Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 25: A Tale of Two Stashboxes
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 25: A Tale of Two Stashboxes - 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
Reno–Tahoe International Airport
Monday, March 7, 2005
The wind hit Celia the second the GA terminal’s sliding door hissed shut behind them—sharp, icy, pissed-off wind that knifed right through her coat and made the cigarette in her fingers burn sideways. Welcome to Reno. Even dressed for the Idaho panhandle—beanies, gloves, layers—the three of them still looked like underprepared Arctic explorers trudging across the wide concrete no-man’s-land between the private aviation side and the commercial terminal.
Celia walked fast. Faster than necessary. Faster than Tif’s little roller bag could keep up with. The adrenaline was still skittering around inside her like a feral raccoon with a Red Bull addiction, and the only thing keeping her sane was the promise of a bar on the far side of this frostbitten hellscape. And after that? A triple Chivas on the rocks. Not a double. A triple. She’d almost died again today. She’d earned it.
The cigarette helped. Kind of. She’d used her charms and bummed an entire pack of Marlboros and a disposable lighter from one of the aircraft mechanics. And she didn’t even have to show her boobs to him, just her fake smile while she posed for a picture with him. She took another drag, exhaled a stream of smoke that the wind immediately snatched away, and muttered under her breath, “Fucking airplanes.”
Not Jake. Not Laura. Not the Avanti. Just airplanes. Airplanes in general had it out for her.
Behind her, suitcase wheels clattered and thumped over pavement cracks. Tif was chattering about something—Celia caught snippets of “oh my god the wind!” and “my hair is like frozen cotton candy!”—and Owen sounded like he was dying quietly inside every time his bag flipped onto its side.
They’d left Jake and Laura back in the GA terminal. FAA debrief. Incident reports. Paperwork. Pilot shit. Celia wanted no part of it—not today, not after depressurization alarms and oxygen masks and feeling her stomach rise into her throat as Jake brought them from thirty-three thousand to ten thousand at six thousand feet a minute.
Her heart still hadn’t slowed all the way back to normal. She kept telling herself it was fine. They’d made it down. Nobody passed out. Nobody died.
Good job, Rev.
But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. Every few steps, a little flash of panic flickered up her spine, fast and hot: That was the second time I almost died in a fucking airplane. First the bird strike in Portland years ago. Flaps stuck. Emergency landing. Now this.
She walked faster.
“Hey!” Tif called over the wind. “C! You’re, like, on a mission!”
“I am on a mission,” Celia snapped. “A mission to find a bar before my brain crawls out of my skull.”
Tif hurried to catch up, the tassel atop her beanie bouncing. “It’s not that far!”
“It’s far enough,” Celia said. “And it’s cold. And we almost died. Again. So yes, I’m walking with fucking attitude.”
Owen grunted as his roller bag flipped for the fourth time. “Why is the sidewalk angled like this?”
“Because Reno hates us,” Celia said.
They trudged another twenty yards before Celia spoke again. She didn’t slow down. Didn’t look over. Just delivered the decree like a general reading orders off a clipboard.
“Okay. Here’s how it’s gonna go. Once we get to the terminal, I’m buying you two a drink and then I’m booking a charter to fly you back to SLO.”
Both of them stopped.
Celia didn’t. She got three whole steps ahead before she realized the sound of rolling luggage had vanished behind her. She turned, cigarette between her fingers, brows dragging downward in irritation.
Tif and Owen stood there in the wind, looking ... confused.
Tif tilted her head. “Wait. You’re sending us home?”
“Yes,” Celia said, as if explaining gravity to toddlers. “Obviously.”
Owen blinked. His cheeks were windburned. His hair looked like it had tried to escape his scalp. “So ... we don’t get our vacation?”
Celia stared at them. “Vacation? You almost died.”
Tif lifted a mittened hand. “But we didn’t die.”
“And it was kinda awesome,” Owen said—then immediately corrected himself. “Terrifying. But awesome. Exhilarating!”
“Yeah!” Tif said. “Like, we were gonna go skiing, and then we had the almost-plane-crash thing, and now we’re ... wherever we’re going next! That’s still a trip!”
Celia squinted at them. Hard. The wind blew smoke into her face; she didn’t even blink.
Tif pressed on. “I mean ... we want to keep going. If that’s okay. Wherever you and Jake and Laura are going next.”
Owen nodded. “Yeah. If you’ll have us. We’ll pay for the tickets. Coach is totally fine.”
Celia recoiled. Not dramatically. Just enough that her entire body said What the actual fuck? She shook her head, muttered something in Spanish that was definitely not kind, and took another drag off her cigarette.
“You two...” she said finally. “You actually want to keep tagging along after what just happened?”
They nodded. Earnest. Eager. Insane.
Celia stared at them for a long beat. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just ... stunned.
These two weirdos. These two absolute lunatics. They wanted to stay. They wanted the chaos. They wanted the adventure. They weren’t running. Not from her. Not from Jake. Not from the skies trying to kill them.
She flicked ash sideways into the wind, blew out a breath, and jerked her head toward the terminal.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re in. But I’m not letting you pay for the tickets. Even coach is likely to be five hundred dollars apiece for last minute. We’re taking the next flight. Wherever the hell it’s going. Florida, Timbuktu, whatever. We’re buying five first-class seats and getting the fuck out of Nevada.”
She stubbed out the cigarette on a concrete pillar as they reached the terminal doors.
“And then,” she added, pulling the door open and waving them through, “I am having the biggest Chivas this state has ever seen.”
They stepped into the warmer air of the terminal, the bright glow of pre-security eateries and bars ahead of them like a promise.
Celia exhaled, shoulders dropping half an inch.
“Welcome to vacation, bitches,” she muttered.
And led them straight toward the giant departures board.
The thing loomed overhead like an old-fashioned scoreboard—blocky digital text in LED green and orange, columns shifting every few seconds. In 2005, it was the closest thing they had to an oracle.
Celia planted her feet, hands on her hips, the adrenaline still fizzing under her skin like static.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s see where the universe is sending our asses.”
SEATTLE – 2:12 PM – Alaska/Horizon – ON TIME
Celia made a noise low in her throat. “Cold, wet, miserable, and leaves in ninety minutes. Hard fucking no.”
Tif nodded seriously, as though she personally controlled the weather in Seattle.
CHICAGO O’HARE – 3:06 PM – United – DELAYED
Celia snorted. “Chi-Town in March? If I wanted to roll the dice on a flight vanishing into blizzard hell, I’d just stand outside and pray for lightning.”
LOS ANGELES – 3:40 PM – American – ON TIME
“No,” Celia said immediately. “Too close to home. Too many cameras. Too many people who know Jake’s face.”
She threw the board a glare full of personal betrayal.
PHOENIX – 3:52 PM – America West – ON TIME
Tif perked up. “Phoenix is warm!”
“Phoenix is also America West,” Celia said. “I survived one scary-ass flight today; I’m not testing my luck with Discount Anxiety Airlines.”
DENVER – 4:02 PM – United – ON TIME
Celia laughed. Loud enough that passing travelers glanced over.
“You know what I don’t want today? A tour of the fucking Rockies at turbulence levels set to ‘trauma sequel.’”
LAS VEGAS – 4:05 PM – Southwest – ON TIME
She didn’t even need to say it.
She just sneered. “Too close to home. Too much pap infrastructure.”
Then her eyes hit the next line.
DALLAS/FORT WORTH – 4:07 PM – American – ON TIME
Celia stopped cold.
Warm. Far. No mountains. No paps. A four-hour window—perfect for Jake and Laura to finish FAA crap and find them. A huge airport where no one would blink twice at Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez-Kingsley wandering through in winter beanies.
She slapped a hand on her thigh.
“Dallas,” she declared. “That one’ll do.”
Tif’s face lit up like Christmas. “Dallas is soooo bitchin! We were there for Jake’s Millennial Tour.” She frowned a little. “What year was that?”
Owen looked at her for a moment, thought about saying something, and then wisely chose not to. He was good at that when it came to his beloved. “Dallas is ... warm, right?”
“It’s Texas,” Celia said. “Even the shade’s warm.”
Decision made, she spun on her heel.
“Come on. We’re buying five first-class seats before someone else gets the bright idea to flee to Dallas today.”
She marched them straight to the American Airlines counter. The agent—a tired-looking man in his late forties with a mustache that had definitely survived multiple management regimes—looked up as they approached. His nametag read TOM, and he gave them a polite professional smile.
Then he squinted.
“Excuse me ... are you ... Celia Valdez? The singer?”
Celia didn’t sigh—she just let her soul sag half an inch. “That’s me. Unfortunately.”
Tif grinned like she’d arranged the moment herself.
Tom blinked rapidly, trying to stay professional. “Wow. Uh ... well ... how’s your day going?”
Celia planted both hands on the counter. “My friend, I would rather be having a colonoscopy with no anesthesia than living this day, but I wasn’t given a choice in the matter, so here we are.”
Tom made a sympathetic sound normally reserved for hospice workers. Owen nodded, the windburn on his face a silent testimony.
Celia leaned in. “Are there five first-class seats on the four-oh-seven to Dallas? Tell me yes.”
Tom perked right up—finally, a solvable problem. He pulled his bifocals up his nose and tapped at the clacking keyboard with the precision of a man who had spent his entire adult life doing this exact thing.
“Checking availability...” Click. Click. He peered at the green-on-black screen. “Yes, ma’am. Five seats available in first class.”
Celia nodded once, sharp and final. “Book it.”
Tom hesitated. “Would you—ah—like to hear the price first? They’re ... expensive. And there are ten seats still available in coach if you and your party would rather—”
“No coach,” Celia cut in. “Fuck that shit. Not today. Not ever. Lay it on me.”
Tom swallowed. Typed. Winced.
“Today’s first-class fare from Reno to DFW is one thousand four hundred seventy-five dollars per passenger.”
Celia didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just slapped the KVA corporate credit card on the counter like she was throwing down a royal flush.
“Book it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I just need the names and dates of birth for all passengers.”
Tif stepped forward. “Tif—Tiffany Moreland.” She had to think for a moment and then rattled off her date of birth.
“Owen Olson,” Owen added, deadpan, like he was afraid giving his name incorrectly might cause the universe to smite him. He told her his date of birth—just a hair over twenty years in the past.
Celia went next. “Celia Valdez-Kingsley. January 15, 1962.”
Tom typed. “And the other two?”
“Jake Kingsley,” she said. “Date of birth March 7, 1960.”
Click. Click.
“And Laura Kingsley. April 11, 1965.”
Tom typed each in with the reverence of someone entering sacred Scripture.
“All right,” he said at last. “Total comes to seven thousand three hundred seventy-five dollars.”
Celia nodded once—unmoved, unimpressed, unbothered.
He ran the card. It approved instantly.
The printer screeched out five fresh boarding passes, which Tom stacked and slid across the counter like an offering to a minor and unpredictable deity.
“Boarding at 3:25 through Gate B16, Mrs. Valdez-Kingsley. Have a wonderful—uh—rest of your day.”
Celia stuffed the boarding passes into her coat pocket. “Thanks, Tom. I hope someone buys you a drink tonight. You’ve earned it.”
She turned to her two disaster sidekicks.
“Okay,” she said. “We bought our escape from Nevada. Now we drink.”
And with that, she marched them toward a bar called The Insecure Side, already tasting the Chivas she intended to abuse.
Rick Dobson sat across from Jake and Laura in an office in the GA terminal. He had a clipboard, a pen, and the calm professionalism of someone built in a government lab for this exact job.
Jake sat straight in the chair, hands folded loosely in his lap. Laura sat beside him, legs crossed, posture relaxed but alert.
Dobson clicked his pen. “All right, Mr. Kingsley. Let’s go over your flight hours and qualifications for the record.”
Jake nodded. “As you can see from my logbook there, 3654 hours total with 2412 in the ‘incident aircraft’, as you keep calling it. I’m IFR rated. Pressurized-aircraft rated. Multi-engine rated. Type-rated in the Avanti. I’m current on the insurance-required recurrent training as of four months ago.”
Dobson raised his eyebrows slightly. “Four months. Good. And you were current on all required currency items?”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Night landings. Instrument approaches. Holding patterns. All of it current.”
Dobson nodded, jotting. “Now, you mentioned earlier you’d seen this scenario before in training?”
Jake leaned back an inch. “Yeah. Four months ago at SIMCOM in Orlando. This exact setup—pressurization loss at cruise. Alarms, needles climbing, the whole works.”
Laura shot him a brief glance. Jake could feel the tension behind her eyes—the what-ifs still running their loops. She remembered the trip to Florida for Jake’s training. They had taken the kids with them and gone to Disneyworld. They had to leave after only an hour because they kept getting swarmed.
Jake kept his voice steady. “We practiced it the way they teach it now. O₂ first. Always O₂ first. They’ve drilled that into every pilot alive since Payne Stewart.”
Dobson’s pen paused. Then he nodded, slow and approving. “Good. Yes. That incident changed the entire culture.”
Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’ll be honest—before that? I might’ve tried to troubleshoot first. Looked for the source of the pressure drop, checked the environmental panel. Dumb instinct. But Payne’s pilots? By doing that very thing, they taught the rest of us the hard way. I didn’t hesitate once faced with the problem. The masks were the first things that happened. Mine and Laura’s.”
Dobson gave him a rare, genuine smile. “The system works, then.”
Jake shrugged. “It did today.”
Dobson shifted his focus. “Now. Mrs. Kingsley.”
Laura straightened. “Yes?”
“I’ll need your qualifications as well.”
Jake jumped in. “She’s VFR rated. Single-engine only.”
Dobson’s eyes flicked up. “You referred to her earlier as your ‘right seater.’ Can you clarify what that means in actual operational terms?”
Jake’s tone slipped into the casual, matter-of-fact cadence pilots used when they needed a little white lie to sound like the God’s truth.
“She sits right seat to help with checklists and radios,” he said. “She doesn’t fly the Avanti. Never has. I’m the only qualified pilot onboard.”
He didn’t blink. Neither did Laura.
Dobson nodded, writing again. “Perfectly legal. I wish more pilots would take advantage of another trained set of eyes and skills in the cockpit. Good resource management.”
Laura smiled politely. “Glad I could help.”
Dobson flipped a page. “All right. Next item: how much sleep did you get before the flight?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Seven hours. Both of us.”
“Alcohol within twelve hours of takeoff?”
“Just a drink before bed,” Jake said. “Around ten.” He did not mention the two pipe hits of marijuana in the hot tub just prior to that. After all, there probably wasn’t a check box on Dobson’s form for Purple Tokalicious. No sense confusing the matter.
Dobson made another notation. “Any illness? Cold symptoms? Dizziness before flight? Prescription medications? Over the counter medications?”
“No,” Jake said. “Healthy.”
Laura echoed, “Same.”
Dobson seemed satisfied. He recapped his pen.
While the silence settled, Jake felt the faint buzz of his phone in his back pocket—just a short pulse. A text message. There was only one person who texted with that kind of blunt punctuation: Celia.
He ignored it for now.
They then went over the entire flight in detail. It took almost as long as the actual flight. They started with how long it had been since Jake had last flown the aircraft and ended with shutting down the engines in the maintenance area. They hovered for a particularly long time at the preflight checklist, the climb-out, and when he first noticed something unusual. There was no need for little white lies here. Everything had been by the book and routine and legal.
Dobson closed the clipboard. “All right. That should cover my part for today. The mechanics will give me their findings once they’ve opened up the bleed air system and taken a look at the pressure-control valves. That is most likely going to be your culprit since there is no sign of external damage or broken seals in the main door or the cargo door.”
“Thank god,” Jake said. He’d experienced a few terrible minutes during the flight to Reno after the emergency descent wondering if he had improperly latched the door to the cargo hold, which was part of the pressure vessel itself. Inspection upon landing had shown it still properly sealed, latched, and presumably airtight.
Whatever the actual cause, it hadn’t been from Jake skipping steps on the preflight checks. That was why he still had the same amount of landings as he had takeoffs in the log.
“Once I have that information,” Dobson said, “I’ll finalize the incident report.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card. “This is your report number. You’ll want to call your insurance carrier immediately and give this to them. They’ll want to send someone to look at the aircraft as well.”
Jake took the card. “Thanks.”
Laura smiled. “Appreciate your time.”
“I’m glad it ended the way it did,” Dobson said, rising. “Quick thinking, good execution. Everyone walked away. That’s the goal.”
He offered his hand; Jake shook it. Then Dobson disappeared through the door, leaving the two of them alone in the small, fluorescent-lit office.
Jake stood, finally pulling the phone from his pocket. One message. From Celia. It was a long message without shortened words. Celia’s phone had a full keyboard. She loved bragging about that.
The message read: We’re booked for DFW at 4:07. In the pre-checkpoint bar. The Insecure Side.
He texted back, thumb stabbing at the number keypad, one letter per tap:
OTW
Laura grabbed her coat. “C?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “She booked us to Dallas. They’re waiting in the bar.”
Laura’s shoulders relaxed—not relief exactly, but momentum.
“Then let’s go find them,” she said. “I could use a drink about now.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Jake agreed. “And, since I’m not going to be flying anything in the next few hours, I can indulge.”
The two of them had barely stepped outside the GA terminal before the cold slapped them again—sharp, dry, and unfriendly. Not as vicious as the chill at thirty-three thousand feet with failing pressurization, but close enough to be personally insulting. They put their heads down and made the walk across the concrete stretch toward the passenger terminal as they pushed through it.
It wasn’t long before the warm wash of the commercial building swallowed them up, and with it came the distant hum of crowds, rolling luggage, and the comforting scent of airport food trying its best to smell like food.
Jake spotted The Insecure Side immediately—a dimmed lounge tucked beside the escalators, half-lit in neon and full of people who looked exactly like what the name implied. He led Laura toward it.
Inside, the lighting was dark enough to hide sins but bright enough to spot the three members of their traveling circus.
Celia had claimed a six-person table like it was territory. She was slouched back against the leather, a glass of straight whiskey on the rocks sweating in front of her. She was halfway through it, which meant she was at the stage where Celia Valdez-Kingsley became louder but not yet softer.
Owen had an IPA he was holding with both hands like it was church. Tif was sipping a violently green appletini that looked like it might be radioactive.
Celia spotted them the instant they stepped in.
“There they are,” she declared, loud enough that two businessmen at the bar jumped. “The pilots. The ones who kept us alive. Barely.”
Jake slid into the booth beside her and gave her a hug and a kiss. She tasted of cigarettes. Laura did the same (wrinkling her nose at the cigarette taste) and then took the seat across from Tif.
Celia jabbed a finger at her whiskey, then at Jake. “I almost died. Again. Second time in my life. I’d like that on the record.”
Jake let out a breath through his nose. “You didn’t almost die. Not this time and not the time before when that fuckin’ goose got in our way.”
Celia smacked the table. “Bullshit.”
Jake leaned back, settling into the booth, letting the warmth of the bar seep into his bones. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him tired but clear enough to put the pieces together.
“No, really,” he said. “We weren’t in any real danger.”
Celia stared at him like he had just personally insulted every molecule of her trauma. “There were alarms, Jake.”
“Yes,” he said. “And masks. And a controlled descent. That’s the point. That’s what keeps it from becoming dangerous.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I felt my soul leave my body.”
Jake suppressed a smile. “Your soul’s dramatic.”
Laura hid a grin behind her water glass.
Jake continued, going into pilot mode because it was the only way to make sense of everything—for him and for her.
“Look ... what happened wasn’t an explosive depressurization. If a door blew, or a panel cracked, or a seal tore? Totally different story. But that’s not what this was.”
“It felt like what it was,” Celia muttered.
“It was a bleed-air loss,” Jake said. “Most likely one of the valves quit or the controller failed. Pressure just wasn’t being pumped in—it wasn’t being sucked out. Big difference.”
Celia’s eyes narrowed but she didn’t interrupt.
Jake went on. “We masked up at just over ten thousand feet cabin altitude. That’s still perfectly breathable air. Masks weren’t strictly necessary yet—we put them on early because that’s the protocol.”
Owen blinked. “So ... like ... we weren’t seconds from passing out?”
“Not even close,” Jake said. “Useful consciousness at the altitude we were at with the rate of climb it was showing? Probably five minutes. Maybe longer. We had time. Even if I hadn’t put the mask on right away and tried to troubleshoot instead, I would not have failed to notice that we really were experiencing pressure loss and not an instrumentation problem or something easily fixable. I would have put on the mask at that point—while I was still usefully conscious, at least as much as I ever am these days. We did the right thing early. But even if we hadn’t, it would have worked out the same.”
Laura smiled at him over the table, warm and quiet. “So ... not very close to death at all?”
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
Celia huffed, leaned back, and took a hard swallow of her whiskey.
“Look,” she said, waving her glass. “I don’t care how much pilot math you throw at me. It was closer to death than we were before whatever goddamn do-dad that failed busted its fucking nut at the wrong time. Therefore: we almost fucking died.”
“You sound a little like Matt when you’re scared, love,” Laura told her, amazed.
“Those are not fucking words to soothe me, Teach,” Celia barked at her.
Jake lifted one shoulder. “I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.”
“That’s right,” Celia snapped, pointing at him with the ice cube she’d been chewing. “And my perspective is fucking valid.”
Jake laughed—just a soft exhale, but it felt good. It felt grounding.
The server arrived. “What can I get you?”
Jake didn’t even look at the menu.
“Double Macallan on the rocks,” he said.
“Same,” Laura said wearily.
The server returned only a few minutes later carrying their drinks on a round tray—Macallans for Jake and Laura, sweating slightly in the dim light. He set them down gently, like he understood that these particular glasses were doing emotional work.
He smiled—warm, polite, not starstruck but definitely aware of exactly who he was serving. He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, tall and lean, with tidy braids pulled back and glasses that were ever so slightly too big for his face. A little geeky. Bigg G would’ve shaken his head sadly and whispered, “A black dude without soul ... tragic.”
Jake kind of liked him immediately.
“Can I get you folks any food?” the server asked. “Kitchen’s still open, and personally, I recommend eating something before flying. It keeps me employed, you see.”
Celia slapped her palm lightly on the table. “Yes. Almost dying made me hungry. I want chicken wings. The hot ones. Don’t bring ranch. I want blue cheese.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He made a quick note.
Jake realized his stomach had just growled loud enough to qualify as a minor earthquake. “I’ll get a turkey and bacon sandwich,” he said. “Fries on the side.”
Laura shook her head. “If I put food in my stomach right now, I’m going to ruin my buzz.”
Tif perked up, raising her neon-green martini. “What’s the Insecure Burger?”
The server’s face brightened. “House special. Menu says ‘World Famous,’ which is a lie, but it’s Reno famous, which is almost the same thing.”
“We’ll take two!” Tif declared, nudging Owen.
Owen nodded nervously, as if ordering the wrong thing might get him ejected from the state. “Yeah. Sounds great.”
Jake lifted his Macallan. “Does it have bacon?”
“It does,” the server said.
Jake closed his menu like a man throwing away a bad life choice. “Change mine to the Insecure Burger.”
“Good call,” the server said, writing it down. “Turkey sandwich would’ve brought shame to your ancestors compared to that.”
Jake smiled. “What’s your name, man?”
“Oh—uh, Marcus,” he said, straightening a bit. “Marcus Walker.”
“Nice to meet you, Marcus,” Laura said.
He smiled, pleased but not fawning. “Likewise. You folks ... you’re Jake and Laura Kingsley and Celia Valdez, right?”
“You got us,” Jake said.
Marcus nodded, but not in the frantic way some people did. More like he was checking a box on a mental list. “Cool. Didn’t want to assume. I get a lot of lookalikes through here. One time a dude swore he was Usher. He wasn’t.”
Celia barked a laugh.
Marcus lowered his voice a little, leaning in. “So ... what brings you to Reno? I haven’t heard about a concert. Vacation? Las Vegas too glitzy for you? Wrong turn on the freeway?”
Jake hesitated only a second. It was probably already hitting the wires by now—ATC audio leaked faster than classified intelligence and paparazzi didn’t sleep.
“We had a little in-flight emergency,” Jake said. “Pressurization issue. Had to divert here.”
Marcus’ eyes widened with genuine concern. “Damn. You all right?”
“We’re here drinking, aren’t we?” Celia asked, lifting her glass.
Marcus laughed softly. “Fair point. Still—glad you made it down okay. I got a cousin in the Air Force. He always says altitude don’t play.”
Jake nodded. “Your cousin’s a wise man.”
Marcus tucked his order pad into his apron. “I’ll get those wings and burgers going. You folks need anything else before I disappear?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “You’re doing great.”
Marcus gave a small salute—half-joking, half-sincere—and walked off toward the kitchen, weaving between tables like someone who genuinely enjoyed his job.
Marcus hadn’t even reached the kitchen doors before Jake lifted his Macallan and knocked back half of it in one go. Laura matched him, draining hers with a practiced tilt that would’ve impressed a frat boy.
Celia stared at both of them, eyes wide, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You two are lying to me.”
Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “About what?”