Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 26: Let Me Take You Down
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 26: Let Me Take You Down - 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
Dallas, Texas
March 9, 2005
The suite smelled like bacon, eggs, and expensive hotel coffee—comfort food delivered on silver trays by a room-service employee who looked like he’d been sworn into the Secret Service on arrival. The curtains were drawn tight. The Do Not Disturb sign was hung on the door like a charm against evil spirits.
Jake stood at the window anyway, peeking through a two-inch gap like a suburban dad checking for raccoons. He wasn’t looking for paps—they’d never find them this high up in downtown Dallas—but old habits ran deep. If someone said his name loud enough in a hotel lobby, he’d feel it in his spine.
Behind him, the TV blared.
Every channel was running the same recycled material: stock photos of Jake onstage holding a guitar, stock photos of Laura at some public event three years ago wearing a green dress, stock photos of Celia looking like she either owned a nightclub or had just seized control of a small nation, and the now-infamous pap footage from SLO Regional—the Avanti rolling past a chain-link fence while Jake and Laura sat in the cockpit wearing their headsets, barely visible behind the glare.
The chyron: KINGSLEY ‘FAMILY’ LEAVING ON THEIR FATEFUL FLIGHT!
Celia threw a grape at the screen. It bounced off and disappeared into the carpet.
“This is criminally fucking stupid,” she declared, stabbing a fork into scrambled eggs she clearly wasn’t going to eat. “They’re acting like we blew out the side of the fuselage and got sucked into the sky with our pants down.”
Laura poured herself more coffee. She looked tired but polished enough to pass for functional human adulthood, something neither Jake nor Celia attempted.
“They’re bored,” she said. “They’re filling airtime while the Weather Channel decides whether or not to ruin someone’s weekend. It’s what the news does.”
Tif and Owen emerged from the second bedroom wearing hotel bathrobes like they owned the place—or at least like they were extremely enthusiastic renters. Both were bright-eyed, energized, and very much in “we survived a plane thing and are now living our best lives” mode.
“Okay!” Tif announced. “We have two questions.” She held up two fingers dramatically. “One—what is the plan for today? And two—did you guys see the thing they’re saying about the FAA letting you off easy because you’re famous?”
Jake let the curtain fall shut. “I don’t know and yes,” he said wearily. “And if one more pundit says the phrase ‘celebrity favoritism,’ I’m gonna lose my shit.”
Owen nodded earnestly. “To be fair, they say that about everything you do.” He meant it supportively, somehow.
Celia barked a laugh. “He’s not wrong. They think Jake could sneeze without paying a tissue tax and it’s a conspiracy.”
Laura switched to another channel with the remote. Same story. New graphic.
This one read: WHY WASN’T KINGSLEY DRUG AND ALCOHOL TESTED?
The anchor went full solemn voice.
“We now know that no breathalyzer nor blood test was administered at Reno–Tahoe Airport following the near accident and emergency landing and that no blood was drawn. Critics argue that if this had been an American or United Airlines crew they would have been routinely tested on the spot.”
Jake groaned aloud. “I wasn’t flying an Airbus full of passengers. I was flying my family.”
Laura nodded. “Exactly.”
Celia jabbed her fork at the screen. “They’re acting like it was a commercial meltdown.”
Tif lifted a hand. “We were there too, just saying.”
Owen backed her up with a small shrug. “I was the one trying not to scream and throw up at the same time.”
Jake nodded. “Exactly. Five adults. No passengers. No commercial ops. No reason for a post-flight impairment test unless the FAA suspected something.”
Laura said, “Which they didn’t. Because nothing you did suggested impairment. Because you weren’t impaired.”
“Yeah,” Jake sighed. “Try getting that across to cable news.”
On TV, a guest pundit—some guy with hair that suggested low moral fiber—leaned forward dramatically.
“What we do know,” he said, “is that Jake Kingsley has a history of drug use dating back to his early days when it was reported he insufflated cocaine out of a young female fan’s buttocks.”
Celia snatched the remote and muted him with violent precision. “I don’t need to hear that man’s tone. Or see his stupid face. Or even breathe the same hotel air as his pixelated bullshit.”
Tif leaned forward. “So ... if the media knows you’re in Dallas ... do we need disguises to leave the hotel? Like hats? Wigs? Fake mustaches? I could totally rock a mustache.”
Owen nodded. “You really could.”
Laura gave a small, tired smile. “We’re not leaving the hotel.”
“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “We’re staying put until we figure this out. The sooner the better.”
Celia set her uneaten eggs aside and grabbed her coffee. “We’re safe here. We’re invisible. Nobody saw us check in. We’re here under our hotel names. Nobody took a picture. They’re guessing we’re hiding somewhere in town. But they don’t know where.”
“That’s so badass,” Tif whispered, eyes bright. “We’re basically ghosts.”
Owen nodded, dead serious. “Ghosts with room service.”
Tif grinned. “The best kind.”
Celia snorted. “If we’re ghosts, I want to be the kind that can throw furniture.”
Jake didn’t look up from his coffee. “You already are.”
Laura rubbed her face. “You two are dangerously chipper for people who saw the world get slightly dimmer inside an airplane yesterday.”
Tif shrugged. “We didn’t die.”
“Yeah,” Owen echoed. “And this is officially the biggest adventure of our lives.”
“Actually, going out on tour with Jake and Teach and Massa Wu and James and Lucky and especially Steph Zool was the biggest for me,” Tif corrected. “I totally got to have sex with Steph Zool lots of times.”
“Steph Zool?” Owen asked. “From Brainwash? You had sex with her?”
“She was Jake’s lead guitarist,” Tif said, as if that explained everything.
Celia stared at them both, amazed. “You two are—I don’t even know what you are.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Tif said.
Jake sat down at the dining table, grabbed a piece of toast, and looked at the muted TV. His own face stared back at him in a press photo from 1999, looking hungover but sexy enough for public consumption.
Below it, a new chyron crawled: KINGSLEY PARTY NEVER ARRIVED IN IDAHO — BOOKED SUITE EMPTY. REPORTED TO HAVE FLED TO DALLAS.
Laura joined him at the table. Soft voice. Pretty green eyes full of love and sympathy. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just tired.”
Celia flopped down into the seat across from them. “We’re fine. They can speculate. They can cry favoritism. They can try to figure out where we are. But they won’t.”
She raised her mug like a toast.
“We’re phantoms, bitches.”
Tif lifted her orange juice. “PHANTOMS, BITCHES!”
Owen clinked his mug against hers with such care it was almost reverent.
Jake exhaled—half laugh, half sigh.
Laura nudged his foot under the table. “We do need to figure out a next move though.”
Celia nodded, leaning back and letting her shoulders drop, just a little.
For the moment, they were hidden. Safe. Untouchable. And the world outside had no idea where they were going next.
Which, conveniently, meant they could go anywhere.
Jake pushed his chair back just far enough to stop pretending he was relaxed. His eyes flicked from the muted TV to the drawn curtains to the half-eaten breakfast like he was taking inventory of a situation he had already decided to reject.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We are absolutely not staying in Dallas.”
Celia looked up sharply. “Thank God.”
“We didn’t take a vacation just to hide in a fucking hotel room,” Jake continued. “I’m not burning one more hour of our too-long-since-we-had-one week staring at these goddamn walls.”
Laura didn’t even hesitate. “Agreed. One hundred percent. If I wanted to eat scrambled eggs under house arrest, I’d go visit my sister.”
Celia snorted into her coffee.
Owen, still in his robe and still radiating adventure, raised a tentative hand. “Uh ... solution? Because I’m willing to be ghost-adventure-man again, but I don’t understand the rules.”
“The solution,” Jake said, “is that we go somewhere else. Today. On a charter. Private. No manifests, no airline employees or passengers telling their cousin’s cousin on MySpace they saw us. Nobody knows where we land, nobody knows where we sleep tonight.”
Celia leaned forward, expression sharpening into approval. “So far so good.”
“But where?” Laura asked.
Silence settled for half a beat.
Owen brightened. “What about Key West? I’ve never been there.”
“Me neither,” Tif chimed in. “It sounds cute.”
Laura shook her head. “We can’t fly straight into Key West. The only reliable flights go into Miami. Then we rent a car and drive over that long-ass bridge. I’ve always wanted to do that drive.”
Jake sighed. “And every gas station, toll booth, and retiree with binoculars will see us. Key West is too small. Too exposed. One pap and we’re in a viral photo titled ‘ROCK GOD WASTING AWAY AGAIN.’”
Tif perked up again. “Okay. Then ... the French Riviera! I heard it’s nice this time of year. And you can totally go topless.”
Everyone stared at her.
“What?” she said. “I’m open-minded.”
Jake rubbed both hands down his face. “That’s an eight-hour flight. Which means commercial. Which means sitting next to three hundred people who’ll notice if the person next to them looks suspiciously like Jake Kingsley and/or Celia Valdez. Hard no.”
Tif deflated into her robe. “Okay. Just brainstorming.”
Celia tapped her nails against her coffee mug. “So ... where the hell do we go then?”
Jake opened his mouth—
—and his cell phone, lying on the dining table next to a packet of honey and his untouched toast, lit up and started buzzing.
Everyone froze.
Jake stared at the caller ID.
It read UNKNOWN CALLER
Jake stared at the screen like it was a snake uncoiling in his lap.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
Not a telemarketer. Not a scammer. Those people didn’t have his number. Nobody had his number except people he trusted—and those people would rather eat their phones than let it leak. His number had survived ten years of fame, three tours, and multiple scandals where the tabloids tried to crawl up his ass with a flashlight. Not once had anyone ferreted it out.
So seeing that on the Caller ID?
His pulse gave a sharp, unwelcome thump.
“Nope,” he said, and pushed the phone away like it was radioactive.
Celia raised an eyebrow. “You’re not answering that?”
Jake let out a breath. “If it’s Unknown, it’s not anyone I want to talk to. Nobody calls me anonymously. Nobody even can call me anonymously.”
Laura sat up straighter, catching the undertone immediately. “Did someone finally leak your number?”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” He stared at the still-lit phone. “If the media got it ... Jesus. That’s a door you can’t fucking close again.”
Owen blinked, suddenly serious. “Would they do that? Journalists? Just ... call you?”
“They’d publish it,” Jake said grimly. “And then every weirdo on the planet thinks it’s open season.”
Tif gasped, hands over her mouth. Having her phone become suddenly her worst enemy was terrifying to her mind. “Oh my god. What if it’s happening now?!”
Celia reached out, tapped Jake’s knuckles with two fingers. “Relax. They probably didn’t. Your number is like the damn Holy Grail. Keep cool.”
The phone stopped buzzing.
Everyone held their breath for the half-second that hung between possibilities.
Then—the voicemail icon appeared.
Jake’s stomach sank a fraction of an inch.
“That’s not good,” he muttered. “That’s not good at all. Please don’t let this be the fucking day the universe cashes in its chips.”
Laura gave him a steady look. “Play it. On speaker.”
He didn’t move at first. Just stared at the phone like he expected it to start smoking.
Then, slowly, he tapped the voicemail notification and hit speaker.
Matt’s voice blasted out instantly:
“Hey, brother, I’m sure you’re screening, so listen up. When I call back in two minutes, pick the motherfucker up. I got some shit to talk.”
It was unmistakably Matt—loud, profane, impatient, and clearly somewhere that served alcohol for breakfast.
Celia exhaled hard, relief loosening her shoulders. “Of course it’s Matt.”
“Thank fucking God,” Jake muttered.
Laura leaned closer. “Where is he? That doesn’t sound like Los Angeles.”
In the background, they had all heard it: Music. Laughter. Someone shouting about sunscreen. Another voice yelling something deeply questionable about tequila.
Jake frowned. “He’s ... somewhere warm. And loud. I was in too much of a goddamn rush yesterday to ask where he was going.”
Owen tilted his head. “I think I heard ... steel drums?”
Tif squinted. “That’s definitely a beach bar playlist. I know that vibe.”
Celia smirked. “So he’s drunk and on vacation. Nothing new.”
“Two minutes,” Laura murmured. “He’ll call back.”
Jake rubbed his eyes with both hands. “What the hell does he want now?”
Before anyone could answer, the phone lit up again.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
The exact same nameless, ominous label that had nearly given Jake a cardiac event five minutes ago.
Celia nudged him. “Go on. Your brother in chaos awaits.”
Jake sighed, squared his shoulders like a man about to accept a terrible quest, and picked up the phone.
“Matt,” he said, deadpan. “What’s going on?”
“Wassup, brother?” Matt said. “I knew you’d screen my ass when you saw whatever bullshit pops up on the fuckin’ caller ID.”
“You were right,” Jake said. “Where are you calling from?”
“My fuckin’ house in Cabo, homey,” Matt said. “Where else? Me, Coop, Kim, Janelle, and Jimbo caught a fuckin’ charter down last night. We’re just starting our first party—you know, local gash, local ganja, local food, the whole fuckin’ deal. And then we’re flipping through the fuckin’ channels on the satellite system and see your ass up on the screen. And not for the Watcher bullshit this time. They’re saying you were drunk and almost crashed your shit. That shit ain’t true, right? You’re the squarest motherfucker around when it comes to boozing before you fly. You don’t even burn up there.”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Something about flying while intoxicated just seems like a bad idea.”
“To each their fuckin’ own,” Matt said. Jake could almost hear the eye roll. “So, what’s the real deal? Everyone okay? Out of jail? All that shit? They’re saying you went to Dallas after the cops failed to arrest you because you’re a rich motherfucker and can influence the fuckin’ FAA.”
“Well, they did fail to arrest us,” Jake said. “Mostly because we didn’t do anything wrong. We’re in Dallas. Flew here from Reno. Never left Reno airport until we climbed on the next plane.”
“That’s some shit,” Matt said respectfully. “What the fuck happened, anyway?”
Jake explained about the climbing cabin altitude and the emergency descent and diversion to Reno. He said that the most likely culprit was some defective doohickey in the bleed air system just stopped pumping in fresh air to keep the cabin pressurized to eight thousand feet. Safe, easy ILS landing at Reno. Simple FAA investigation. Incident not accident. Press spinning something out of nothing.
“That’s some fucked up shit,” Matt said when the explanation was complete. “What’s the plan now? Staying in Dallas?”
“No, we’re busting out,” Jake said. “They know we’re in Dallas, just not where we’re staying. We were just talking about where to go from here.”
“Shit, that’s easy,” Matt said. “Why don’t you all come down here to Cabo?”
“Come down there?” Jake asked. That was a thought. Cabo was warm and tropical and beautiful. “Where would we stay? I’ve only stayed at your place way back when you first bought it and a hotel when we were bringing the Avanti home from Colombia. We’re under the fuckin’ microscope now. Will whatever hotel we check into be discreet with our names?”
“They would,” Matt said. “They’re just like Vegas. They don’t want to piss off the fuckin’ high rollers. But that shit don’t matter. Just stay here with us.”
“At your place?” Jake said slowly. He could hear the sounds of a party going on in the background.
“Fuck yeah!” Matt said enthusiastically. “There’s a whole fuckin’ wing that you and your old ladies and GM and his old lady can crash in. You won’t even hear what’s going on in the rest of the fuckin’ house. But if you do want to join in, it’s just a hallway and a trip through the kitchen away.”
“Hmmm,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “Give me a second, Matt.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said.
Jake lowered the phone and looked at his party of media refugees. “Anyone up for Cabo?”
Once everyone agreed to the madness of flying to Cabo and actually staying in Matt’s house—with Matt there—things moved quickly. Jake didn’t even need to formally take charge; the moment he stood up from the table, everyone fell into orbit around him like gravity.
Celia could’ve done this just as effectively—maybe even more aggressively—but Jake’s name carried weight, and in situations involving international travel, secrecy, and large sums of money, the smoother voice tended to win out.
He picked up the hotel phone, pressed zero, and waited. When the operator answered, his tone shifted instantly into that calm, efficient cadence he used when he needed something complicated to happen now.
“This is Glenn Sutter in the presidential suite,” he said. “I need to speak to the concierge, please.”
There was a tiny pause—then the Oh, Glenn Sutter is really Jake Kingsley pause—before the transfer clicked through.
“Good morning, Mr. Sutter,” came a polished, unflappable voice. “How may I assist you today?”
Jake mouthed the words professional assassin to Celia, who smirked into her coffee.
“I’m actually Jake Kingsley, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Jake said, “And I need a flight to Los Cabos, Mexico. Private charter. As discreet as you can make it. Under-the-radar kind of shit.”
“Of course, sir,” the concierge said, as if this request showed up on his desk every Wednesday. And honestly, in Dallas? It probably did. “I have existing relationships with several operators who run charters to Mexico and the Caribbean. We can handle all customs arrangements through the FBO.”
Jake nodded, even though the concierge couldn’t see him. “Great. I’d prefer a Gulfstream if possible. One hop, full-service. I’d like to leave as soon as wheels can be up.”
“Very good, sir,” the concierge said. “I will begin the arrangements immediately.”
“And we’ll need transportation to the airport,” Jake added. “Same parameters—quiet, discreet, through a back entrance if possible.”
“That can be arranged as well,” the concierge replied. “A Town Car would be least conspicuous. I’ll schedule it to meet you at the service entrance. May I call you back once I’ve confirmed the aircraft departure time?”
“Please do,” Jake said. “And ... just to confirm—charters to Mexico operate out of Love?”
“Yes, sir,” the concierge said smoothly. “Almost all international charters leave from Love Field’s private FBOs. It’s the standard procedure.”
Jake closed his eyes for a brief, relieved beat. “Perfect.”
“I’ll be back with details momentarily.”
They disconnected.
Jake set the phone down gently, like he’d just placed the finishing piece of a puzzle.
Celia grinned. “Well, look at you. Running a covert extraction like a CIA field agent.”
Jake shrugged. “Just booking a vacation.”
Laura gave him that half-smile that always meant she was proud of him for something he’d never admit he was nervous about. “A very us vacation.”
Owen, still in his robe like an excited golden retriever who had learned how to worry, asked, “So ... we’re really doing this? We’re going to Mexico? Today?”
Jake nodded. “Today.”
Tif clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh my GOD.”
Celia raised her mug. “Bienvenidos a la vida Kingsley, bitches.”
Just then the phone rang again.
Jake answered immediately.
“Mr. Sutter,” the concierge said, “your flight is confirmed. A Gulfstream IV through Million Air, departing at eleven o’clock this morning. Your car will arrive at the service entrance at ten twenty.”
Jake wrote it on the hotel notepad even though he already had it memorized. That was how his brain worked when aviation was involved—write it down, check it twice, don’t trust memory alone.
“Thank you,” Jake said. “We’ll be ready.”
He hung up and looked at the group.
“All right,” he said. “Clock’s running. Laura—call home. Update everyone. Tell them we’re safe and not to believe a goddamn thing on TV.”
Laura was already heading toward the bedroom with her phone. “On it.”
“Celia,” Jake continued, “packing triage. Anything that survived the great toiletry apocalypse gets folded and bagged.”
Celia cracked her knuckles. “My time has come.”
Tif made a heartbroken sound behind her. Her robe swished as she pointed at the pile of sad, oozing, chemical-colored wreckage that had once been her luggage. “Everything is ruined,” she said. “Everything. My shampoo exploded. My conditioner exploded. My hair gel liquified and somehow turned pink. My perfume bottle committed suicide. My moisturizer basically propelled itself through the lining of the bag. My makeup bag looks like a clown threw up in it. Even my toothpaste detonated. Toothpaste!”
“Mine wasn’t much better,” Celia admitted. “The inside of my suitcase looks like a Bath & Body Works grenade went off.”
“No,” Tif insisted, affronted. “Yours was bad. Mine was an acropolis.”
Owen glanced at the disaster zone and nodded like a man confirming a war crime. “It smelled ... intense.”
Jake sighed. “And that, children, is why you pack toiletries inside a big Ziploc. It’s not rocket science. It prevents your average acropolis. Keeps it right below apocalypse level.”
Celia jabbed a thumb at Tif. “She had four hair products in glass bottles. One even had a cork. A cork, Jake.”
Tif bristled. “It was my vanilla dabs.”
“It was a weapon,” Celia countered.
Jake held up both hands. “Point is—your bags are a total loss. Total. Which is why all three of you are wearing hotel robes right now, and why the clothes you wore yesterday—yes, the ones stuffed in the laundry bag—are going back on your bodies long enough to shop downstairs. You can’t go in robes. Even in Dallas.”
Tif recoiled. “Yesterday’s clothes? Those are ... lived-in.”
“Welcome to the consequences of not Ziploc-ing,” Jake said. “Re-wear the clothes. Replace the rest.”
Celia saluted. “Packing triage begins.”
“Then shopping!” Tif said excitedly.
“You’ll only have an hour and a half,” Jake said. “Strict limit. No fashion shows.”
Tif looked stricken. “I’m a meticulous shopper.”
“And right now you can’t be,” Jake said. “You only need basics. Pants, shirts, bras—”
“I’m not wearing a bra on vacation!” Tif protested as if he’d asked her to renounce a religion.
Jake gave her a look. “You haven’t worn one all year.”
“Bras are timony,” Tif declared.
“Timony?” Jake asked.
“You know?” Tif said. “When someone oppresses another as an institution?”
Jake chewed his lip for a moment and then realized Tif was trying to say ‘tyranny’, not ‘timony’.
“Right,” he told her. “Timony. That’s bad shit, Tif. Just buy what you need. It’s on KVA Records as a business loss.”
“Okay!” Tif chirped brightly.
Finally, Jake turned to Owen.
“And you ... A studio runner is never truly off duty—not even when he’s not getting paid and is on vacation. Duty calls now.”
Owen straightened instinctively. “It does?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Jake said. “You’re going with them. You hold purses outside dressing rooms, give honest opinions on anything they try on, and if necessary, protect them with your life.”
Owen nodded solemnly. “Understood.”
Jake blinked. “I was kidding.”
Owen hesitated. “So ... I don’t get to do it?”
Tif looped her arm through his immediately. “Of course you do. You’re coming. It’ll be fun. Shopping with three hotties? Tell the truth—you never thought that would happen when you were in high school, right?”
Owen flushed, smiling crookedly. “No. Definitely not.”
Celia patted him on the cheek. “Dreams come true, cariño.”
Jake clapped his hands once. “All right, people. Calls first. Packing next. Shopping after that. Car’s here at ten twenty. Move.”
The room erupted into motion, a whirlwind of purpose and chaos.
And just like that—Cabo became real.
The Gulfstream IV left the runway at Love Field exactly at eleven o’clock, smooth as silk, the kind of effortless takeoff only a big private jet can manage. The girls had reasonably made their shopping deadline—only ten minutes late—which Jake considered a miracle on par with modern medicine. Mostly, he owed it to Owen, who had transformed, somewhere around 9:58, into a relentlessly unpleasant nag. The man had harangued, herded, glared, and guilted them into finishing purchases and sprinting back upstairs like he’d been born to bully hotties into punctuality.
Jake made a mental note to promote him if KVA ever needed a drill instructor.
They boarded the jet with shopping bags and brand-new outfits, each of which told a very clear story.
Tif, naturally, had gone slutty. She stepped onto the plane in microscopic denim shorts that looked like a producer’s attempt at wardrobe for a spring break movie, paired with a cropped, hot-pink graphic tank top that cheerfully read I MAKE BAD DECISIONS LOOK GOOD across her breasts. No bra, of course. She wore platform sandals that clacked loudly on the aircraft stairs and a pair of oversized sunglasses, the frames and lenses shaped like big hearts, that covered half her face.
Laura’s traveling outfit was the opposite—simple and comfortable. Very modest, even by Texas standards. Khaki shorts, a green pullover shirt she’d pulled off a rack ten minutes before checkout, a fresh sports bra, and her same socks and tennis shoes from yesterday. Her shopping bag had been the lightest of the three; she bought exactly what she needed and didn’t agonize over a single item. Laura had lived through far worse than fashion emergencies.
Celia split the difference between sensible and show-stopping: black shorts, a sleeveless maroon top that hugged her curves and showed just enough cleavage to remind the world that she was Celia Valdez-Kingsley and had top tier, non-surgically altered boobs. She paired it with her old shoes—still safe post-apocalypse—and a pair of sunglasses she stole from Tif’s pile.
Jake wore jeans and a Led Zeppelin shirt from his bag. He, after all, along with Owen, had put the explosive toiletries in a separate bag and only had a minor mess to clean up. Nobody cared what he looked like today. He was here to get the fuck out of Dodge and collapse somewhere warm enough for a lizard to sunbathe.
Which was exactly what he did.
By the time they passed over the Mexico/USA border twenty-seven minutes after takeoff, the second Bloody Mary had hit Jake’s bloodstream. They were at FL420. Fuckin’ cool, dude (the pilots had had no idea what he was talking about when he referenced 420 to them, which made him feel good about their qualifications). The stress of the last thirty-six hours was melting away. The cabin was still pressurized. That was the coolest thing of all.
He kicked off his shoes, leaned his seat back, and passed the hell out. Laura curled into him, head resting on his shoulder, and followed him into sleep not long afterward. They both looked younger asleep—less weight on their shoulders, less noise behind their eyes.
Celia sat across from them flipping through a music magazine she’d grabbed purely to sneer at. Tif and Owen were glued to the windows, whispering observations as if narrating a wildlife documentary.
The Gulfstream slid southwest through Mexico, the earth below slowly shifting from Texas sprawl to desert scrub to the endless glitter of the Gulf of California. They barely hit a ripple of turbulence. Not a cloud in sight.
At about the time the coastline of Baja California curved into view, Jake stirred. Laura shifted against him, blinking awake.
Bright blue water stretched out below them—pure, unbroken turquoise that practically glowed in the midday sun. The southern tip of the peninsula approached like a postcard.
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