Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 24: Pressure Release
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 24: Pressure Release - 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
San Luis Obispo County, California
Monday, March 7, 2005
They’d been sniping at each other all morning—tiny, stupid things that didn’t matter and somehow mattered a lot. Twenty-five minutes of it now, from the kitchen at Kingsley Manor all the way up the 101 toward The Campus. The arguments changed shape every few miles but never really stopped.
Laura sat in the passenger seat with her travel mug clenched in both hands, staring straight ahead like she was willing the windshield to crack. “You know,” she said finally, “this is my Lexus. I picked it out. My name’s on the registration. And yet I am not driving it.”
Jake kept his eyes on the road. “That’s because I am driving it currently.”
“It’s my fucking SUV!” she barked, not just sniping, but truly angry. “You and Celia just commandeer it whenever we’re going somewhere together in it.”
From the back seat Celia said, “That’s because your driving makes my soul want to abandon fucking ship.”
Laura turned, incredulous. “I drive the speed limit.”
“Exactly,” Celia said. “Like it’s a holy commandment. Tibetan monks would be impatient with your driving, Teach.”
Jake let out a breath through his nose. “I have to agree,” He said. “You think ‘55’ actually means fifty-five. Not sixty-five. Not seventy. Fifty-fucking-five, on the dot. It’s painful.”
“I’m keeping us legal,” Laura said.
“You’re keeping us late,” Jake said.
“Better late than dead.”
“Better early than insane,” he returned.
“Yeah,” Celia said. “And you never pass people in the slow lane.”
“I am the people in the slow lane,” Laura said. “I’m the one trying to keep the world safe. If everyone drove like me there would be no such thing as a traffic fatality.”
“You’re suggesting that your driving is the key to world traffic peace?” Jake asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The highway curved to the east. Morning light flashed off the hood; the hills glowed green after the last week’s rain. Inside, the Lexus felt smaller by the minute.
Jake’s hands tightened on the wheel. “There were red hairs on my towel again this morning.”
Laura groaned softly. “Here we go.”
“Every day,” Jake said. “My fresh towel that Sean leaves for me with the love and care only a gay man with a crush can pull off. And every morning is it befouled by stray hairs. Somebody’s using my gay man towel before I shower.”
Celia leaned forward between the seats. “Nobody is using your towel, Rev. We all have our own—just as lovingly placed, I might add.”
“It’s covered in hair,” he insisted. “Not mine. Red and black. Which means—”
“Which means,” Laura interrupted, “you’re looking for someone to blame for your own mess again.”
Celia sighed. “He’s obsessive about the towels but somehow blind to the bathroom floor.”
“Don’t start,” Jake warned.
“I’ll start,” Laura said. “Because I had to wipe up after you again. Pee dribbles, Jake. They’re back.”
“They’re not back,” he said tightly.
“They’re back,” Laura said. “Right in front of the toilet. I nearly stepped in it.”
Celia made a small disgusted sound. “You really need to get that under control. We live like adults, remember?”
“I didn’t do it,” Jake said.
“Then we’ve got a ghost with bad aim,” Celia said.
“Maybe you both mis-saw something.”
“I saw it, I smelled it, and I cleaned it,” Laura snapped. “It happened.”
The silence after that was thick enough to choke on. The only sound was the steady hum of tires.
Jake stared straight ahead, jaw flexing. “This is ridiculous.”
“You started it,” Celia said.
He glanced at her in the mirror. “I started it?”
“Yes,” she said. “With the towel autopsy.”
“That’s because somebody used my towel.”
Laura cut in. “Nobody cares about your towel. But while we’re on the subject of bathroom crimes—Celia, your shampoo bottle’s blocking half the shelf again.”
Celia’s head came up sharply. “It’s my shampoo. And that is my shower too. It stays upright, thank you.”
“That shit is forty-five dollars a bottle,” Jake said. “Jill ratted you out. I could buy a fucking case of beer for that.”
“And none of it would make my hair look this good,” Celia shot back.
Laura let out an exasperated laugh. “I can’t believe I’m trapped in a car with the two most high-maintenance people in California.”
“At least we’re getting it over with quickly,” Jake said. “Which would not be the case if you were driving.”
“I am a good driver!” she yelled. “Unlike you, husband of mine, who drives like you’re playing Grand Theft Auto in real life.”
He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.
For a few blessed seconds, no one spoke. The vineyards were now in sight.
Jake could feel the pressure in his temples—the kind that had nothing to do with caffeine. They’d been under a light state of siege for weeks, but it had turned into a full-blown circus now that the Chronicle article and the copies of the recording were public. The tension was back and it was leaking into everything. Reporters, rumors, phone calls, the endless noise—all of it bleeding into the morning commute until even towels and pee dribbles felt like battles worth fighting.
The guard shack appeared ahead, sunlight glinting off the gate.
Laura broke the quiet first. “Don’t speed on the access road.”
“We own this fucking road,” he said. “I can drive as fast as I want on it.”
The Lexus rolled to a stop at the booth. The guard leaned out, face carefully blank, scanner ready. “Morning, Jake. Laura. Celia.”
Jake handed over their badges, and the scanner beeped three times. The gate slid open with its slow hydraulic sigh.
They drove through in silence, the argument still thrumming like a fever under the quiet.
Jake didn’t look at either of them. “Let’s try to make it through the briefing without another domestic incident.”
“Depends who starts,” Laura said.
Celia muttered, “Odds are on Rev.”
He gripped the wheel harder and kept driving toward the main building, thinking maybe a mountain somewhere would feel quieter than home.
Jake slid the Lexus into its usual slot near the main building, killed the engine, and for one blissful second there was silence. Then the doors opened, and the argument picked up like it had been waiting in the parking lot.
Celia was already halfway out of the back seat when she said, “You know what else we need to fix? The allocation of space on the fucking storage shelf on the she side of the bathroom. It’s a disaster.”
“That’s because two of us are trying to use something built for one,” Laura returned.
“And why do you get more than half of that limited space?” Celia wanted to know. “Am I not equal?”
“I do have seniority,” Laura said.
“You’re going to play that card, Teach? Really?”
Laura shut her door a little too firmly. “Look. I can’t help it if Jake didn’t take polyamory into account when he designed the house.”
Jake closed his own door and started walking toward the entrance. “That makes no fucking sense at all. Why would I design a house around two wives when I didn’t know I was going to have two wives at the time?”
Celia fell in beside him, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Maybe you should have planned ahead.”
“Planned ahead?” he said. “What was I supposed to do—build in double wife space just in case?”
Laura matched their pace, coffee mug in hand. “You could have left some extra cabinet space on the she side. It wouldn’t have killed you.”
“Why would I have done that?” Jake cried, quite exasperated. “At the time I wasn’t even married to one woman! I didn’t know I was going to end up with two of you. Why do you two need so much space anyway? I fit everything I need in one fucking drawer.”
“That’s because we have products,” Celia said. “Your entire grooming routine is a can of shaving cream, a thing of deodorant, and a towel you keep accusing people of violating.”
Jake shook his head. “I heard that Joe Smith—the first Mormon dude—had like forty fucking wives. I bet he designed his crash pad with enough cabinet space in the fucking bathroom.”
Celia laughed. “Maybe he did.”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “But he had the spinning plates to forewarn him about that shit. I did not.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Laura said automatically.
He looked at her. “You’re not Mormon anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you can blaspheme.”
“Pretty sure it does,” he said.
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and settled for a glare that could’ve cracked the glass doors ahead of them. They stepped inside the main building. The familiar smell of fresh coffee and pastries wrapped around them.
At the end of the corridor, the break-room door stood open. Owen was already at the table with his laptop, eyes flicking between tabs. Nerdly and Sharon sat opposite each other, coffee cups before them, and both of them looked like they’d been waiting for this circus to arrive.
Jake led the two ladies that way and said, “All right. Let’s see how much damage we can do before lunch.”
“You might not be alive come lunch time,” Laura warned.
“If you kill me, that violates our prenup.”
“We don’t have a prenup,” she said.
“I’ll write up a retroactive one while I’m dying,” he told her. “Morning, GM,” he said as they walked in.
Owen looked up, giving the kind of nervous smile reserved for bosses and volcanoes. “Morning, Jake. Morning, Laura. Morning, Celia.”
Nerdly straightened immediately, as if he’d been waiting for witnesses. “Excellent. You can all help us settle an argument.”
Jake sighed. “I’m starting to think that’s all this day is good for.”
Nerdly continued as if he hadn’t heard. “GM has proved himself too inexperienced at non-legally yet societally sanctioned cohabitation to offer a valid opinion on a legally sanctioned cohabitational dilemma such as the one Sharon and I are facing.”
Owen looked mildly defensive. “I gave you the best answer I could.”
“What are we arguing about?” Celia asked.
Nerdly folded his hands in front of him, as though addressing a jury. “This morning, Sharon and I both found ourselves in need of the toilet facilities in the master bedroom simultaneously. The question before the group is: who should yield to whom under such circumstances?”
Laura, Celia, and Jake exchanged looks.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jake said.
“It’s an important question,” Sharon said firmly. “It happens more than you’d think.”
Jake shook his head, “Apparently today’s theme is bathrooms.”
“Exactly!” Laura said, her mood snapping back to life. “It’s a question of etiquette and consideration. The lady always goes first.”
Sharon nodded. “Amen to that.”
Celia crossed her arms. “Oh, bullshit. You don’t get to pull rank on plumbing. If the man’s about to explode, he goes first. That’s just physics.”
“Chivalry,” Laura countered. “It’s called chivalry.”
“Chivalry was written by men who already had bathrooms to themselves,” Celia said. “Don’t quote medieval nonsense on modern bathroom etiquette.”
Nerdly cleared his throat. “My position is simple logic. The person experiencing the greatest urgency should be prioritized, irrespective of gender.”
Laura looked appalled. “You’re saying a gentleman should make a woman wait?”
“I’m saying a bonded mating pair—or triple in your case—should take turns based on measurable distress,” Nerdly said. “It’s a conclusion any rational mind should arrive at independently.”
“You mean common sense?” Jake asked.
“That’s what I said,” Nerdly replied indignantly.
Owen raised a finger. “I said the lady should go first. That’s just good manners.”
“Wrong,” Sharon said. “It’s not manners. It’s divine order.”
Jake blinked. “Divine order?”
“Yes,” Sharon said. “God made women smarter, more organized, and with smaller bladders. He knew we’d need priority.”
“That’s the kind of theology that starts wars,” Celia said.
Laura folded her arms. “It’s not theology. It’s common sense. Ladies first. Always.”
“Always?” Celia said. “Even if he’s turning blue?”
“If he’s turning blue, he should’ve gone earlier,” Laura said.
Jake poured himself coffee from the carafe. “Jesus Christ, it’s like listening to Congress hold hearings on gravity.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Laura said again.
He ignored that and turned to Nerdly. “You’ve got, what, eight bathrooms in that big-ass house?”
“Correct,” Nerdly said.
“And now that Tif and GM moved out, how many people live there?”
“Four,” Sharon said.
Jake gestured with his mug. “So you’ve got twice as many bathrooms as people—not even factoring in that Aurora carries her bathroom around with her. That means that there is zero percent chance of all toilets in the fucking domicile being used simultaneously. Why doesn’t whoever gets to the door first use it and the other one walk forty-six feet to the next one?”
Nerdly looked thoughtful. “It’s actually eleven point two meters to the next closest restroom.”
Jake pointed at him. “Even better. Eleven point two meters. You can survive that walk.”
Nerdly turned to Sharon. “He’s right, you know.”
She frowned, then sighed. “Fine. Whoever gets there first. Logical. I still think ladies first is better, but fine.”
“Agreed,” Nerdly said. “We’ve reached consensus.”
Laura blinked. “That’s it? After all this?”
“We’re practical people,” Sharon said. “Once a solution presents itself, there’s no reason to continue hostilities.”
Celia was a little bit impressed, “If only the rest of us were that sensible.”
The Nerdlys looked at each other for a long beat, then both gave small, embarrassed smiles. “We were probably overreacting,” Sharon admitted.
Jake leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. “You think? We’re all under pressure and looking for things to fight about. It’s like emotional static—we need somewhere to dump the charge.”
He glanced between Laura and Celia, his tone softening. “I hear that can happen.”
Laura gave him a tired smile; Celia’s was smaller but real.
The room quieted. The smell of coffee and sugar filled the space. Outside, the faint thrum of another news helicopter passed somewhere over the hills.
For a moment, no one said anything at all. Just six people who loved each other in different ways, all caught in the same storm, realizing they were fighting ghosts.
The moment held—peace, or at least the illusion of it—until heavy, angry footsteps came down the hallway.
Jake sighed. “And that’ll be the next crisis arriving.”
Matt appeared in the doorway, wild-eyed and furious. “Freak Boy stole my fuckin’ burrito!”
Everyone froze.
Jake said, “Morning, Matt.”
“Don’t ‘morning Matt’ me, motherfucker!” Matt barked. “Charlie took it. I know he did. I asked him straight up, and he denied it, and I had to walk away before I murdered him. So I’m lodging a fuckin’ complaint with management.”
“What makes you think Charlie ate your burrito?” Jake asked.
“Because he’s fuckin’ Freak Boy!” Matt declared. “He sticks his tongue up other dude’s asses. And he’s in the dick-smoker phase of his fuckin’ cycle right now. Who else would it be?”
Laura frowned. “Charlie’s vegetarian, Matt. You know that.”
“What?” Matt asked.
“In both personas—Dick Smoker Charlie and Clambake Charlie—he’s afraid of tapeworms, remember?” Laura continued. “And he’s a germaphobe. He’d die before he ate leftover meat that someone else’s mouth had been on. You know that shit.”
Matt stopped cold, thinking it through. “Tapeworms,” he said softly, as if that was the key to everything. “Right. Shit. You’re right. It wasn’t him.” His head came up, eyes narrowing again. “Which means it was one of you.”
Celia blinked. “Us?”
“Yeah, one of you fuckers,” Matt said. “Or maybe those assholes from National!” He snapped his finger. “That’s gotta be it. One of them motherfuckers went into that fridge and ate my Friday burrito. Carne asada, extra cheese, perfect ratio of meat to rice, wrapped in foil, labeled MATT—DO NOT EAT. That’s a legal warning! And now it’s gone. You don’t just erase a burrito like that. This is targeted.”
Owen tried, gently, “Maybe someone threw it out by mistake?”
Matt glared at him. “And maybe the moon landing was filmed on a fuckin’ soundstage! Don’t you see what’s happening here? It’s a pattern. First the Chronicle drops that story, then the vultures camp outside the gate, and now my lunch disappears. That’s not random chance—that’s fuckin’ coordination. Psychological ops. They start small. Burrito today, career tomorrow.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oy vey.”
“Don’t dismiss this shit,” Matt said, pacing now. “This is how they do it—death by a thousand missing lunches. They pick off morale one fuckin’ communal refrigerator leftover at a time. They want us distracted, arguing about stupid shit while they rewrite the narrative.”
Celia laughed. “So now the Watcher’s hiring food thieves?”
“Not the Watcher!” Matt said, stabbing a finger at her. “That’s small time shit compared to National fucking Records. You’ve got two of their fuckin’ moles playing for you right now, C! Your so-called rhythm section—planted here pretending to be normal musicians. Coop’s probably in on it too. He provided the intel that the fuckin’ burrito was there in the first place! I can feel it. It’s a network. Probably using the fridge as a dead drop. One guy steals my burrito, another replaces it with something else. That’s how it starts.”
Nerdly watched him with scientific fascination. “A classic conspiratorial positive feedback cascade. Intriguing.”
Jake put his cup down. “Enough, Matt.”
Matt ignored him. “I’m not crazy, Jake! They want me to look crazy. Flat-earth the shit out of me, say I’m paranoid. Meanwhile they’re tracking my every fuckin’ move! It’s a system!”
“Matt,” Jake said again, voice rising, “it’s lunch.”
“It’s principle!” Matt shouted. “You let them steal one burrito, they’ll take the whole goddamn refrigerator. That’s how tyranny begins! Ask the fuckin’ Romans that shit! How’d it work out for their asses?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Celia said.
Jake came to a sudden decision. He pushed back his chair and stood. “That’s it. We’re not working today. We’re not working this fucking week. I am declaring involuntary vacation on every motherfucker in this building!”
The room went silent.
Owen blinked. “Wait—what?”
“You heard me,” Jake said. “We’re turning it off, shutting it down, going the fuck home. We’re fried. We’re fighting about toilets and burritos. That means we’re done. One week. No rehearsals, no press, no anything.”
Celia exhaled. Laura gave a tired laugh. Sharon saluted him with her mug. Nerdly nodded gravely, as if the motion had passed by unanimous vote.
Matt, still vibrating, stared at him. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” Jake said. “Go home, Matt. Get some rest. Buy another burrito.”
“But we’re only three weeks out from the TSF. We need to keep rehearsing.”
“We’ve got it down, Matt,” Jake said. “All we’re doing is fine-tuning and letting the tech guys and the camera crew practice. Our mental health is more important than another five sessions of rehearsal.”
Matt’s shoulders sagged, the fury leaking out. “Fine. But when we come back, I want locks on that fuckin’ fridge. Combination locks. Laser sensors if we can get them.”
“I’ll look into it,” Jake said.
That cracked the tension; laughter rippled through the room.
Jake pointed toward the hallway. “Go. All of you. Sleep, eat, breathe. We reconvene when we remember how to play nicely together.”
The next morning, the house was in departure mode.
Caydee was at school. Cap was playing on the floor with Yami instead of climbing to the very top of the highest feasible (or sometimes infeasible) location he could get to. Westin had gone back to his quarters after breakfast. Sean was in his element—cleaning, folding, straightening, and fussing over everyone like the world’s most competent mother hen.
He stood by the laundry room door with a bundle of freshly folded towels and watched as Jake, Laura, and Celia rolled their suitcases toward the foyer.
“Did you pack the warm socks?” he asked Laura. “Not those fancy ones that look warm but aren’t.”
“I packed the appropriate socks,” she said.
“Thermal?”
“Yes, Sean.”
“And gloves?”
“I have gloves.”
He shifted his gaze to Celia. “You’ve got yours, C?”
“They’re in the bag.”
He frowned. “The real ones? Not those cute little driving gloves that cost more than my car?”
“They’re real,” she promised.
“Good. Because frostbite isn’t sexy.”
Jake zipped up his sweater and reached for his overnight bag. “You, Yami, and Westin are in command of the house while we’re gone. Any last-minute concerns?”
Sean drew in a breath, projecting calm authority. “None,” he said. “Laundry’s almost done, pantry’s stocked, pool’s skimmed. You just worry about not freezing your ass off in Idaho.” He paused, then added, “We’ve run this place plenty of times when you’ve been gone, but this is the first week we’ve done it with the kids still here. Yami’s got them covered—with reinforcements if she needs them. Westin’s on meals, and I’ll keep the rest of it from collapsing into chaos.”
Jake smiled. “That’s why I’m not worried. You three are ready for the big time.”
Sean gave a short nod, still trying to look casual. “Damn right we are.”
Jake slung the bag over his shoulder. “Then we’ll manage,” he said. “And so will you.”
Sean gave a nod. “You got your flight maps? Extra blankets? Emergency kit? Snacks?”
Jake smiled. “Sean, it’s a trip to the Idaho panhandle, not a cross-continental haul across Antarctica.”
“Mountains are mountains,” Sean said. “And March is March. You take the damn blankets.”
“There are blankets, as well as food, in the emergency pack in the tail,” Jake said. “In the unlikely event of our survival during a mountain crash, we’ll know where to find them.”
“Assuming the tail is not ripped free and we have to feed off of each other’s dead bodies to survive,” Laura added.
“Assuming that,” Jake agreed.
Sean shook his head like a disappointed parent.
They weren’t just staying away from the studio for a week. They were bailing on everything and heading to Schweitzer—that little island of peace and tranquility where they could ski and drink and fuck and be reasonably ignored in these troubled times.
Because it wasn’t just the Campus and music they needed a break from—it was the whole circus. The phones, the tabloids, the theories, the cameras. All of it. They needed to remember what peace and relative quiet felt like.
And so, shortly after arriving home the day before—less than an hour after declaring that everyone was on vacation—Jake had called Stephen Williams, an old acquaintance he had originally met through Greg Oldfellow. A real estate tycoon, and one of Schweitzer Mountain’s owners. Stephen had listened to Jake’s request for a party of five adults, including two newbies to skiing, and the arrangements had been made in less than an hour.
It was the same deal they’d had for almost nine years: Schweitzer comped everything—lodging, meals, lift passes, gear, the works—in exchange for a few tasteful photographs of Jake and company enjoying themselves on the slopes and the right to use those shots for publicity. The resort called it marketing. Jake called it free shit.
Stephen had reserved the full corner suite for Jake, Celia, and Laura, and another for Owen and Tif, who Jake had invited along just for the fuck of it. The studio runner and Celia’s backup singer needed a break too. It had been a hell of a year for them so far.
Owen was nervous—he’d confessed that the thought of deliberately launching himself down a slope on a couple pieces of lumber scared the hell out of him—but Jake had told him Stephen would set him up with a private instructor, gear, lessons, everything. And if he hated it, there were snowmobiles and a fleet of dirt bikes waiting on the back side of the mountain.
Tif was delighted. She thrived on movement and adventure. She was treating the trip like her first Disneyland vacation. “Anywhere new is the right place,” she’d said, glowing with excitement.
For all of them, Schweitzer sounded like heaven. A week away from headlines, away from the endless noise. Just snow, silence, and each other.
That was the plan anyway.
They said their goodbyes in the entertainment room. Yami held Cap on her hip, the boy waving a plastic truck and babbling happily.
“Be good,” Jake told him, kissing his head.
“Fuk-A,” Cap said, his version of ‘fuckin’ A’.
“See?” Celia said. “He’s already your clone.”
Laura hugged Yami. “Thanks again. We’ll call when we land.”
“Go,” Yami said. “Relax. You all need it. You’ve been doing nothing but bark at each other for a week now.”
They walked through the kitchen, sunlight spilling across the countertops, the last traces of breakfast still faint in the air. Out through the access door to the garage they went. Jake hit the button by the interior door, and the garage filled with light as the big door rumbled upward.
They rolled their travel bags to the back of the Navigator, lifting and sliding them into place—Jake’s battered duffel, Laura’s compact roller, Celia’s sleek black case. When the last latch clicked shut, Jake dropped the liftgate, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine.
Yami and Cap stood in the doorway as they backed out. Cap waved his truck. Yami smiled and called something they couldn’t quite hear over the hum of the motor. Jake lifted a hand in reply and eased the SUV down the long drive toward the gate.
It was an easy run to San Luis Obispo Regional, as long as they didn’t have to stop along the way. They passed the Johansen Spot—now a small circus of vans full of pap clustered in the parking area. A few of the vehicles peeled off and fell in behind the Navigator, keeping a careful distance as they rolled down the highway. They stayed right behind them all the way onto the airport grounds themselves before being left behind at the entrance to the general aviation area. Jake had an access card. They did not.
Owen’s pickup was already in the lot when they pulled in. He and Tif were waiting beside it, bundled up against the chill, a small pile of luggage stacked neatly at their feet.
Jake rolled down the window. “Throw your bags in back and climb in.”
They did, exchanging quick greetings as they slid into the Navigator.
“Morning, Jake,” Owen said.
“Morning. Ready for snow?”
“Ready’s not the word,” Owen said nervously.
Tif grinned. “We are so ready.”
Jake smiled and drove the short access road to the private hangars. He parked beside the big steel door and everyone climbed out, pulling bags and stacking them in a neat line near the entrance.
Jake put his key in the lock and twisted the handle. He pushed the big door open. Inside, the Avanti waited—sleek and spotless, plugged into the shore line, the electric tug already clipped to the nose gear. The plane gleamed under the hangar lights, the red stripe along the fuselage catching every reflection.
Laura smiled. “She’s still beautiful.”
Jake nodded. “She always is when we’re getting out of town.”
After releasing the brakes on the aircraft, Jake grabbed the tug’s control handle, thumbed the power toggle, and felt the electric motor hum beneath his hand. The small machine began to move, the Avanti rolling backward with it, smooth and obedient on the concrete. He walked with the tug, both hands on the bar, watching the nose gear pivot as the aircraft cleared the hangar.
When the tail was just outside the door, he stopped the unit, straightened the nosewheel, and gave the tug a short forward pulse to square it off.
He pushed the tug back into its corner stall. One last check that the charging line was connected—green light steady—then he hit the hangar’s main switch and watched the overhead fluorescents wink out in sections. The big steel door was pulled closed, sealing the space behind him with a heavy clunk.
He walked back to the plane and unlocked the cabin door, swinging it open until it latched. The faint mix of leather and cleaning solvent drifted out. He crouched to open the cargo hatch in the nose, revealing the compact scale mounted to the side rail. Two fold-out arms extended from it for weighing bags. A notepad and pencil were clipped next to it.
“All right,” he said. “Bags up.”
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