Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 15: Playing in the Big Leagues
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 15: Playing in the Big Leagues - INTEMPERANCE X is the tenth and final novel in the main Intemperance series. As the band headlines its biggest moment yet, decades of music, loyalty, and hard-earned love converge on one unforgettable night—where everything they’ve built is tested in front of the world.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Fiction
The Campus
Wednesday, February 2, 2005
The morning meeting broke up the way it always did—half orderly, half chaos.
Celia gathered her notes and headed back toward Studio B, already hoping they could get through Stevie’s tracks today. Jake and Owen drifted toward the rehearsal warehouse, Owen carrying the battered laptop like it was the Holy Grail.
Nerdly and Matt lingered in the break room. The pianist and father to a potential mad scientist was frowning at the snack spread, hands clasped behind his back like a museum curator. “This is all wrong,” he complained. “The Funyuns should be placed behind the Doritos, not in front. It disrupts the natural order of preference when people approach the counter. I’ve mentioned this to the catering service before.”
Matt downed the rest of his coffee and snorted. “It’s hard to get good fuckin’ help these days, ain’t it?”
“I think it’s time to start considering a new catering service,” Nerdly said righteously. “I’m going to bring it up at the next KVA meeting.”
“You do that shit, Nerdly,” Matt said, knowing that Jake, Pauline, and Celia would never vote to change caterers simply because Nerdly didn’t like how they arranged the otherwise bitchin’ food. No reason to raise a fuss. He paused, scratched his belly through his flannel shirt. “Speaking of shit—I’m droppin’ a fuckin’ deuce before rehearsal. The shitter’s better over here.”
That got Nerdly’s attention. He turned, adjusting his glasses, his voice drifting into professorial mode. “The guest restroom in this building is superior, yes. Larger ventilation fan, higher-capacity flush, superior porcelain glaze, and of course the marble counters lend a certain ... gravitas.”
Matt grinned. “Yeah. Gravitas. That’s the word I was lookin’ for. I dig the fuckin’ gravitas while I’m squeezing one out.” He slapped the doorframe as he went. “Don’t wait up.”
Ten minutes later Matt emerged, zipping his fly, looking pleased with himself. “Goddamn,” he said to himself. “That is a classy motherfuckin’ shitter.”
On his way out he veered back into the break room, lured by the pastry tray. Blueberry muffins sat in neat rows, fat and moist, the kind that left sugar crumbs on your fingers. He snagged one, planning to eat it on the walk over.
That’s when he noticed Little Stevie, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in one hand and a half-demolished muffin in the other.
“Hey,” Stevie said.
“Hey,” Matt replied, peeling the paper off his muffin. “Ain’t you supposed to be laying down your fuckin’ tracks?”
Stevie nodded. “That’s the plan for today, but the computers got upgraded last night. They all have to be rebooted and have their drivers checked. Sharon says it’ll take about a half hour or so, so I thought I’d grab some coffee.”
Matt chewed with noisy satisfaction and gave Stevie a look. “So let me ask you somethin’, dude. You’re boning Liz, right?”
Stevie blinked, almost choked on his coffee. “Uh ... yeah. I mean, everybody knows that.”
“Right,” Matt said, pointing with his muffin. “Ain’t judging. Just curious. She’s, what ... how old? Old enough to be your fuckin’ mom, right?”
Stevie shifted uncomfortably. “She’s forty-six.”
Matt whistled. “Jesus Christ. I never stuck my dick in anyone older than me. Not once. So what’s the angle? Do they know shit? What makes the mom thing worth doing?”
Stevie’s ears turned red. He stared into his coffee like it might save him. “I ... I like her. She likes me. That’s it.”
Matt tilted his head, studying him. He wasn’t being an asshole—he genuinely wanted to understand. “That’s it? Nothin’ special? No secret fuckin’ tricks she can do with her clam that only the older bitches know?”
Stevie gave a helpless little shrug. “She’s just ... Liz. I like being with her. She makes me feel good. That’s all.”
Matt grunted. “Huh. That doesn’t fly in my world. There has to be a reason.” He chewed a minute, then jabbed the muffin at him again. “Still though—you’ve been on the fuckin’ road. You know how much gash is out there, right? Endless fuckin’ bitches ready to suck and fuck.”
“Uh ... yeah,” Stevie said. “I’ve been on three tours with Celia.”
“I bet she’s a fuckin’ snatch magnet out on the road. And you did foreign tours too, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Stevie said. “Europe and South America both.”
“Foreign gash is the fuckin’ bomb,” Matt said. “Best I ever had? Ukraine, no contest. USA, Canada, Mexico, France—all goddamn solid. Honorable mention to Iceland. It’s the rarity of it that puts it on the list. Especially if you score it outside of Iceland like I did. What’s your take on it? Let me hear your top five gash locations and an honorable mention.”
Stevie shifted, his face warming. He hated disappointing Matt, of all people. “I’ve ... uh ... never actually done it with a groupie. Before I hooked up with Celia I was just doing sessions. And every tour I’ve been on, Liz has been there for me.”
Matt froze, staring like Stevie had just pissed on his Strat. “You’re shitting me right now, aren’t you? You did not just tell me that you’re a professional lead guitarist for Celia fucking Valdez and you’ve never fucked a groupie!”
“It’s true,” Stevie said. His voice was quiet, almost apologetic.
Matt could not wrap his head around this. “You been on tour, city after city, all that fresh, never-again pussy right in front of you, and you passed? Didn’t even get a blowjob?”
Stevie dropped his eyes to his coffee, cheeks blazing. “That’s right,” he admitted, like a kid confessing to his dad he’d failed a test.
“Dude,” Matt accused, crumbs flying from his hand, “that’s spitting in the fuckin’ face of every performing musician who ever lived. Mozart himself pounded out a two-by-four with German gash when he and the boys played fuckin’ Munich. That’s a proven fuckin’ fact. And you—you been ridin’ shotgun with a sure thing every night like a goddamn accountant on vacation?”
“I’m sorry,” Stevie muttered. He really was. This was Matt Tisdale—Matt fucking Tisdale—telling him he’d blown it. “It’s just ... Liz has always been there. I never wanted anyone else.”
Matt shook his head, disgusted. “World don’t work like I thought it did. All right then. At least tell me you’ve had a threesome. Liz seems like the kind of bitch who’s down for some bait shop buffet. You done that at least, right?”
Stevie’s blush deepened. He didn’t want to say it, but Matt’s eyes pinned him in place. “No.”
Matt slammed his muffin down on the counter. “No? Fuck me runnin’! What the hell’s this world comin’ to when a professional lead guitarist in a touring band ain’t never had a fuckin’ threesome? Not even a vanilla one without all the swings and straps and motors and shit. You ain’t livin’ the fuckin’ life right, dude.”
“A vanilla threesome?” Stevie stammered.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “You know. Just you and two bitches in bed fucking each other. Meat and potatoes shit. And you ain’t even done that.” He shook his head at the inhumanity of it all.
Stevie squirmed under the weight of Matt’s scrutiny. He tried a weak smile, searching for something that might earn back a little approval. “Well ... GM’s about to have his first threesome.”
Matt stopped chewing, muffin halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed. “The fuck you just say? GM’s gettin’ a threeway?”
Stevie shifted under the weight of it. “Yeah. Tif’s putting it together for his birthday. She said it’s gonna be a surprise.”
Matt looked at Stevie intently. “And how the fuck you know about this, dude?”
“I was in the break room yesterday,” Stevie said. “Laura, Liz, Massa, and Tif were all there. Tif started talking about it. Wanted advice. Laura gave her, uh ... a lot of advice.”
Matt leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Spill it, motherfucker. What’d she say? Don’t hold back.”
Stevie swallowed. “She said ... rule one, don’t invite anyone unless you trust her. Rule two, make sure Owen knows it’s for him, not ‘cause she’s bored. Rule three, no drinking beforehand—’cause that just makes somebody cry or puke or pass out halfway through.”
Matt barked a laugh. “Shit, that’s true. Seen it happen.” He stabbed a finger at Stevie. “Go on.”
Stevie rubbed the back of his neck. “Laura said the man sleeps in the wet spot, no debate. And don’t get too involved with the other woman, or Owen might feel ignored. Make eye contact with both, keep everybody included. She even suggested starting with a double blow job so the second orgasm doesn’t happen too fast.”
Matt blinked, then grinned slow. “Jesus Christ. Teach is running a goddamn college course on threesomes now? Roving lectures on clam diving?”
Stevie shrugged. “Tif was writing it all down like homework.”
Matt shook his head, half in awe. “She’s gettin’ mentored by the best. Teach has had more fuckin’ threesomes than I have, and that is fuckin’ painful to admit. Still ... Owen’s green as grass. Needs real-world coaching.” He leaned closer. “So who’s the third bitch supposed to be?”
Stevie spread his hands. “They don’t know yet. Tif said she might ask one of her girlfriends, but then Liz suggested Bojangles—you know, the gay bar in Pismo. Said she’d go with her, be her wingman. That’s the plan for Friday night.”
Matt’s eyes lit up. “Holy shit. They’re gonna fish a bi-curious chick outta Bojangles and throw her in bed with GM? That’s—fuck—that’s ambitious.”
“Yeah,” Stevie agreed weakly.
Matt leaned back, nodding to himself. “All right. That’s a noble cause. Tif might be dumber than a retarded yard chicken, but she’s got fuckin’ heart.” He grabbed the last bite of his muffin, popped it in his mouth, and dusted his hands. “Thanks for the intel, kid.”
Stevie just stood there, clutching his coffee, not sure if he’d done the right thing.
Matt pushed through the door and stepped outside. The February air hit him cold, biting through his flannel. He shivered but kept going. No way in hell he was gonna put on a sweater just to cross the fuckin’ lawn.
As he walked, he lit a cigarette and let his mind drift. Owen’s first threesome. Hell of a thing. He remembered his own first—D Street West days, two blonde groupies, names long gone but every move burned into his brain. Hundreds since, maybe more, but that first one was gospel.
And now GM was about to dive in. Babe in the woods, no clue what he was walking into. If he fucked it up—if Tif and some hot chick threw themselves at him and he couldn’t carry the load—it might scar him for life.
Tif would land a looker, no doubt. Women had a rule when it came to this shit—they never bring in a bitch hotter than themselves. And if it’s the guy finding the third, he damn well better not reel in someone hotter than his old lady either, unless he’s lookin’ to sleep on the fuckin’ couch for a year. Lucky for Tif, not many women alive were hotter, which left her a whole planet to choose from. This threesome had promise. But promise didn’t mean shit without guidance.
Matt blew smoke into the wind, his grin sharp. “Kid needs a coach,” he said. “And I’m the man to fuckin’ do it.”
Owen’s pulse was hammering, and he wasn’t even the one playing.
The Thrill of Doing Business thundered in his ears, the closer to the main set. They weren’t just sitting in chairs anymore, noodling arrangements and stopping to argue over tempo changes. This was stage rehearsal. The five of them were moving, circling, finding their marks as if a stadium full of fans were watching. Not quite at full performance intensity—but close.
Jake had explained it to him once. You need the cardio, GM. If you can’t keep your wind up for ninety minutes, you’ll collapse on stage. That’s why we rehearse like this.
Owen believed it. Still, he couldn’t stop wondering: how the hell did Matt Tisdale keep up? The man looked like he should be grumbling in a retirement home lounge, not ripping solos with his feet planted wide and his hair flying. But there he was, fingers a blur, lungs working, eyes alive. Not just keeping up—leading.
And he wasn’t the only one. Jake drove the rhythm like a hammer, voice cutting hard and clear. Charlie’s bass rumbled the floor beneath Owen’s feet, Coop smacked the kit around like it owed him an apology, and Nerdly’s piano shimmered across the top, precise and relentless. Together it was a wall of sound, sharp and brutal and alive.
The song built toward its finale, that huge ending they’d rehearsed and polished. One last screaming chord, one last blast from Coop’s kit, one last echo of Nerdly’s keys—and then silence. If this had been a real show, the crowd would be on its feet, screaming for more.
Instead, Jake held up a hand. His voice was calm but clipped, still carrying the command. “How about we take fifteen. Then we hit the encore sequence, and after that, top to bottom again.”
The band broke apart. Matt leaned his guitar against his amp, sweat gleaming on his temples, but he wasn’t winded. He looked around, spotted Owen standing by the monitor board, and jerked his head.
“GM,” he called, grinning. “Come over here. We gotta talk.”
Owen’s stomach tightened. When Matt said we gotta talk, it could mean anything from changing string gauges to a full-on verbal assault. He set his clipboard down carefully, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked toward the man who—somehow—was both terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.
Matt crooked a finger at him and started walking toward the cooler in the corner. Owen followed, trying to keep his face neutral.
Matt yanked open the lid and pulled out a bottle of red Gatorade. He didn’t offer one to Owen, just cracked the cap and took a long pull. His Adam’s apple bobbed, throat working. Then he capped it again and jerked his chin toward the side door.
“Walk with me,” he said.
They crossed over together. Just inside the door sat a little stand—an ashtray on top, a battered pack of Marlboros beside it, and a scratched Zippo lighter. Matt scooped up the pack and lighter like they belonged to him—which they did. He shook the pack until one cigarette poked out and gave it that little flick, the universal offer.
Owen shook his head. “No thank you. I don’t smoke.”
Matt grinned around the cigarette as he set it between his lips. “Word on the street is that you’re gonna be smokin’ pretty soon.”
Owen frowned, not understanding. “What?”
“Step into my fuckin’ office.” Matt shouldered the crash bar, and the cold February air spilled in. They went outside together. Matt leaned against the wall, sparked the Zippo, and pulled in a lungful. He blew the smoke out slow, took another gulp of Gatorade, and let both chase each other down his throat.
Owen shoved his hands into his pockets and braced against the wind. He wished he’d grabbed his sweater before coming out, but he wasn’t about to turn around now. Not with Matt Tisdale standing there like a king holding court.
Matt narrowed his eyes, smoke curling from his nostrils. “I have it on good authority that your old lady is gettin’ you a threesome for your fuckin’ birthday.”
Owen’s heart seized. “She—what?”
“A threesome,” Matt said. “You know? She hauls in a hot bitch who likes dick and clam to join you in the fuckin’ bedroom. It’s a big milestone in your sex life.”
“How do you even know that ... that she’s doing that?” Matt was known to fuck with people on occasion. But he didn’t seem like he was fucking with him. He seemed very serious.
“Little Stevie,” Matt said. “Kid’s got a big mouth. Was sittin’ in the break room yesterday while the bitches were planning it. He spilled it to me. Don’t blame him—dudes should pass this kinda shit on to each other as part of the fuckin’ code.”
Owen rubbed the back of his neck. “It was supposed to be a surprise? And you’re telling me about it?”
Matt jabbed the air with his cigarette. “Yeah, well, fuck surprises. You don’t send a rookie into a firefight without a weapon. And you don’t send a rookie into a threesome without a fuckin’ briefing. That’s criminal negligence. I’m doin’ you a goddamn favor.”
Owen opened his mouth, shut it again. He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Matt had probably fucked more women than Owen had jacked off to in his entire life. And that was a big fucking number.
Matt saw the hesitation, grinned through the smoke. “See, you get it. You might not like hearin’ it, but you fuckin’ get it. Now pay attention, ‘cause this is sacred knowledge I’m handing down. Road-worn gospel. Rules of the threeway, as taught by Matt Tisdale.”
Matt drew deep on the smoke, exhaled. “First thing, rookie mistake I seen a hundred fuckin’ times: don’t eat beans or broccoli before the big night. Nothing kills the vibe like ripping some ass in the middle of a threesome. Even if you hold it in, your gut’s twisting up and it hurts. Takes the fun right out of it.”
Owen winced. He’d never thought about that. “People ... actually fart during sex?”
Matt grinned. “Fuck yeah, they do. And you’ll never forget it when it happens. Seen a bitch jump outta bed like she’d been shot. Whole night wrecked. So clean fuel only, dude. Think steak, potatoes, bread. Heavy but quiet.”
He took another drag, pointed again. “Now, pictures. Always take at least one shot of the two bitches suckin’ your dick. That’s not just for spank bank, that’s proof. It’s so when you’re telling the boys about it later they don’t think you’re makin’ shit up—just telling a pussy story. If you got a picture of them sucking your dick? Bam. Case closed. Evidence on the table.”
Owen shifted from foot to foot, cold biting at his ears. “Wouldn’t the girls ... I mean ... get mad if I asked them to take a picture of that?”
Matt barked a laugh. “If you do it right, they’re fuckin’ proud of it. You just say ‘smile for the camera, sluts’ or something endearing like that. Besides, you don’t gotta post it on the goddamn internet. Just keep it safe. Proof of achievement unlocked.”
He swigged more Gatorade. “Here’s something that sounds better than it is: one bitch licking your balls while you’re doggy on the other. In theory? Heaven. In practice? Waste of resources. You barely feel it, and she’s down there tryin’ to find an angle that ain’t even workin’. Save the energy for somethin’ else.”
Owen swallowed, trying to picture it, and immediately regretted it.
Matt caught the look. “Yeah, I know, sounds wild. But trust me, overrated. You want ‘em both engaged, but smartly.”
He flicked ash, leaned closer. “Now, if you’re fuckin’ one while she’s eating the other? Don’t push her face in too hard. I did that once—girl passed the fuck out. Whole night stops while you figure out if she’s breathing. That’s a boner-killer.”
Owen’s eyes widened. “She ... passed out?”
“Yup. Dead weight. Had to splash water on her. Bitch woke up confused as hell. Threesome derailed and I only got to fuck the first bitch. Lesson learned.”
“Wow,” Owen whispered. This was truly next level stuff here.
Matt went on. “And never—listen close—never blow your load while switching back and forth between the two pussies. I mean, it’s a good technique that I recommend, but not the time to blow your fuckin’ nuts. Whichever one don’t get it thinks you’re playin’ favorites. Doesn’t matter it was random timing. They’ll stew on that shit, guaranteed. You want both of ‘em happy, not sulking.”
Owen thought of Tif. She wasn’t exactly subtle with her emotions. He nodded, reluctantly. “That ... makes sense.”
“Damn right it does.” Matt took another pull on the Gatorade. “No ass fucking either. Threesomes are messy enough without tryin’ to add that in. Wrong kind of situation for anal. Save it for another night.”
He let the words hang, watching Owen squirm. Then he softened, almost professorial. “Here’s a big one, GM: Use your orgasms wisely. You pump your python and clear the pipes the night before so you don’t fire too quick when you’re in the game, yet still have enough to go twice. Then pace yourself. A good threesome should last about an hour. Not a sprint, not a fuckin’ marathon. Hour’s the sweet spot.”
Owen’s ears were burning. He’d never thought of sex in terms of pacing like a show. But Matt was laying it out like setlist strategy. And hell—Matt would know.
“And this,” Matt said, grinding the butt against the wall, “might be the most important. Make sure both bitches come about the same number of times. Doesn’t matter if it’s from you or from each other, but if your old lady ends the night with less than the guest? Congratulations, you just torched any fuckin’ shot at a repeat performance. Balance, GM. Balance is everything.”
Owen’s head was spinning. His gut told him Matt was insane. But another part of him knew every word was carved from hard-won experience. And the thought of Tif disappointed in him made his chest ache.
Matt dusted ash from his fingers and grinned wolfishly. “You’re a babe in the woods, GM. But you’re my babe in my woods. Stick with the rules, and you might just pull it off without scar tissue.”
San Luis Obispo
Wednesday, February 2, 2005
Drew Conners sat hunched on the sagging couch, curtains pulled tight against the weak daylight. The TV flickered across the room, tuned to some daytime courtroom show, voices bickering over a car loan or a broken window. He wasn’t listening. The noise kept the silence from swallowing him, that was all.
His stomach growled, and he gave in. The pantry held little—just some cans, a loaf of bread going stale, and half a carton of eggs. He picked a can of Hormel tamales off the shelf. He’d loved them since he was a kid, greasy and salty, wrapped in that fake corn husk. At least they were familiar.
He peeled the paper wrappers off—he’d learned over the years that it’s easier to take them off cold and doesn’t affect the taste—and lined them up on a plate. Paper towel over the top, two minutes on high. When the microwave dinged, the smell filled the tiny kitchen. He forked one up, the sauce scalding the roof of his mouth, but he didn’t care.
Chewing, he let his mind drift. He thought about the moment this all started—when he decided not to let his pictures be twisted into a lie. The smart play, the easy play, would’ve been to shut up, take the money, and move on. He could’ve done that. But even he had a line, and he hadn’t crossed it. He’d told the truth—or at least refused to endorse the lie.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Was it really worth all this? This dump of an apartment, the curtains drawn, the endless boredom, the creeping sense that every sound outside might be somebody coming for him?
He swallowed another bite of tamale, greasy and hot, and thought it through again. No—he’d done the right thing. He hadn’t let his work become somebody else’s weapon. For all his sins, he wasn’t going to add that one.
The knock at the door made his fork freeze halfway to his mouth.
He set it down slowly, heart climbing into his throat. No one ever knocked here. He lived invisible.
Another knock—firm, measured. Not a neighbor, not a delivery.
He rose, padded softly to the door, and pressed his eye to the peephole.
Three men stood outside. Two broad, heavy shoulders, the kind of bulk that came from gym weights, not office chairs. And between them, a tall man in a tailored coat and tie, polished shoes that didn’t belong in this building. Calm. Patient. Watching the door like he already knew Drew was on the other side.
Drew didn’t know who they were. He didn’t need to. They were bad news.
He stepped back, pulse hammering, praying they’d give up.
One of the thugs leaned close, voice muffled but clear enough. “Andrew Conners. We know you’re in there. Open the door.”
The suited man spoke next, calm, almost polite. “Andrew, we’re not leaving until you talk to us.”
The knocking resumed. Steady, patient.
Drew’s mouth went dry. He turned, crossed to the drawer, and pulled out the burner phone—the one he’d been told to use if anything like this happened. First and foremost, call Pauline. No hesitation, no debate.
He flipped it open and dialed the number with shaking fingers.
Two rings.
The phone clicked live.
“Is that you, camera boy?” Barb Macready’s voice snapped, sharp as broken glass.
Drew’s breath hitched. “How—how do you know it’s me? This is a secure burner. Jake told me—”
Barb cut him off without mercy. “Because Jake prioritized this number for me, that’s how. So if your stupid ass ever does call, it pops up big and red on my screen instead of dropping you into the waiting queue with all the other fuckin’ vultures. Now do you got some shit going down, or are you just wasting my time? Because remember—” her voice dropped to a lethal drawl—”I know where your snooping, voyeuristic ass lives, and I will drive all the way to SLO to give you a reverse rusty trombone with a hydrogen peroxide chaser if this shit isn’t important.”
Drew’s hands were slick on the phone. “It’s an emergency! I swear! There are thugs outside—two of them, big guys—and a man in a suit. They’re knocking on my door, calling me by name. They won’t go away.”
The venom drained from Barb’s voice, replaced by the cool, unshakable tone of an LAPD dispatcher who’d handled worse at three in the morning. “All right, Andrew. Listen carefully. You’re gonna stay calm. First—are you clear of the door? Somewhere they can’t see you or hear you?”
“Yes,” Drew whispered. “I’m back from the door.”
“Good. Three males total. One in a suit, two heavy muscle. Did you see any weapons?”
“No. Not that I could tell. Just suits. They don’t belong here.”
“Okay. So, unknown weapons. Did they identify themselves? Flash a badge? Business cards?”
“No. Just said my name. Said they’re not leaving until I talk to them.”
“Copy that.” Barb’s voice stayed steady, every word clipped. “Stay off the door. Don’t let them see you. Keep your mouth shut and this line open. I’m bringing Pauline on now.”
“Right,” Drew said. “What if they kick in the door?”
“Then you would have a problem, but let’s stick to the now. Don’t let them in. Don’t call the cops. Don’t do something stupid like climbing out a back window. Just chill in place and let us get some resources to you.”
“Right,” said Drew, shaking now as a fresh round of aggressive knocking came. He had, in fact, just been thinking about going out the bedroom window to the creek behind the complex.
“And remember. No cops. This needs to be handled on a different level.”
“Right,” he said.
“Keep the phone open. I’m calling Pauline on the other line. I’ll stay in touch with her and keep you updated. We’ll get you through this, Andrew. I promise.”
“With no violence?” he asked hopefully.
“Probably not,” she said slowly.
“Probably?” he squeaked.
“Best I can offer. Putting you on hold now.”
She disappeared and was replaced by the KVA hold music. It was Twilight Zone by Golden Earring. Fitting.
Owen sat at the board, watching Intemperance tear through I Am Time. It was the only song in the catalog where Matt didn’t take the lead guitar, which gave the whole thing a different texture. Jake’s Les Paul drove the rhythm while he sang, Matt standing at his mic with a harmonica in his hands, blowing the line like he was born with it in his mouth.
Owen loved this one. Always had. And now he got paid to sit here and watch it happen. Sometimes the job still felt unreal.
Just then, a light above the break room door began to flash. At the same instant, the same light blinked on the soundboard. The phone was ringing. One of the techs glanced over, pointed at it, and Owen nodded. His responsibility.
The line almost never lit. Maybe once a day, tops, and it was usually just somebody letting them know the caterers had arrived with lunch. Lunch was still an hour away.
He slipped his ears out and set them on the console. Even without them, the music wasn’t deafening—the speakers were turned low since everyone was on in-ear monitors and there was no audience. Still, Jake’s voice carried clear as thunder, Matt’s harmonica wailing beside it.
Owen crossed to the break room, shut the door behind him, and cut most of the sound away. The phone light blinked steady on the wall. He picked up the receiver, steadied his voice.
“Rehearsal, this is Owen, Studio Runner. How can I help you?”
“It’s Pauline,” came the answer, clipped and direct. “Get Jake for me. Right now. Priority one shit.”
“I’ll get him right away,” Owen said. He thumbed the hold button and set the receiver back in its cradle.
Back in the main room, the band was still driving through I Am Time. Owen waved both arms until Jake noticed him. Jake frowned, held up a hand, and the song fell apart in a screech of guitar, bass, piano, and drums colliding to silence.
One by one they tugged an ear free.
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