Chapter 16: What It Means to be a Man

The Campus, San Luis Obispo County, California

February 2, 2005

The caravan rolled north up the access road, winter sun bright but thin, the breeze sharp through the bare vines. At the front, Jake’s Navigator was crammed wall-to-wall with the entire lineup of Intemperance, Owen jammed in the middle row, and Drew pale and silent in the back, smashed between Matt Tisdale and Charlie. The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea if there ever was such a situation. Behind them came six Harleys, all extensively customized, loud and unapologetic, the patched Rough Riders riding in formation, pipes spitting thunder that rattled the windows, their heads capped in black skid lids.

Jake eased off the accelerator as the Campus gate came into view. The guard on duty straightened, clipboard in hand, trying to look authoritative against the noise and spectacle bearing down on him.

The Navigator braked to a stop, and the guard leaned to Jake’s open window. His eyes flicked nervously past Jake at the six Harleys rumbling in place.

“Mr. Kingsley,” he said, uneasy. “Are you aware you’ve got ... a group of bikers behind you?”

Jake blinked, then leaned a little to the side as if to check the mirror. “Shit!” he barked as if terrified. “They’re still behind me? That’s bad. Call a full on security alert before they get me!”

The guard didn’t laugh. He looked terrified. He reached for the phone.

Jake’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Sorry,” he said. “Just fucking with you. They’re friends of mine. Helped me out with a little situation down in SLO. I told ‘em I’d buy some beer and tacos by way of thanks. You know how it is.”

The guard swallowed. “Uh ... no, sir. I don’t.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said lightly.

The guard cleared his throat, gripping his clipboard like a lifeline. “I’ll still need to log them all in. IDs, names on the log—standard procedure.”

Jake regarded him calmly, voice even. “Normally, that’s a pretty fuckin’ good protocol. I signed off on it myself.”

The guard blinked. “Then—”

“But not today.” Jake gestured back toward the line of Rough Riders, their engines growling steady, exhaust curling in the breeze. “My friends don’t like showing ID to people. And since I’m the one who actually runs this place, that means I get to modify the protocols when I think it’s necessary.”

The guard shifted, uncomfortable. “With respect, sir, if I don’t log arrivals—”

“I know,” Jake cut in, not unkind. “Normally, I’d pat you on the back for sticking to it. But today’s different. You’ve got a choice: open the fuckin’ gate and let us in, or push it up your chain of command and see what they say. But if you pick the second option, understand you’re no longer working The Campus.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t sneer. He just laid it down as flat and cold as the February wind.

The guard hesitated, swallowing, thought about how good he had it here as opposed to one of the hospitals he worked prior to the KVA Records contract, then keyed the panel. The gate rattled open.

Jake gave him a nod. “Don’t worry about who comes in or goes out, just this once.”

He rolled the Navigator forward, the Harleys surging in behind, filling the lane with chrome, noise, and leather. Together they swept past the booth and onto Campus grounds.

The guard stood frozen, clipboard limp in his hand, watching as Jake Kingsley and his entourage rolled through—rock stars up front, bikers thundering behind. It was clear enough whose gate this really was, and who ultimately got to decide who came in.

The Navigator swung into the main lot and rolled to a stop in front of the main building. The Harleys parked in a neat line beside it, all of them carefully backing their hogs in so they faced outward, chrome shining in the sun. Engines cut one by one, leaving only the hiss of cooling metal and the thin whistle of the February breeze.

Jake led the procession inside, Drew trailing pale and silent.

“All right, Drew,” Jake told him. “Go grab your shit out of my ride and haul it back into the room you had before. You’ll be here for now.”

“What about the security guys and them leaking again?” Drew asked.

“Not an issue anymore,” Jake said. “The whole game just changed. And now we know what the Watcher is willing to do. This is the safest place for you. Safer than my place. There’s twenty-four hour security here.”

“Run by people who leak to the Watcher,” he protested.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that,” Jake said. “Go get your shit.”

He went to go get his shit without further protest.

The Riders watched all this impassively. Jake then invited them upstairs. They trailed behind him with the easy swagger of men who’d just been vouched for by a rock god. Up the stairs they went, through the landing, into the kitchen and dining room gathering space.

The catered spread sat mostly untouched on the counter—sandwich platters, potato salad, pasta salad. Laura stood at the island with a mug of coffee, calm as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Good timing,” she said. “I already ordered a taco feast from Beto’s in Atascadero. Should be here in about half an hour.” Jake had texted her before leaving SLO for the return trip, letting her know he was okay and that guests would be coming over. Laura took it from there. She was a good wife.

The Riders brightened at that, muttering approval. Laura greeted them. She then stepped over to clasp hands with Asshat and then Tater. She pulled each into a quick hug. “Good to see you two again,” she said warmly.

They hugged her back, respectful of Jake’s old lady. Asked her if she liked the Purple Tokalicious. She said it was her absolute fave.

“Celia loves it too,” she concluded, gesturing.

“Sure do,” she confirmed. “Especially right after sunset in the old hot tub.”

This was the first time any of the Riders had met Jake’s other wife. They shuffled, caught in the dilemma. None of them could admit they liked her music—biker code didn’t allow for that kind of confession—but every man in the room had secretly blasted her albums more than once. They nodded, grunted, said “ma’am,” and left it at that.

Jake kept the line moving. “This is Little Stevie—Celia’s lead guitarist. Liz, her pianist. And Massa Wu on violin.”

Asshat squinted at Massa, grinning. “The fuckin’ Fu Manchu is badass, brother.”

Massa blinked, then gave the smallest of bows. “Thank you.”

That was when the door burst open.

Tif barreled in, eyes locked on Owen. “Cutie patootie!” she squealed, charging across the room. She seized him by the face, peppering frantic kisses across his cheeks and forehead while simultaneously scolding him. “You stupid, stupid boy! Going out to a melee fight where you might get hurt! What were you thinking?”

Owen flushed crimson, trapped between mortification and relief.

The Riders froze, taking in the sight of Tif in full display—built like a brick shithouse, tits straining her top, purple hair spilling over her shoulders, kissing on the skinny kid like he was the prize catch of San Luis Obispo County.

Long Cock leaned toward Jake, eyes wide. “That’s his old lady?”

Jake smirked. “Strange but true.”

“How the fuck did that happen?” asked Tater.

“It’s quite a story,” Jake said. “Let’s just say that Owen might very well be the luckiest man who ever lived. Up there with Hugh Hefner himself.”

“That’s a bold claim,” Long Cock said.

They all went quiet for a second—leftover adrenaline making the air taste like gasoline and sweat. Tif’s hands were still on Owen’s cheeks, fingers hot and fierce.

“You are never doing that again,” she snapped, eyes stabbing. “Do you hear me? No more going off to get your stupid little self hurt. Promise me.”

Matt shoved himself forward with that grin like he owned the room. “Hold up—hold up. GM was fuckin’ badass. We needed him there. He was gonna be the breaker and he fuckin’ stood shoulder to shoulder with us when it looked like the shit was really gonna go down.”

Jake’s voice cut in, flat and steady. “Those were some big motherfuckers too. I’m not sure we would’ve won that fight. We needed all hands on deck.”

Laura watched Owen, hand on her mug. “You told me you would be safe, sweetie.”

Jake glanced at her, then back at Owen. “I was right, wasn’t I? I’m here, safe. And that’s because GM here had our backs.”

Tater—still smelling faintly of smoke and oil—stepped up, folding his arms, assessing the kid like you’d test a piece of timber for rot. “Is that shit true, kid?”

Owen’s throat tightened. The whole room waited. He breathed in, then said it plain. “It’s true. I was gonna throat punch the suit.”

“He really fuckin’ was,” Matt said. “I was watching him. Knew he was a rookie and might bail. But he didn’t. He was all in with us.”

“That’s fuckin’ badass,” Little Stevie said, visibly impressed.

For a beat nobody moved—then Tif’s hands flew off his face and she stared at him like he’d announced he planned to eat razor blades.

“Throat punch?” she repeated, incredulous. “You mean—like punching someone in the throat?”

Matt barked a laugh and wagged a finger. “There’s a reason it’s called that, Tif. What you hear is what you fuckin’ get.” He tapped the side of his nose. “It’s a great opening move in a melee fight.”

Tif’s face went white at the image. She planted both hands on her hips, scandalized. “Pookie Pookums, I simply forbid you to go out to any more melee fights. Promise me. Do you hear me? Promise!”

Owen stepped back a hair, found something steadier under his ribs, and reached for a kind of man-speech he hadn’t used before. Raised as your basic mama’s boy, he had never manned up to a woman in his life. Not once. The only time he’d even come close was telling his mother he wasn’t going to give up Tif just so she would start paying for his college again—and even then, his voice had cracked and he’d nearly pissed himself with nerves.

But this was different. This wasn’t just about tuition money or disappointing his mother. This was about a woman who, if she chose to, could stop fucking him every night. Could stop swallowing his “singing ointment” once a week—sometimes more—and leave him curled up in his bed jerking off alone. He knew that. And still, he couldn’t do what she asked.

There was no way he was going to promise not to melee. He’d been working here almost six months now, and in that time, a potential melee had already happened. He didn’t know when the last one before that had been—nobody ever said—but he figured it must’ve been not long before he started. To him, that meant melees were a part of the job. Maybe twice a year, maybe more. When the band got called to action, he had to go. If he ducked out, he wasn’t a runner anymore. He wasn’t family.

He breathed in, shoulders squaring, and met Tif’s eyes.

“I love you, Tif,” he said, low and honest. “But I’m not gonna promise that. If the guys need me—if they call me—” He looked at Jake, then at Matt, then at Tif. “—I have to go. It’s the code. A man has to back his brothers. If I walk away when they need me, I can’t live with myself.”

Silence stretched. Tif’s mouth softened, then tightened. Her shoulders dropped an inch—relief and something else like heat blooming across her face.

“All right,” she said finally, voice small and fierce. “But you never do it without telling me first. You hear me? I need to know when you’re going into danger.”

Owen nodded hard. The Riders watched like this was a private sacrament being witnessed for the first time. Asshat’s grin turned fond; Long Cock whistled low; Tater’s expression slid from measuring to approving. The kid had taken control of his old lady. And he had done it cool. If Owen knew how to even ride a moped, they might have patched him in right then and there.

Tif leaned so close her breath was on his cheek. Her voice dropped to a hush meant only for him. “You are a ridiculous man,” she told him. “You made me worry. But you’re right. I was a bad girl for questioning your man-ness.”

She paused, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I think I deserve a big spanking.”

It landed between them like a private dare. Owen’s face flamed; somewhere behind them Matt whooped; Charlie said something part-complaint, part-amused about “discipline.” Jake watched with that small, satisfied tilt to his mouth—the ghost of a proud father at a barbeque.

Jake clapped his hands once, cutting the tension like a cymbal crash. “All right. Day’s over. No more fuckin’ work today. We decompress, we show our guests around, we drink some beer.”

That was a decree. Nobody argued.

The Riders gravitated toward the stainless beer refrigerator tucked in the corner. It was always stocked with a mixed spread—domestic cans, microbrews, Mexican imports, and a few bottles of hard stuff on the side. Caps popped, cans hissed, foam slid down throats.

Jake leaned toward Celia, voice low. “Have GM put in a website order for the Liquor Warehouse and then go make the run. What we’ve got won’t last an hour.”

She nodded, brushed her hand along his arm, and slipped the whisper Owen’s way. He nodded and scuttled off, happy to have a task that didn’t involve throat punching anybody.

Jake and Laura gathered the group, Celia at their side. “Come on,” Jake said. “Let’s show you the place.”

They started through the living quarters, pointing out the suites, the communal lounge, the exercise room. The Riders followed with genuine curiosity, their boots heavy on the hardwood. Then it was downstairs into the studios, where the real money had been spent.

Banks of consoles and patch bays lined the walls. Racks of preamps glowed faintly. A Neve desk sprawled across the center like a command ship.

Long Cock, lanky and sharp-eyed behind his cut, peered close. “What are you clocking all this off of? Word clock or blackburst?”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it again. “Fuck if I know. Sharon!”

Sharon appeared from the live room like she’d been expecting the call. She answered smoothly, rattling off specs and procedures. Long Cock listened in rapt attention, nodding with the reverence of a parishioner being handed scripture.

From there they crossed to the rehearsal warehouse. Jake explained on the walk. “We’ve got the basic tracks for the next Intemp album all ready for mixing, but we’re holding off until after the TSF. Rehearsals take priority now.”

They stepped inside the cavernous space, walls lined with amps, kit on riser, cables snaking across the floor. The Riders looked around with open awe.