Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 2: Everybody Wants You
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2: Everybody Wants You - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Indian Springs, Nevada
March 26, 2005
9:52 a.m.
The trailer felt normal. That was the strange part.
Daylight in Band City wasn’t unusual. They’d spent all of yesterday in here—waiting, killing time, dozing on and off, smoking a little herb and drinking a few beers. The sun coming through the blinds, the low hum of the generator, the faint smell of dust and warm metal—none of that was out of place.
What was missing was the reason for being here.
Jake sat at the narrow counter with a mug of coffee and looked out through the slats. Band City lay quiet beyond the window, but not in a way that felt eerie or abandoned. It felt shut down. Finished. Like a job site after the foreman had called it and everyone had gone home.
No golf carts cutting between trailers. No techs hauling cases. No half-dressed musicians wandering by with lanyards and cigarettes.
At this hour on a normal Saturday, the final sound checks would be bleeding through the air. Somebody’s kick drum. Somebody else’s amp whining while a tech swore at it. Controlled chaos ramping toward showtime.
Instead, there was nothing. Theirs was the only trailer occupied.
Jake took a sip of coffee. It tasted okay. Strong.
He’d woken up just after eight and showered in the tiny stall at the back of the trailer. Put on clean jeans and a dark T-shirt. Brushed his teeth. The routine had carried him through the morning on muscle memory alone.
Behind him, the bed shifted.
Laura rolled onto her back and blinked up at the ceiling for a moment before her eyes found him. Celia stirred a second later, already half-awake, one arm flung across Laura’s hip like she’d been keeping her anchored even in sleep.
“What time is it?” Celia asked, voice rough.
“Almost ten,” Jake said.
The words landed differently than they should have. Ten o’clock on a Saturday at a festival meant sound check. It meant schedules and radio chatter and somebody knocking on the trailer door asking for five minutes of Jake’s time.
None of that was happening.
Laura pushed herself up on one elbow. “It’s too quiet,” she said, not accusing the world of anything—just stating a fact.
Jake nodded. “They’ve cleared the venue. No performances tonight or tomorrow.”
Celia sat up, hair a mess, eyes already sharp. “They really did it then?”
“They really did,” Jake said.
Laura swung her legs off the bed and stood, crossing the narrow space to him. She took the mug from his hands and set it aside so she could lace her fingers through his instead.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
Jake had been thinking about that since the moment he woke up.
“We go back to the hotel,” he said. “We stay out of sight until all the Vegas business is wrapped up. Then we leave.”
Celia’s head tilted. “Hide?”
“Lie low,” Jake said. “No unnecessary movement. No being seen.”
Laura didn’t argue, but her gaze flicked automatically toward the guitar case on the floor near the wall.
“And the Strat?” she asked.
Jake followed her eyes.
The case sat exactly where he’d put it the night before, sealed with evidence tape and zip ties, initials still visible on the tags. It looked the same as it always had.
“It comes with us,” Jake said. “It doesn’t leave my sight.”
Celia snorted softly. “You realize if we’re in a hotel room with that thing, one of us is basically on guard duty at all times.”
“I know,” Jake said. “It’s temporary.”
He stepped away from the counter and reached for his phone. He hadn’t checked it yet. Not since crashing hard after returning from the stage.
The screen lit up with missed calls stacked one on top of the other—his mom, Bigg G, Chase, Joey, and Helen Brody, twice. Everyone he knew. Everyone who had his number. All of them checking in, all of them waiting for him to pick up and say something that would make this make sense.
He scrolled past them without listening. Lower down were the calls that mattered right now. Pauline. Three missed calls. And Nerdly. Two missed calls. Both of then left voicemails.
Jake’s thumb hovered. He tapped Pauline first and listened. Her voice was brisk, controlled, already in logistics mode.
“Jake, it’s Pauline. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to talk through next steps—media, insurance, statements. Do not engage with Stillson if he reaches out. I’ll handle him. Call me.”
Jake ended the message and didn’t call back yet.
He tapped Nerdly’s voicemail. The tone was different immediately. No humor. No rambling.
“Jake, it’s Bill. Call me right away. There’s been a disturbing incident in your hotel room this morning.”
A pause. Background noise—voices, maybe a hallway.
“I don’t want to say more on voicemail. Call me. Now.”
The message cut off. The trailer felt smaller.
Jake repeated what Nerdly had said to the women.
Laura’s hand tightened on Jake’s arm. “Disturbing how?”
Jake shook his head once. “He didn’t say.”
Celia’s eyes went hard. “But it involves the room?”
“That’s what it sounds like,” Jake said.
He looked once more at the sealed guitar case on the floor. Then he brought the phone back up and hit the return call button. He put it on speaker so the girls could hear.
“Nerdly,” he said. “I got you on speaker. Lala and See-ya are listening in.”
“Okay,” Nerdly answered immediately. He sounded awake in the way people do when they haven’t slept but can’t afford to slow down. “I’m in the room. Sharon’s here. Door’s closed.”
“What’s the word?” Jake said. “Someone broke into our room?”
There was a brief pause, the faint sound of movement, like Nerdly stepping away from someone else before continuing.
“It happened early this morning,” he said. “Right when maid service started up. One of the housekeepers saw a guy she didn’t recognize go into your suite. He used an access card and the door opened for him.”
Jake didn’t interrupt.
“White guy,” Nerdly went on. “Dark clothes. Close enough to staff attire that it tripped her radar, but wrong. She knew he didn’t belong. She didn’t challenge him—she called security.”
Laura’s hand tightened on Jake’s arm. Celia leaned in, listening.
“Security got there fast,” Nerdly said. “They found him inside the suite. Living area. Not rifling through anything. Just ... there.”
“What did he say?” Jake asked.
“He told them he was with KVA Records,” Nerdly said. “Said he was supposed to meet you.”
Jake closed his eyes briefly.
“They asked him to identify you,” Nerdly continued. “He said Jake Kingsley. No hesitation. Everyone knows that part. Then they asked him to confirm your hotel name.”
Jake felt the line tighten.
“And he couldn’t,” Nerdly said. “Not even close. Didn’t even know what a hotel name was. Anyone who actually had business accessing that room would’ve known you’re Glenn Sutter in a hotel. He didn’t.”
Celia exhaled slowly through her nose. “So he had a card,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
“Yeah,” Nerdly said. “Universal access. Same kind the maids carry.”
“Are any of those cards missing?” Jake asked. Assuming they even track that, he did not say.
“No,” Nerdly said. “They checked. All accounted for. All the on-duty maids had theirs on them. No reports of loss. No gaps they can find.”
Laura shook her head once. “So they have no idea how he got one.”
“Exactly,” Nerdly said. “When security pressed him on the hotel name, he backed off fast. Said there must’ve been a misunderstanding, apologized, and walked. Didn’t argue. Didn’t escalate. Just disengaged and disappeared.”
“They let him go?” Jake asked, appalled.
“That’s protocol,” Nerdly replied. “No escalation, no detention.”
Jake stared at the wall of the trailer, already replaying the sequence in his head.
“Anything missing?” he asked.
“No,” Nerdly said. “They went through the room with us. Nothing taken. Nothing obviously disturbed. This wasn’t a simple burglary.”
Jake didn’t speak for a moment. “He was after Matt’s Strat,” he said.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “That’s an ominous thought,” Nerdly said slowly. “But ... yeah. That actually makes sense.”
“He expected it to be back in the room by then,” Jake said. “He figured I’d leave the venue with it. Anyone would’ve.”
“Right,” Nerdly said. “So when it wasn’t there, he didn’t trash the place or steal Teach and Celia’s panties. He was probably just going to leave and try again later.”
“And he didn’t know my hotel name,” Jake said softly.
“Exactly,” Nerdly said. “Once security pushed on that, he had nowhere to go.”
Jake shifted his weight and looked down at the floor.
“What’s the news saying?” he asked. “I haven’t seen anything. No TV out here. No radio. No papers.”
“It’s the only headline,” Nerdly said. “Everywhere. Matt dying onstage at the Tsunami Sound Festival. CNN, FOX, BBC—even Al Jazeera’s running it.”
Jake nodded once. “Figures.”
“They’ve got cell phone video,” Nerdly went on. “Not great quality. Someone filming the big screen. You can barely tell what’s happening unless the anchor narrates it for you. But they keep looping it. The collapse. The CPR. All of it.”
“That’s what I figured,” Jake said.
“The speculation’s already gone feral,” Nerdly said. “People claiming they saw a gun flash from backstage right before he went down. Assassination theories. Whole thing’s metastasizing.”
“Of course it is,” Jake said.
“LVMPD put out a statement,” Nerdly continued. “All it says is that Mr. Tisdale’s death is under investigation. Nothing else.”
Jake didn’t comment.
“And then there’s the usual shenanigans,” Nerdly added. “A couple of outlets ran with a report that you were arrested last night. For the murder of Matt Tisdale.”
Jake snorted quietly. “Par for the fucking course.”
There was a brief pause.
“Are they talking about the Strat?” Jake asked.
“A little,” Nerdly said. “It’s starting to come up. Mostly in longer pieces. They’re saying the guitar was released to Jake Kingsley for safekeeping until its legal status can be determined.”
“That’s why the man thought it would be there,” Jake said. And then something occurred to him. Something dark and frightening. “And ... he would have thought that if the guitar was there, then all of us would be there too. At least me, Lala, and See-ya. That means he was prepared to deal with us ... to take the guitar by force. Jesus. He probably had a fucking gun on him. That’s the only way one person could have taken it from me.”
“That truly is a frightening thought,” Nerdly said.
And would the man have been willing to kill for that Strat? Jake could not help but wonder. He was very much afraid that the answer was yes.
There was a knock on the trailer door.
Jake barely registered it at first. His mind was still working its way through timing windows and threat vectors and the sickening realization of how close the Strat had come to changing hands. Perhaps by violence. The knock came again, firmer this time, deliberate.
Jake turned, crossed the narrow space, and lifted the blind a fraction with two fingers.
Jerry Stillson stood outside. The CEO of Music Alive. The big guy himself.
Mid-fifties. A little thick through the middle. Hair retreating fast enough that the comb-over had become less camouflage than habit. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. Sunglasses despite the early hour and the light overcast. He looked like a man who expected to be let in wherever he showed up.
Jake exhaled through his nose.
He hadn’t spoken to Stillson since Matt died. Pauline had handled that—fed him the facts that were available, shut down speculation, kept him at arm’s length. Stillson had been the one to cancel the rest of the Tsunami Sound Festival, citing respect for Matt Tisdale. Jake had no doubt the decision had also penciled out nicely on an insurance ledger somewhere, but he wasn’t interested in litigating motives right now.
He turned back into the trailer.
“Stillson,” he said quietly.
Laura and Celia were both standing near the bed, still in nothing but panties, hair loose, bodies relaxed in that post-sleep way that hadn’t yet shifted into armor, boobs unapologetically on display. A nice aesthetic for Jake, but it might give Stillson a coronary if he caught even a glimpse.
Celia rolled her eyes. Laura sighed once, already moving. They slipped into the bedroom without a word and closed the door behind them.
Jake glanced toward the little bar built into the trailer wall and had the fleeting thought that it wasn’t too early for a Jack and Coke—Matt’s favorite drink—but dismissed it just as quickly. Later.
He opened the door.
Stillson stepped in immediately, not waiting for an invitation. Jake let him. He wasn’t in the mood to establish territorial boundaries with a man who didn’t recognize them anyway.
“Jake,” Stillson said, removing his sunglasses. His eyes were red-rimmed, whether from sleep deprivation or affect Jake couldn’t tell. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Matt’s passing ... it’s a terrible loss. For you. For all of us.”
Jake met his gaze and nodded once.
“Thank you,” he said.
Stillson didn’t sit.
He paced a little instead, hands moving as he talked, occupying the narrow space like it belonged to him by default. Jake stayed where he was, leaning back against the counter, arms loosely folded, letting the man burn through whatever this was without helping.
“You know,” Stillson said, shaking his head slowly, “I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve seen a lot of artists come and go. But Matt—Matt Tisdale was something else. One of the greats. Truly.”
Jake nodded once. That much, at least, was true.
“Just an absolute monster on the guitar,” Stillson went on. “The kind of player who only comes along once in a generation. And to go out like that—onstage, in front of his fans, doing exactly what he loved?” He spread his hands. “I mean ... if you could choose an ending.”
Jake didn’t interrupt. In his head, he agreed completely. Matt had died exactly the way he would have picked if anyone had ever asked him the question.
Stillson took Jake’s silence as encouragement.
“Matt and I had some incredible times together,” he said, smiling faintly. “Late nights. Long talks. Big ideas. Those early years of the festival—man, we were building something. Matt was right there at the beginning. Helped make the TSF what it is.”
Jake’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He was about one hundred percent sure that Matt and Stillson had never hung out or had any long talks. Stillson was—heart and soul—a record company suit and they were just slightly above vegan pedophiles on Matt’s scale of people he would want to shoot the shit with.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me and my band were here for that too, remember?”
Stillson blinked, then laughed as if Jake had just made a joke. He stepped closer and clapped Jake lightly on the shoulder, the gesture familiar in the way of people who confuse proximity with intimacy.
“Of course, of course,” he said. “You guys were all part of that magic. Those were special days.”
Jake resisted the urge to step away. Stillson kept talking anyway—about the first TSF show, about crowds and sunsets and how nobody knew yet what the festival would become. About Matt’s legacy. About how moments like this reminded you why the business mattered.
Jake’s patience thinned by degrees.
When there was finally a break—half a breath where Stillson seemed to be winding down—Jake took it.
“So,” he said evenly, “what can I do for you, Jerry? You came out here for a reason, right?”
Stillson’s smile didn’t falter, but something in it sharpened. “Well,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “it’s about Matt’s guitar.”
Jake’s eyes darkened. “What about his guitar?”
“My understanding is that you took possession of it early this morning when the police released it.”
“That’s correct,” Jake said. “It’s right there.” He pointed to the case with its many stickers—including I 🖤 UKRAINE and the checked checkbox with ICELANDIC GASH listed above.
Stillson’s eyes looked at it with near reverence. “It’s in there?”
“Yes,” Jake said. “It was placed in there on camera after thorough photographic documentation by the cops. It was then sealed with evidence tape and zip-ties. As long as it’s not opened, that is legally Matt’s Strat in there.”
“Good thinking,” Stillson said, nodding rapidly. “No question legally of authenticity.”
“Yes,” Jake said.
“I think it would be best if I took possession of the case and the guitar for now,” Stillson said.
Jake looked at him. “Do you now?”
Stillson nodded slowly. “Indeed,” he said. He clasped his hands in front of him, adopting a tone that suggested reasonableness, as if what followed were simply the natural order of things.
“The guitar lost its owner during the performance,” Stillson said. “On our stage. During our event. That places a certain responsibility on Music Alive. Until such time as ownership is formally determined, it’s appropriate—necessary, really—that we take possession of the instrument and ensure its security.”
Jake listened without expression.
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said when Stillson finished. “But I already have possession. And I’ll be maintaining it until a court decides who gets it.”
Stillson’s smile thinned, but it didn’t disappear.
“As the venue owner,” he said, “we’re ultimately responsible for the security of everything that happens on that stage. That includes Mr. Tisdale’s guitar. My people are prepared to keep it sealed, guarded, documented. Proper chain of custody. We just ask that you hand it over to us.”
“No,” Jake said.
Stillson blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jake said, evenly. “The guitar isn’t leaving my custody.”
Stillson straightened a fraction, the friendliness giving way to something firmer.
“I would prefer not to escalate this,” he said. “But if necessary, I may have to consider seeking judicial intervention. A judge could determine the proper course here, and I believe the law would be on our side.”
Jake didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move away from the counter.
“If you try to pull any shit like that,” he said, “you won’t just lose this guitar, you’ll lose me. No more Jake Kingsley. No more Celia Valdez. No more Brainwash. No more V-tach. No act signed to KVA will ever perform onstage for you again. Ever. Not next year. Not ten years from now. Not ten generations from now.”
He paused, just long enough to let the scope of it land.
“And you’ll lose the battle anyway,” Jake added. “Of that I am quite sure. Do you really want to piss me off like that for something you don’t have a chance in hell of winning anyway?”
Stillson held Jake’s gaze for several seconds, his jaw working slightly as he recalculated. Whatever he saw there convinced him to change tack.
He exhaled and gave a small, conceding nod.
“It sounds,” he said carefully, “like you’ve come up with a firm plan for possession of the guitar.”
“I have,” Jake said.
Stillson considered that for another beat, then inclined his head. “Very well,” he said. “I won’t challenge you on this.”
Jake nodded once. “I’m glad you see it my way.”
Stillson lingered a few minutes longer, as if proximity itself were a kind of entitlement.
He drifted into nostalgia again—about the early days of the festival, about wild nights that hadn’t actually involved Matt, about a woman he’d once hooked up with backstage at some long-forgotten show. The story was delivered with a smirk and a lowered voice, the kind of anecdote men like Stillson believed conferred credibility.
Jake nodded politely and felt nothing. The story wasn’t even interesting. He fucked a groupie once. She had big tits. Stop the fucking presses.
Eventually, Stillson seemed to sense that the moment had expired. He checked his watch, straightened his jacket, and extended a hand.
“Again,” he said, shaking Jake’s hand firmly, “I’m very sorry for your loss. Matt was ... special.”
Jake met his eyes. “He was.”
Stillson replaced his sunglasses, gave one last nod, and let himself out.
The door clicked shut behind him. For a beat, the trailer was quiet. Then the bedroom door opened.
Laura and Celia stepped out together, now dressed—shorts, pullover shirts, hated bras firmly in place, hair pulled back into no-nonsense ponytails. Armor on.
“Well?” Laura asked.
Jake blew out a breath. “He wanted the guitar.”
Celia stared at him. “He wanted what?”
“He thinks Music Alive should take possession of it until the courts decide ownership,” Jake said. “Venue responsibility. Chain of custody. All that bullshit.”
Laura’s expression hardened. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Celia swore in Spanish. “Pinche cabrón.”
Jake nodded. “That about covers it.”
Laura crossed her arms. “So it’s official,” she said. “Everyone wants that guitar.”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Which means it can’t stay in public space.”
Celia glanced at the guitar case, then back at him. “So what do we do?”
Jake didn’t hesitate. “We get it off the streets.”
Laura tilted her head. “Where?”
“Home,” Jake said. “Once it’s there, it’ll take an armed attack squad that’s in cahoots with the cops and the legal system to pry it loose.”
Celia considered that for half a second, then nodded. “Okay. So what—straight to the airport?”
“Yes.”
“What about all our stuff at the hotel?” she asked.
“I’ll call the Nerdlys,” Jake said. “Have them pack everything up and bring it to Henderson. They probably want to go home too.”
Celia exhaled slowly, tension shifting into motion. “All right,” she said. “Let’s move.”
Jake dialed the number he’d been given—the one he was told to use once he was clear to leave.
It rang once.
“Music Alive Operations,” a woman said briskly. “How can I help you?”
“This is Jake Kingsley,” he said. “My party’s ready to be picked up. We’re in Band City.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kingsley,” she said without missing a beat. “Your ride is standing by. They’ll be there in under ten minutes.”
“I appreciate it,” Jake said.
“Will you be returning to the Bellagio?” she asked, already moving on to the next line in whatever script she was working from.
“No,” Jake said. “We’re going to Henderson Field. Keep that to yourself.”
There was a pause—brief, professional. “Of course,” she said. “I won’t share that information.”
“Thank you,” Jake said again, and ended the call.
It took five minutes.
A black SUV rolled up at the edge of Band City, clean and unmarked, engine idling. A man in a dark suit stepped out, glanced around with practiced indifference, then opened the rear door.
Jake felt a flicker of recognition—not the man, but the vibe. This was how people moved when discretion mattered. Venezuela. Colombia. Places where being publicly kidnapped for ransom was actually a plausible threat.
They climbed in quickly. Jake went first, the guitar case in hand, careful but not paranoid. Laura and Celia followed, sliding in on either side of him. The door shut, solid and final.
The driver pulled away immediately.
As they cleared the security checkpoint at the highway, Jake saw what they were facing. A cluster of people gathered at the exit—cameras up, microphones out, voices already raised. Someone recognized Jake through the glass.
“Jake! Jake—over here!”
“Mr. Kingsley—was this murder?”
“Is the guitar with you?”
The driver didn’t slow. He swung wide, threaded the SUV through the chaos with controlled aggression, and hit the accelerator as soon as there was pavement to take it.
They made the highway.
In the side mirror, Jake saw movement—cars peeling off, engines revving, a handful of them falling in behind the SUV like remoras.
The driver checked his mirrors, adjusted lanes once, then again, calm and unhurried.
“We’ve got company,” Celia said.
Jake nodded, eyes forward, hand resting on the guitar case at his feet. “Yeah,” he said. “I see them.”
Jake ignored the cars behind them. There was nothing he could do about that yet, and no point pretending otherwise. They’d either get bored or get close enough to matter. Until then, the only smart move was to keep moving.
He took his phone out and called Nerdly directly.
Nerdly picked up on the second ring. “Hey.”
“We’re getting out,” Jake said. “Taking the Strat straight to Kingsley Manor before some thief or lawyer gets their slimy hands on it.”
There was no hesitation on the other end. “Yeah,” Nerdly said. “That’s a good idea.”
“The cops and the coroner guy asked me to stay in Vegas until Matt was fully dealt with,” Jake went on. “But they didn’t tell me. Big difference.”
A faint huff of agreement. “I remember that distinction.”
“And the guitar needs to be secured,” Jake said. “Fuckin’ Stillson just came to our trailer and tried to weasel it from us. It won’t be safe until it’s home. I’ll come back after the flight. Find somewhere to stay that isn’t the Bellagio.”
Nerdly was quiet for a beat. “We are supposed to meet with the coroner’s investigator again. At one o’clock? About the concert video.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jake said. “They’re not getting that footage. We’re not letting anyone get their hands on DVD-quality video of Matt dying onstage.”
Another pause. Longer this time. “You still technically have a meeting,” Nerdly said.
“I’ll call the guy and reschedule,” Jake replied. “Or cancel. Same difference.”
The SUV changed lanes smoothly, the driver unconcerned by the cars still tagging along.
“In the meantime,” Jake said, “do you and Sharon want to fuck off with us? We’ll take you home.”
Nerdly didn’t pretend to think about it. “We cannot.”
“You can’t?” Jake said. “We’re heading to Henderson now.”
“We are not leaving until we have secured those video and audio tracks,” Nerdly said. “The meeting you plan to reschedule was where that was to be determined. And I don’t want to handle the issue alone. We need unity in the face of intrusiveness.”
Jake glanced at his watch, then out the window at the road unfurling ahead of them.
“Well ... shit,” he said. “I need to get this Strat home, Nerdly.”
“I understand,” Nerdly said. “And we will stay here until your return.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said with a sigh. “But I need a favor. You need to get our shit out of our room. I’ll call the front desk and authorize it.”
“Will comply,” Nerdly said.
Jake ended the call but kept the phone in his hands. He had more calls to make.
The SUV ate up the miles quietly, the engine note steady, the ride smooth enough that it felt insulated from the chaos it was outrunning.
Las Vegas rose ahead of them in the distance—hotels and glass and bad decisions stacked against the pale sky. Even from this far out, it looked loud. Jake watched it without much interest. He’d already made the calls that mattered.
The appointment with LVMPD and the coroner had been pushed to Sunday morning at 9:00 AM. Not canceled—rescheduled. Sergeant Craine had not been particularly happy, but when told the reason he expressed understanding. Meanwhile, Pauline was already digging into lawyers who specialized in expensive objects and contested ownership, the kind of people who billed by the hour and each one of those hours required a comma in the accounting sheet.
Jake had also offered seats on the plane since they were heading that way and had the room.
Owen had refused immediately. Not even a pause. He was the studio runner. KVA business in Vegas wasn’t finished yet, and until it was, he wasn’t going anywhere. Someone needed to be on the ground, he said, and Owen was comfortable being that someone.
Tif had refused just as quickly, but for different reasons. She wasn’t going anywhere without her cutie patootie, and that was that.
Coop and Charlie were content to hole up in their respective hotel rooms and let the world scream itself hoarse outside the door until things settled down. Jim couldn’t leave regardless—he’d be at the nine o’clock meeting with Jake, which made his staying both necessary and convenient.
Kim had been asked if she wanted to come too. She elected to stay with Jim until everything was done. She would then accompany him back to SLO to clean out the rental house of Matt’s belongings.