigation device.”

“Wow,” Owen said. He couldn’t think of anything else.

Kelvin shrugged. “Synchronization matters. That’s why the CIA bombed the Swiss time server in 1998.”

Owen gave him a look.

“Just kidding,” Kelvin said. “Probably.”

They curved through the northbound hills, morning fog burning off in patches to reveal the dry gold of late-summer California. The traffic was light—mostly service trucks and sedans headed for the coastal towns.

“Have you ever heard of tardigrades?” Kelvin asked, eyes still on the page.

“Uh ... water bears?”

“Yes. That is the colloquial term. They’re virtually indestructible. Radiation, vacuum, pressure, desiccation—nothing kills them. We might foment an extinction level event for our species by use of unrestrained nuclear warfare, but the tardigrades would just keep existing forever, likely not even noticing our demise.”

Owen nodded slowly. “That’s both comforting and depressing.”

“I wrote an essay on them for extra credit,” Kelvin added. “My teacher said it was ‘advanced.’ Which is code for ‘I didn’t understand it but I can’t give you a bad grade.’”

Owen chuckled. “You know you’re a nerd, right?”

“So are you,” Kelvin replied evenly. “But you’re doing okay.”

Owen glanced over. That actually meant something, coming from this kid.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the school drop-off loop. Owen kept it slow and precise, eyes on the curb. He didn’t want to risk curb rash on the wheels—Jake would probably laugh, but Owen would die inside.

Kelvin unbuckled, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and opened the door.

“Thank you for the efficient transportation,” he said.

“Have a good one,” Owen replied.

Kelvin paused. “Wishing me a ‘good one’ has no measurable or reproducible effect on what manner of day I actually have. But thank you.”

Then he was gone—walking off toward the courtyard like a kid headed for a physics conference instead of into a public elementary school.

Owen pulled back into traffic, merged onto the 101 again, and headed north. The freeway opened up beyond San Luis Obispo, dipping into the familiar folds of countryside: scattered oaks, rolling hills, and long shadows cast by utility poles.

Just before Atascadero, he took the unmarked access road, the one Mr. Nerdly had pointed out during his orientation. A two-lane road, much better maintained than the 101, shaded by oak trees and nearly invisible from the highway. It led down through a dip in the land, then rose again.

And there it was. The Campus.

He approached the security gate slowly.

The booth was squat and windowed, tucked neatly against the outer fence line where the access road widened. The rolling gate was closed, as always, and the two guards inside—day shift regulars—were already clocked in and alert. One of them, the younger guy with close-cropped hair and sunglasses, glanced up from his clipboard as the Tacoma rolled to a stop. The other, older, stockier, was already reaching for the card scanner.

Owen put the truck in park and rolled down his window.

“Morning, Owen,” the stocky one said with the kind of calm neutrality that came from serious training and a no-bullshit chain of command.

“Morning,” Owen replied, pulling his KVA ID badge from the dash cupholder and passing it out the window.

The guard took it, ran it through a sleek little handheld device, and waited a half second for the digital chirp.

“Clear,” he said, handing it back. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a good day.”

There was no winking, no ribbing, no mention of Tif or the Nerdlys or the fact that Owen had been on local and national news four weeks ago as the stunned young, vulnerable nineteen year old in the infamous sex scandal that had eaten half the judge’s brain. The guards knew. Everyone on the KVA payroll knew. But professionalism reigned. And Owen did not want to get friendly with the security force. They were dangerous people to get chummy with.

Jake had briefed him on Day One.

“The musicians? The inner circle? Totally safe. Say whatever the hell you want. Tisdale, Coop, Pauline, Sharon, Little Stevie, Liz—none of them will leak. But the security guys? Different deal. They’re pros. The best. Same company that runs security for Diablo Canyon, so we’re not talking mall cops. But they’re still contractors. Not family. Not KVA. They’ve sworn no oath, just signed a standard KVA NDA, which is really nothing more than a piece of paper. Bullshit with them if you want, but don’t ever trust them with sensitive shit. If anything leaks from this campus, it likely came from security.”

Owen had nodded solemnly at the time, thinking Jake was just being paranoid.

But now?

Now, rolling through that gate each morning, being waved in by men with mirrored glasses and voices like poker dealers—it kind of felt like a spy novel. Secret codes. Authorization lists. Layers of trust and concentric circles of clearance.

He was cleared for full access. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week he could show up here and they would let him in without question. Same as Jake, Celia, Nerdly, and about four others.

He kept the conversations short. Always.

The gate slid open. Owen gave a little nod and rolled through. The tires crunched over gravel, the oak trees thinned, and the main Campus lot opened up before him—long, quiet, immaculate.

He pulled into his usual spot and shut off the engine.

Another day of gainful employment at thirty dollars an hour. Industry standard studio runner pay, Mr. Nerdly had told him. It’s a skilled position, not grunt work, Jake had added. Owen had no reason to doubt them. He was being paid like an adult to carry coffee, label cables, and stay out of the way. Life was good. He certainly had no knowledge that any other studio would pay him minimum wage with no benefits for what he was doing. And that was best case scenario. More likely they would use an unpaid intern for such tasks.

He stepped out of the Tacoma, locked it and set the alarm by habit, and walked up the main path. The double-steel door to the former winery building stood unguarded but secure—access panel flush to the wall. He swiped his KVA badge through the sensor and heard the soft click as the lock disengaged.

Inside, it was cool and still. The interior of the first floor was already spotless—vacuum lines crisp on the short-loop carpet, scent of lemon and whatever industrial-grade stuff the cleaners used still faint in the air. They came through sometime before dawn, always shadowed by night security, and were gone again before the sun was up. Efficient ghosts.

The first floor layout was familiar now: reception nook straight ahead, hallway running left to the three studios—Studio A, Studio B, and the empty one at the end that served as an extra bedroom or an extra rehearsal studio, depending upon need. Studio A was the active studio—the one where Jake and Mr. Nerdly and the others were recording a new Intemperance album. Studio B was currently not being used.

Owen walked past the empty reception nook and into the break room. The room had no vending machines—just rows of shelves lined with snacks: granola bars, trail mix, gourmet pretzels, imported cookies, all free. On the far counter stood the stainless steel coffee maker, large and serious, flanked by a glass jar full of filters and a bin marked CAFÉ BUENAVENTURA – HIGHLAND GROWN COSTA RICA. The label had a golden hummingbird on it and a paragraph in Spanish about elevation and volcanic soil.

It was really good coffee. Not as good as the Jamaican Blue Mountain served at Kingsley Manor, but close. Owen had Googled it last week. The stuff sold for $39 a pound and was not available for sale in the United States—it had to be special ordered from Costa Rica. He was now entrusted to brew it.

First task of the morning, every morning: two full pots. Each took about ten minutes. The carafe was industrial, insulated, and heavy enough to club someone with—not that he would—but it held temperature and kept everyone happy until after lunch. He would need to brew more at that point.

He got to work, measuring the grounds, setting the filter, filling the reservoir with filtered water from the dispenser in the corner (“only the fuckin’ dispenser water,” Jake had told him during his orientation. “The fuckin’ well water here has too many minerals and shit in it. It’ll kill the coffee maker in about six months). The sound of brewing filled the room, soft and hissing. The smell of excellent coffee filled it as well.

Somewhere upstairs, he could hear voices—Charlie’s, definitely, and the studio drummer’s, maybe. Laughing about something. Probably arguing over the leftover pizza. From the cadence, Owen guessed they were having breakfast in the classic musician style: cold carbs, no shirts, questionable hygiene. It was their domain. Owen never went upstairs. Not his lane.

Charlie scared him. He’d only met the man last week and had exchanged little more than a few brief, polite conversations—but he’d heard the stories. Apparently, the extremely talented bass player for Intemperance was also an extremely odd person. A germaphobe and a vegan—not for health or moral reasons, but because he was afraid of getting a tapeworm. And, according to Jake, he swung between raving dick-smoking gay-rights crusader and a homophobic, misogynistic right-wing whackjob who claimed Hitler was a fuckin’ libtard. No warning. No middle ground.

Down here, everything was quiet. Still. Controlled. No need to worry about what version of the bass player he was going to meet in a dark studio corner.

Owen left the main studio building and went back outside. He made his way down the concrete path to the old winery storage facility—now the rehearsal building. The exterior still looked like a place you might find a dusty John Deere or a stack of crushed wine barrels behind a locked chain-link fence, but the interior was another story.

He entered through the side door next to the loading bays, swiping his badge again. His badge would open any door on The Campus, he had been told, and so far that was correct. The keypad chirped, the bolt clicked, and the door opened into cool, processed air and silence.

Inside, it was cavernous. The concrete floor had been epoxied to a high polish, and overhead, industrial lighting hung in long rows, all off for now. He flipped the main switch by the door, and with a slow flicker-pop-pop-pop, the fixtures warmed up and filled the space with diffuse white light.

It was empty, but not bare.

A drum platform was set up at the rear, flanked by racks of amps, floor monitors, and coiled cables. Mic stands were arranged in a semi-circle, already dialed to height and angle. The rehearsal speaker system loomed along one wall like some dormant animal, and the small mixing console—clean and covered—sat behind a folding desk near the far side, where Jake or Mrs. Nerdly would sometimes park themselves during sessions.

Everything was powered down, but it was ready. It always was.

The air conditioning, one of the few systems that never got shut off, hummed softly in the background—steady and reliable, like it had been there since the building’s grape-stained past. Owen walked quietly across the space and into the small break room off the back hallway. Same setup as in the main building. Same Costa Rican coffee. Same ritual.

He brewed two more pots and poured them into a second insulated carafe, identical to the one in the main studio break room. He didn’t really know how much of this Celia and her bandmembers drank, but he’d learned quickly that if it wasn’t made, he’d hear about it.

By 8:40, Owen was walking back toward the main building, having completed the coffee prep in the rehearsal warehouse. He followed the curved concrete path that cut through the manicured central lawn yet again. He would probably make the trip at least a dozen more times before the day was done.

The walk back gave him a few minutes to settle. The sun was fully up now, clear and sharp against the hills. He liked this part of the morning—before the studio filled, before the endless stream of cables and questions and snack refills. Just air, and grass, and the hum of something big coming to life.

Then the Maserati pulled in.

Sleek, low, black, and slightly dusty, it moved through the parking lot with the kind of confidence that said it didn’t really care what the speed limit was. It parked in the same spot it always did—second slot from the end, right by the walkway. The engine cut out with a low, expensive growl.

Owen slowed slightly as Matt Tisdale stepped out.

Dark jeans. Fitted black shirt. Full sleeve tats on both arms. Just Matt, raw and unfiltered in the daylight, eyes sharp, hair messy in the exact way that took effort to look effortless. He ran a hand through it, then reached back into the car for something—cigarettes maybe.