Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 32: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 32: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - 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
Kingsley Manor
March 23, 2005 — 7:20 AM
The house was moving at pre-departure speed—coffee cups half-finished, suitcases staged by the door, and Sean marching through the kitchen with a laundry basket like he was leading a parade nobody asked for.
“I’m starting with the marital bed linen!” he called. “Because frankly, after the things the three of you put that poor bedding through, it deserves first dibs.”
Jake didn’t even look up from tightening the strap on his travel bag. “You have no idea the horrors of that bedding and what it represents to the oppression and subservience of the male gender under the regime of the female gender. I always have to sleep in the wet spot. Always.”
Sean stopped, frowning. “Always?”
Jake nodded with the exasperation of a man burdened by an ancient, multi-generational and likely perpetual curse. “Always. It’s the rule. Not just for polys, but straight couples too—doesn’t matter. The man sleeps in the wet spot. It’s the cost of doing business.”
Celia lifted a finger. “He’s not exaggerating. We’ve been together eight years and I’ve never once seen him get one of the dry sides afterward.”
“It’s not even a discussion,” Laura added. “Jake just ... accepts his fate. Like a gentleman should.”
Sean shook his head. “No. No. In gay households, wet-spot assignment is more equitable.”
Jake snorted. “Of course it is. You people run on committees and charters and bylaws. You probably vote on who sleeps where.”
Sean glared at him. “Don’t be a homophobe just because something is different. There are two men involved. You can’t just assign gender related decrees. General rule: whoever initiates the act of sexuality gets the dry side. It’s intuitive.”
“How is that intuitive?” Laura said. “Why should the poor person who was just trying to read quietly in bed be punished because some brute wants to get it on? You get penalized for minding your own business.”
“It’s a functional arrangement,” Westin announced as he entered from the kitchen with a tray of cooling ham-and-cheese pastries. He had perfect timing, which deeply implied he’d been listening. “It encourages initiation. If everyone knows the initiator gets the dry side, no one hesitates to initiate. It doesn’t mean you have to give in, it just means you get the wet spot if you do.”
Jake stared. “Is that twisted or brilliant?”
“It works,” Westin said. “That’s what matters.”
Celia pointed at him. “I hate that you’re making sense.”
Jake huffed. “Meanwhile, I’m in there taking one for the team every fuckin’ night and no one is nominating me for sainthood.”
Laura patted his chest. “You’re appreciated.”
“I’m damp,” Jake corrected.
Before anyone could respond, Caydee padded into the room, backpack hanging limply from her shoulder, still wearing her morning scowl-and-yawn combo.
She took three steps, stopped, and squinted at the four adults who immediately froze like they’d been caught forging documents.
“What’s the wet spot?” she asked.
Silence. Lethal, immediate silence.
Laura cleared her throat. “Never mind about the wet spot for now, Caydee-girl.”
Caydee gave all three parents the most withering look a seven-year-old could legally deploy. “If you won’t tell me, it’s obviously about sex.”
Jake made a choked noise. Celia bit her lip to keep from laughing. Sean vanished into the laundry room like he’d just received a divine summons.
And right on cue, Yami entered, calm as a sunrise. “Caydee, are you ready? We have to leave soon.”
“Yeah,” Caydee said, though she kept glaring suspiciously at her parents. “But at some point, someone’s explaining the wet spot.”
“No we are not,” Jake said. “If we explain it, it makes it real. And we’re not doing that to ourselves before coffee.”
“You find out about the wet spot on your own, like everyone else,” Celia echoed firmly.
Caydee rolled her eyes. “Then it’s sex. It’s always sex with you people. What is so great about it anyway? Why do adults lose their friggin minds over it?”
Jake shook his head. “We are not having this conversation until you understand the answer to your own question, Caydee-girl.”
Caydee shrugged, satisfied to have won on technicality. “Fine. I’m gonna go put my shoes on.”
She trotted off toward the mudroom.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Jake exhaled like a hostage negotiator who’d just talked down a building jumper. “Every morning is a new challenge in this place.”
Laura kissed his cheek. “She gets it from you.”
Celia kissed the other. “And the persistence from me.”
A minute later Caydee returned, shoes on, backpack ready. Yami hovered nearby, car keys in hand.
Jake knelt down to Caydee’s height. “Okay, kiddo. We’ll see you Sunday afternoon.” He hugged her and kissed her forehead.
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. “Don’t crash your shit again.”
“I did not crash my shit,” Jake told her. “It was an incident, not an accident.”
Laura pulled her into a hug. “Be good at school. And don’t torment Yami.”
“I never torment Yami,” Caydee said, hugging her back tightly.
Celia smoothed Caydee’s hair and kissed her on cheek. “We love you, Caydee-girl.”
Jake squeezed her shoulder. “If you need anything, you call us. Otherwise—”
“I know,” Caydee said. “You’re gonna be making moo-zick for the peoples.”
He grinned. “That’s the plan.”
She gave them each one last hug, waved dramatically like she was boarding a ship, and headed out with Yami toward the minivan.
They moved toward the hallway to gather last-minute items, and Celia raised her voice just slightly.
“Cap! We’re leaving! Come say goodbye!”
There was no response, which meant exactly one thing.
“Up top,” Laura said.
Jake poked his head into the entertainment room, glanced up, and nodded. “Yep. He’s up there.”
Cap was perched atop the entertainment center again, perfectly balanced and perfectly pleased with himself. No one commented. This had ceased being remarkable months ago.
“Come on down and say goodbye, mijo,” Jake said.
Cap scrambled down with practiced ease and ran straight into Celia’s waiting arms, squealing happily. Each parent took a turn hugging him and kissing his cheek, giving all their I-love-yous and be-good-while-we’re-gone instructions. Cap accepted all affection with the magnanimous benevolence of a birthright toddler king. Like always, he gave the longest hug to Lala, his perpetual cuddle-buddy. Jake saw that the girls had put a fresh coat of nail polish on him recently. Maroon. Celia’s favorite color. It matched his skin tone well.
Kira came out next, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with both fists. She blinked at the luggage by the door.
“You’re leaving now?” she asked softly.
“We’ll be back Sunday,” Laura assured, bending to hug her. “Maybe even early enough for Mama and Papa Valdez to still come over.”
Kira nodded against her shoulder, then hugged Celia, then Jake with a shy squeeze before padding toward the kitchen in search of breakfast.
Jake slid open the back door to let in some cool morning air—and immediately got an earful.
“Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee!”
Pa-Ho was on the deck railing, yelling like a creature trying to raise the dead. Another crow sat beside him—sleeker, more cautious, looking around like she was assessing threats, opportunities, and possibly the tax code.
Jake tilted his head. “Huh. Pa-Ho brought a friend.”
Laura joined him in the doorway. “Yes. That’s been a thing the last few days. Apparently he has an old lady now.”
Jake blinked. “An old lady?”
“Yes,” Laura said. “You see, sweetie, when a boy crow and a girl crow love each other very much...”
Jake rolled his eyes. “ ... they play the wrong card in life and get two smart-ass old ladies instead of just one like everyone else.”
“The man complains about two wives,” Celia said with a shake of her head.
“I’m not complaining,” Jake grumbled. “Just making observations.”
“Anyway,” Laura said. “Caydee named her. Her name is Josie Cuervo.”
Jake grinned instantly. “That’s badass right there. Only a Kingsley kid could come up with that.” He watched the two birds a moment longer. “How does Caydee know it’s a girl? Crows all look exactly the same.”
“She doesn’t,” Laura said. “She just decided. And Pa-Ho showing up for meals with a plus-one seemed close enough to evidence, so I didn’t argue.”
Jake nodded thoughtfully. “Pa-Ho might be gay. It happens. Intelligence correlates with sexual diversity in nature. There’s actually lesbian dolphin porn out there, you know.”
Sean, passing with another load of dirty laundry, snorted. “Those flying rats are not sophisticated enough to embrace the natural equilibrium gayness brings to a society.”
“That,” Jake said, “is entirely too deep a take for someone who hasn’t had Purple-T yet.”
Sean paused mid-step. “I’ll concede that.”
“I do want to revisit this conversation when we get back and we’ve all had a few hits though,” Jake said.
“In the hot tub?” Sean asked, fluttering his eyelashes shamelessly.
Jake pretended to consider. “Well ... there is no wet spot in a hot tub, is there?”
“No dry spot either,” Sean added.
Jake then gave Sean a slow, smoldering look—methodical, devastating, and entirely intentional.
Sean faltered, actually grabbing the doorframe for support. “Jesus, Jake. What was that? That was—good God.”
“That was my ‘you-can-look-but-not-touch’ pose,” he said. “I’ve been working on it for TSF. The ladies love that shit. Especially if I do it right after we play Point of Futility. What do you think?”
“It’s ... it’s ... good,” Sean said, his face flushed. “Keep it. Feel free to practice any time.”
Jake grabbed his travel bag. “All right. Vegas awaits. Everybody move before Pa-Ho starts demanding voting rights and a benefits package.”
They walked through the kitchen, said goodbye to Westin, and went out into the garage. Jake was singing Time For Me to Fly under his breath.
San Luis Obispo County Regional Airport
March 23, 2005 — 8:02 AM
Owen guided the pristine blue 2005 KVA Toyota Tacoma into the GA access lane, the truck gleaming like it had rolled off the showroom floor ten minutes ago. Tif was practically vibrating in the passenger seat, tapping her knees and bouncing every few seconds.
“I can’t believe we get to fly on the Avanti again,” she said. “This is gonna be so cool. I’ve been excited since, like, Monday.”
Owen glanced at her. “You remember what happened the last time we flew on Jake’s plane, right?”
“Yes,” Tif said brightly. “It depressurized. That was so rad.”
Owen blinked a couple times. “Rad?”
“I mean, it probably won’t happen again, right?” She made a hopeful face. “Odds are, like ... twenty to one?”
Owen gave the safest answer he could muster. “Yeah. Twenty to one sounds about right. Maybe even a little higher.”
“That’s good odds,” she declared, instantly satisfied.
They rolled to a stop at the security gate. The guard leaned out of his booth, scanner in hand and sunglasses reflecting the truck back at them. Owen lowered the window.
“Owen Olson and Tiffany Mooreland,” he said. “We’re with Jake Kingsley’s party.”
“Vegas, baby!” Tif said cheerfully.
The guard checked his computer screen, nodded, and then looked at their driver’s licenses. He then handed them a pair of laminated cards. “Your gate and door passes. Valid for three days.”
“Thanks,” Owen said.
“Thank you!” Tif added, giving the guard a cheerful wave.
They drove through the gate and up to the GA terminal. Owen parked right in front of the building. Jake’s SUV wasn’t there yet, but Jim Ramos’ black 2000 Camaro sat in one of the spots, sun glinting off it.
Owen killed the engine, grabbed his travel bag from the back seat, and slung it over his shoulder. Tif did the same, practically skipping toward the doors.
Inside the terminal, Matt Tisdale was sprawled in a chair looking both deeply alive and on the verge of dying. Kim sat beside him, calm as ever, talking to someone on her phone. Jim Ramos stood near the window with a cup of coffee, watching the tarmac like he expected something medically interesting to happen out there.
Matt looked up the moment they entered.
“GM! Tif!” he barked, waving them over. “You two ready to go conquer fuckin’ Vegas or what?”
Tif lit up. “Oh my God, yes.”
Owen grinned. “Morning, guys. Jake not here yet?”
Matt threw up his hands. “The motherfuckers are late. The man rags on everyone else about fuckin’ punctuality but can’t practice what he fuckin’ preaches? Hasn’t texted or anything. Radio silence. Nada.”
Jim lifted his coffee. “He texted me earlier this morning. Didn’t say anything about running late.”
Matt jabbed a finger at him. “Oh, so he can text the fuckin’ paramedic but not the rest of us peons? Typical management shit.”
Owen shrugged. “Last time I flew with Jake, he parked the Navigator in the hangar after he took the plane out of it. Maybe he’s already over there?”
Matt stared at him. “He parked it in the hangar?”
“Yep.”
Matt processed this like someone trying to solve a philosophical riddle. “Why the fuck would he park his car in the hangar?”
Owen opened his mouth to answer—and right then the side door opened.
Jake walked in briskly from the outside, clipboard in hand, aviator sunglasses still on. He looked entirely put-together and entirely in charge, which annoyed Matt on principle.
“What are you assholes doing in here?” Jake asked, his voice with marked impatience. “Go haul your shit to the plane so we can weigh it and stow it. We’re on a schedule.”
Matt pointed at him accusingly. “You’re the late one!”
Jake didn’t even look at him. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes getting the plane out of the hangar. And now you’re wasting more time by talking. Grab your shit.” He pointed toward the tarmac. “Laura’s already out there. She’ll do the weigh-ins. After she writes the numbers down, one of you needs to run that back to me so I can do the math.”
“I’ll do it,” Owen said immediately. “I’m the studio runner. Running is part of the title.”
Jake nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Now haul ass. I want to be wheels up in fifteen minutes.”
It ended up taking almost twenty-five minutes to go wheels up. There was no real timeline, no connecting flight, no slot they were rushing to make, but Jake Kingsley was still visibly irritated. The musician in him could improvise for hours. The pilot in him despised being off schedule by even a whisper—even if the schedule didn’t really matter.
Out on the apron, Owen walked rapidly toward the Avanti with Tif, Matt, Kim, and Jim trailing behind him at varying speeds—Tif with springy excitement, Kim with calm efficiency, Jim with the resigned pace of a man who had seen everything aviation could throw at him, and Matt with the loping gait of someone theologically opposed to moving briskly before noon.
Laura waited beside the Avanti with the portable scale already set up. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore her black Harley of Atascadero T-shirt with the sleeves rolled once. She looked like she owned the ramp.
“Okay,” she said, pointing at the scale. “You all know the drill, right? Bags first.”
“Do we have to take off our fuckin’ shoes?” asked Matt.
“Why would you have to take off your fuckin’ shoes, Matt?” Laura asked.
“They make you do that shit in the fuckin’ TSA line,” he said. “Why not here too?”
“Because it doesn’t make any sense here, Matt,” Celia said.
“It doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense there either,” Matt countered.
Celia thought about continuing the exchange. So did Laura. They passed a look to each other that decided the matter with one upraised eyebrow and a little shake of Laura’s head. Not worth the trouble, that look said.
“Good point, Matt,” Laura said. “Now let’s get it done.”
She weighed each suitcase, each duffel, then each person—writing every number down on her clipboard in neat, deliberate handwriting. Matt made a dramatic show of stepping onto the scale like it was sentencing him for past crimes. Laura ignored him.
When Owen offered to help stow the luggage, she shook her head sharply.
“No. Jake only started trusting me to do this a few flights ago. That’s how important it is. And he’ll still double-check my work.”
Owen held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Just trying to help.”
Laura ripped the sheet free and handed it to him. “You would be most helpful running these figures over to our little grumpy bear so he can make use of them.”
“Right,” Celia said. “And even I am not allowed to stow those bags.”
“In other words, runner...” Laura said. “Run.”
Owen nodded and took off toward the terminal building where Jake was working on his flight plan.
Jake looked up the second he heard footsteps. “About fucking time,” he said. “Gimme that shit.”
Owen handed over the weight sheet. Jake punched numbers into his calculator, murmuring to himself about fuel burn, center of gravity, and “goddamn musicians and their goddamn overstuffed bags.”
At last he nodded, satisfied. “Okay. We’re good. But I’ll have to do this shit all over again at John Wayne when we pick up Matt’s Strat and the rest of our passengers.”
Owen craned his neck toward the jet. “Does Jim really have to sit on the toilet for the flight?”
“Unless you want to do it,” Jake said.
Owen politely declined. “What happens if someone needs to use the bathroom?”
“They can either ask Jim to step out for a moment,” Jake said casually, “or sit on his lap and pee between his legs.”
Owen stared at him. “Don’t tell Tif that. She won’t know it’s a joke.”
Jake looked at him, his face expressionless. “Who said it was a joke?”
The computer spat out Jake’s route—simple, clean, and perfect for a short hop south. VFR, cruising at 11,500 feet, just below the oxygen-annoyance line and the correct odd-thousand-plus-five-hundred altitude for flying east-southeast. Forty minutes, give or take. SLO to John Wayne wasn’t shit in the Avanti.
Jake clipped the paper to his clipboard and walked with Owen back toward the hangar.
The Avanti sat just outside the hangar, pulled forward enough to give them working room. The access door was open, the morning light bouncing off the winglets. Laura was waiting beneath the fuselage with the laminated external-preflight card in hand, her Harley T-shirt and ponytail giving her the exact vibe of a woman who knew what she was doing and dared anyone to question it.
As soon as Jake stepped up, she tapped the cargo door with her knuckles. “I left this open for you. Everything’s in and secured.”
Jake crouched, gave the hold a once-over, tugged on straps and bags until he was satisfied nothing would shift. He stood again, nodding. “Damn good job, baby. That’s badass.”
Laura arched an eyebrow. “But is it a class ass?”
Jake nodded at her with exaggerated solemnity. “Fuckin’ A. It is a class ass. The classiest ass that ever sat atop a pair of girly legs in the entire history of mankind.”
Laura gave a pleased, smug little smile. “That is a class ass.”
“Sometimes I get poetic,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what your class ass does to me.”
She leaned slightly closer. “Is it more class than See-Ya’s ass?”
Jake didn’t miss a beat. He mimed throwing a yellow penalty flag. “There is a foul on the play,” he said. “Kingsley Polyamory Rule Eleven violation. On the defense. The one with the red hair.”
Laura blew out a breath. “Right, right. No comparing physical or sexual attributes among primaries. Obviously it was a man that forced that one into the sacred compact.”
“You’re goddamn right a man forced that into the sacred compact,” Jake said. “This man. For reasons of survival and sanity and quite possibly the defense of American way of life itself.”
Laura tilted her head. “You ever think you exaggerate for effect a tad too much?”
Jake met her eyes, completely serious. “Nope.”
Laura scowled. “And you were playing dirty, cutting off access to Little Jake until we agreed to your stupid rule.”
“Thirty-three hours I held out,” Jake confirmed. “Longest drought of my polyamorous not-separated-by-duty or waiting-out-the-post-mucous-plug parts of pregnancy life. And you two folded like a bad hand.”
Laura groaned. “It was a horrible thirty-three hours. We only had each other for sexual fulfillment.”
Jake shrugged philosophically. “Sometimes you have to play dirty in love. It is, as the great Pat Benatar taught us, a battlefield.”
Laura shook her head, laughing despite herself. “You are such an idiot.”
“And yet,” Jake said, patting the cargo latch one more time, “a correct idiot.”
She lifted the preflight card. “All right. You ready?”
“Born ready,” Jake said, stepping in beside her.
She read the first item. “Landing gear doors—check clearance.”
Jake crouched, ran a practiced eye and hand along everything, and stood. “Clear.”
They moved smoothly down the card: control surfaces, access panels, lights, oil caps, fuel cap—Jake handling each check with the precision of a man who trusted no one but himself on these items. This was the ritual he lived by.
When they reached the cargo latch again at the end of the circuit, Jake tugged it—harder than needed. The depressurization scare hadn’t been his fault, he knew that. He’d confirmed it a dozen ways. The FAA had even said so. But some thoughts stuck, burrowing deeper than logic.
He tugged it again. Perfectly sealed.
Once the final item was read and confirmed, he stowed the pitot covers and checklist card in their compartment, securing that latch too with his habitual double-check.
Only then did they climb the stairs into the Avanti. Jake pulled the door closed behind them with the heavy, satisfying thunk that meant the world was once again pressurized, controlled, and his.
Everyone was already seated and belted in by the time Jake and Laura stepped into the cabin. Celia and Kim occupied the two seats directly behind the cockpit—Celia looking relaxed and ready, Kim sitting with a folded magazine in her lap and her seatbelt already fastened.
Owen and Tif were in the last row, facing forward. Tif was practically vibrating with excitement again, and Owen had the look of someone who was mentally reviewing every safety briefing he’d ever heard in his life.
Jim and Matt sat in the rear-facing seats across from them. Jim, coffee now gone, looked content enough. Matt looked like someone who was pissed off about the basic injustice that existed in society.
Matt gestured toward the small liquor cabinet by the galley. “Jake’s stupid fuckin’ rule about not hittin’ the bar until we’re in level flight is bullshit,” he announced loudly. “If God didn’t want us drinking on ascent, he wouldn’t’ve invented plastic Solo cups and ice machines that keep ice ready even when you’re not flying the fuckin’ thing.”
Jake paused halfway down the aisle. “Sometimes fundamental flight safety really sucks ass,” he said.
Laura smirked. “But is it a class ass?”
“If it’s your ass,” Jake replied, “then yes, it’s a class ass.”
Celia turned in her seat. “What about my ass?”
Jake pointed at her. “Your ass is just as class—and that is all I am legally permitted to say under Rule Eleven.”
Celia huffed. “Rule Eleven is nothing but clit-blocking blackmail being used for household political purposes. That was fucked up shit, Rev.”
Tif leaned forward in her seat. “Okay, what’s Rule Eleven?”
Laura twisted slightly to look back at her. “No comparisons among primaries—physical traits, sexual prowess, fellatio skills, ranked odor of unfiltered flatulence in the bedroom, anything in that category. It keeps things balanced so no one’s little feelers get hurt.”
Tif nodded slowly. “Oh. That actually makes sense. So ... you can say that Laura sucks a mean dick...”
“Which I do,” Laura put in.
“ ... but you can’t say that she sucks it better than Celia.”
“Which she doesn’t,” Celia put in.
“That is how it works,” Laura said. “Similarly, I may tell Jake that that fuckin’ fart was rank, but I may not say it is worse than a similar episode by See-Ya.”
“That is so cool,” Tif said, awed by their marital wisdom.
Matt nodded his head a few times. “That is strangely fuckin’ efficient. Did Nerdly help set that up?”
Jake shook his head. “No. If Nerdly had been part of that negotiation, there would be a complete algorithm printed and posted on the refrigerator and preloaded as the opening page on every laptop. Violations would result in actual punishment by a dedicated UN peacekeeping force and not just the threat of a Little Jake embargo.”
Matt thought that over. “Yeah,” he said at last. “You’re right. Nerdly would’ve built a whole fuckin’ system. And then would have had fuckin’ infrastructure in place with enforcement powers.”
Jake slid into the left cockpit seat while Laura took the right. The transition was fluid—Jake shed the domestic banter the moment he sat down, his posture straightening as he settled into pilot mode. Laura secured her harness, pulled her ponytail free of the straps, and reached for her own set of controls.
Jake flipped the master switch. The Avanti came alive at once—displays blooming to life, annunciators lighting briefly before settling, and the soft hum of systems engaging filling the cockpit.
“Here we go,” Jake said, scanning the screens. “Let’s program the FMC. You read it off, I’ll punch it in.”
Jake and Laura moved through the pre-flight efficiently, slipping into their well-worn rhythm. They didn’t speak much—just the occasional confirmation, a finger tapping a gauge, a nod as each system came alive and settled into its normal ranges. Avionics powered, hydraulics checked, control surfaces free and correct, fuel balanced, engine parameters green. It was quick, clean, and confident, the kind of cockpit dance only partners with years of shared airtime could pull off.
“Pre-start complete,” Laura said.
Jake started the engines, the twin PT6s spooling up with their familiar rising whine before smoothing into a steady hum. A few minutes of taxiing, a short pause at the hold line, then clearance crackled through the headset. Jake eased the throttles forward, and the Avanti surged down the runway, climbing smoothly into the morning sky.
At about three thousand feet up, Matt rubbed the back of his head with two fingers. “Jimbo,” he said, “I need some fuckin’ Motrin.”
Jim looked over. “Headache?”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Right behind my fuckin’ eyes. Started just after we took off.”
“That’s probably the hangover and the pressure change tag-teaming you,” Jim said.
“Fuckin’ assholes,” Matt muttered.
Jim waited until they reached level flight before unbuckling. “All right,” he said, standing. “Let me get the football.”
The Avanti cruised smoothly as Jim made his way toward the galley where the medical kit—nicknamed the football—was strapped into the couch seat for now. They’d have to shove it under someone’s seat for the next leg when the rest of the passengers boarded.
As Jim reached for the straps, Matt called out, “Make me a Jack and Coke while you’re up.”
Jim groaned audibly. “Jesus Christ.”
Owen perked up. “Hey Jim, can I get a nice IPA? In a glass, please.”
Jim turned in slow disbelief. “Dammit, GM, I’m a medic, not a fuckin’ bartender. Get it yourself.”
Owen gestured toward Matt. “You’re getting Matt’s drink for him.”
“Matt is my fuckin’ boss, not you,” Jim shot back. “Morally and contractually, the drink-fetching obligation is to him and him alone—and maybe Kim due to some history between us.”
“You guys were in history class together?” Tif blurted. “I totally didn’t know that.”
Jim freed the football, popped it open, dug around in the miscellaneous and mostly legal meds compartment, and shook three ibuprofen into his palm. Then he reached into the small galley cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Jack and a can of Coke, and muttered under his breath as he built the drink. He poured himself a healthy one as well—considering the company, it was medicinal.
Jim returned to the rear seats, handing Matt both the pills and the drink. “Here. Take these. Sip that. And try not to die before Vegas, okay?”
Matt took the ibuprofen, washed them down with a long swallow of the Jack and Coke, then frowned.
“Jimbo,” he said, smacking his lips, “did you make this a fifty-fifty ratio? ‘Cause it tastes a little light on the fuckin’ Jack.”
Jim stared at him. “I made it strong enough to stun livestock.”
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