Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 4: Where There’s a Will
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 4: Where There’s a Will - 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
Santa Clarita, California
March 29, 2005
Late morning at KVA headquarters in Santa Clarita sounded like a hostage situation that had been handed a spreadsheet.
Phones didn’t ring. Ringing was for amateurs.
What KVA had now was an automated on-hold queue that just kept feeding people into Barb Macready’s personal abattoir. Twenty-three minutes was the current average wait time. The number glowed on her screen in angry red, ticking upward like a pulse. Every new caller heard the same calm recorded voice telling them their call was important, followed by Christian pop rock hold music that had been chosen specifically because it made people question whether they really needed to speak to Pauline that badly.
Outside, the parking lot looked like a clown car had exploded.
Media vans squatted at bad angles, jockeying for position. Satellite dishes craned upward like metal vultures. Reporters leaned against bumpers pretending not to stare at the front doors while staring at the front doors with the kind of hunger usually reserved for open wounds.
Inside, Barb was in heaven.
This was so much better than 911 calls.
No screaming about how you were just minding your own business and someone decided to kick your ass for no reason. No drunk idiots asking if it was okay to shoot heroin while taking blood-thinning medication. Instead, she had morons who had Googled the number and decided to try their luck. This was entitlement. This was ego. This was people who thought proximity entitled them to access.
She lived for this shit.
“—No,” Barb said flatly into her headset. “You absolutely do not get to talk to Pauline.”
A man on the other end huffed like he was offended on principle. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I interviewed her once. During the Judge Olson deal. She knows who I am.”
Barb smiled, wide and mean. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “Pauline knows who everyone is. That’s why she doesn’t talk to any of you.”
“I’m with the Modesto Bee,” he insisted, puffing up. “Jake Kingsley landed at our airport once. He and Intemperance played a club here in 1981 and they still have the picture on their wall. Our readers have a right to—”
“Your readers don’t have a right to shit,” Barb cut in. “And you need to stop talking about your fucking rights or I will reach through this phone, rip your dick off your body, and staple it to your forehead so you remember what silence feels like.”
“You can’t talk to the press like that,” he snapped. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
Barb leaned back in her chair, feet crossed under the desk, savoring it. “Listen to me carefully, Modesto,” she said. “I spent twenty years answering 911 calls in Los Angeles. I have told men with guns to calm the fuck down while they were actively waving those guns around. I have listened to people die while their idiot friends screamed useless information in my ear. You? You are not even a pimple on my fuckin perineum. You’re not even a hair growing out of that pimple. You are a gnat that buzzed by my ear and you are about to get squished between my thumb and index finger and wiped on the tail of my fucking shirt.”
She took a sip of coffee.
“You will not speak to Pauline. You will not speak to Jake. You will not speak to anyone in this building unless they decide they want to ruin their own day. And if you try to ambush someone in the parking lot, I will personally come to your house and cram a copy of the constitution up your ass until it pushes your eyeballs out.”
Silence for a moment, and then, “Fine. I’ll note your refusal.”
“Fantastic,” Barb said. “I’ll note that you were stupid enough to call twice. Have a shitty day.”
She hung up and grinned, genuinely delighted.
She checked the queue. Still full. Still beautiful.
God, this beat the hell out of 911. No blood. No dead kids. Just assholes learning the limits of their power.
She punched the next call up. Before answering, she glanced at the caller ID.
BRACKFORD, REDMOND, AND JACKSON
Barb frowned.
That sounded ... expensive. Legal. The kind of firm that billed by the minute and probably charged extra for vowels. It tugged at something in her memory, but she couldn’t quite place it.
She checked the hold time.
Twenty-five minutes.
“Well,” she muttered, “at least you fuckers can wait.”
She straightened, flipped the internal switch from gleeful threat delivery to baseline professionalism, and answered with the exact same opening she used for every call—right before things went sideways.
“KVA Records,” Barb said politely. “This is Barb. How may I direct your call?”
A young woman’s voice came through—crisp, polite, trained. “Good morning. This is Emily Whitaker, executive assistant to attorney Sebastian Hollingsworth Aimsley-Crowe at Brackford, Redmond, and Jackson. Mr. Aimsley-Crowe needs to speak with Pauline Kingsley as soon as possible.”
Barb’s thumb paused over the transfer key. She didn’t go into Barb mode. Not on this one. Three or four real calls made it through the gauntlet every day—people who actually had business instead of a byline and a grudge. This one smelled like one of them.
She kept her tone neutral. “Regarding?”
Emily hesitated only a fraction. “Mr. Aimsley-Crowe is Matthew Tisdale’s estate attorney. He asked me to reach Pauline directly. That’s really all the information I have at the moment.”
Barb felt the irritation bloom low in her chest—not at the girl on the phone. Emily sounded like she was young and still believed the world ran on courtesy. The irritation was for whoever the hell Sebastian Hollingsworth Aimsley-Crowe thought he was, handing his assistant a directive without bothering to arm her with anything useful. People who gave orders like that were usually the same ones who’d scream if you asked them to clarify.
“Hold one moment, Emily,” Barb said. “I’ll see if she’s available.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Barb hit the hold button, leaned back, and looked down at the phone display. Pauline’s line light was steady red on the board—she was on a call. And Barb had not had to make it for her. Her boss—her very capable, very intelligent, very busy boss—was somehow able to pick up her own goddamn phone and dial a number without delegating the task like some eighteenth-century monarch sending a fuckin’ footman with a sealed scroll.
She muttered under her breath, “Some people would rather spend ten minutes telling someone else what to do than spend thirty seconds doing it themselves.”
Then she pushed out of her chair.
Pauline’s office door was halfway open, the way it always was when she was on the phone and didn’t want to feel like she was in a bunker. Barb stepped into the doorway without knocking.
Pauline was sitting behind her desk, phone pressed to her ear, free hand gesturing like she was conducting traffic. Her voice was calm, measured, lawyer-polished.
“ ... the instrument will remain in Jake Kingsley’s custody until the probate court determines ownership. That is non-negotiable. The authenticity of the guitar is not in question—there is photographic documentation, chain-of-custody paperwork from LVMPD, serial number verification, and Jake’s personal testimony that this is the Strat Matt played every night for twenty-five years. The former label’s interest in the asset does not entitle you to—”
She caught sight of Barb in the doorway and covered the mouthpiece.
“Everything okay?”
“Some long-named fuckin’ attorney wants to talk to you,” Barb said, keeping her voice low. “Sebastian Hollywood Amber Crawl or some shit like that. Says he’s Matt’s estate attorney. His assistant’s on hold.”
Pauline’s expression didn’t change much—just a slight tightening around the eyes. “Keep him on hold until I’m done with this fucking asshole from National. If the dude doesn’t want to wait, get his number and tell him I’ll call back.”
Barb nodded once. “Got it.”
She turned and walked back to her desk, sensible shoes quiet on the industrial carpet. The irritation hadn’t gone anywhere. It sat in her gut like a hot coal. Not Emily’s fault—she was just the messenger, probably typing notes in a neat little spiral while her boss played golf or whatever rich lawyers did on a Tuesday. But the principle of it gnawed at her. Handing someone a job without the full picture was lazy. Lazy and disrespectful. Emily deserved better briefing than “go get Pauline on the phone” and nothing else.
Barb dropped back into her chair, glanced at the hold light still blinking patiently, and let out a slow breath through her nose.
Barb tapped the blinking line and brought Emily back.
“Hey,” she said. “Just so you know, Pauline’s dealing with some fuckin’ moron right now and it’s gonna take a few more minutes. Your boss want to hang out, or should I grab your number and have her call him back?”
There was no offense taken on the other end. Just a measured breath.
“I’ll stay on hold if that’s okay,” Emily said. “He really needs to speak with her. And in my experience, waiting for someone to call back isn’t the best go-to move.”
Barb snorted. “Yeah. I can relate to that shit. I’m a secretary too.”
There was a small pause. Not awkward. Curious.
“You seem ... very informal,” Emily said finally. “For a secretary, I mean. Does your boss know you speak like that?”
There was no edge to it. No judgment. Just genuine interest.
Barb smiled to herself. “That,” she said, “is the entire reason I got hired.”
Emily laughed softly. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” Barb said. “They don’t want polite. They want effective. They want someone who can tell people ‘no’ in a way that sticks and then sleep like a baby afterward.”
“So they want you to talk unprofessionally,” Emily said, pondering it.
“Fuckin’ A,” Barb replied. “That’s the job description.”
Emily laughed again, this time louder. “I don’t think that would fly where I work.”
“Different ecosystems,” Barb said. “This place? High stress doesn’t even begin to cover it. You don’t just answer phones here. You absorb chaos.”
She glanced down at Pauline’s line. Still busy.
“I’ve outlasted all my predecessors,” Barb went on. “One made it six months and then renounced her religion and started doing webcam porn in Orange County.”
There was silence on the line.
“And another one,” Barb continued, “decided she was a lesbian, left her husband and kids, and now lives in some naked lesbian commune up in Oregon.”
Emily hesitated. “Are you ... making this up?”
Barb laughed. “I wish. No. That is one hundred percent true.”
“Oh,” Emily said. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Barb said. “This is Jake fuckin’ Kingsley and his absurd orbit. People come in thinking it’s a job. Turns out it’s a lifestyle experiment.” She paused, then added, almost fondly, “Honestly? You might be the most ordinary person I’ve talked to in a month.”
Emily laughed, a little self-conscious this time. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“Flattered,” Barb said immediately. “Ordinary is underrated. Ordinary keeps the lights on.”
“That sounds like a dream job for someone like us,” she said. “You get to say what’s actually on your mind.”
Barb let out a low chuckle. “Only after they persist in demanding access when I’ve already told them politely that it’s not possible at this time. Once that happens, I can truly be myself.”
Emily made an interested little hum. “Give me an example.”
Barb leaned back, shoes up on the edge of her desk now, getting comfortable.
“About an hour ago some LA Times stringer kept calling back after I’d already shut her down three times. Fourth call, I told her straight up: ‘If you call this number again, I’m going to cram a fire extinguisher up your diseased twat so you’d better start doing reverse-Kegel maneuvers before I get there to loosen things up.’”
Emily burst into giggles—high, bright, completely unguarded, the kind of laugh that sounded like it surprised even her. Cute as hell.
Barb felt the corners of her own mouth lift. She couldn’t help it. The sound was contagious.
Emily caught her breath. “Oh my God. Did she call back?”
“Not yet,” Barb said. “But I keep the extinguisher right here under the desk just in case.”
Emily giggled again, softer this time. “How did you even get a job like that?”
“I was an LAPD dispatcher for twenty years. About to get fired for asking a 911 caller what got his butt plug too far up his ass—long story, bad night, guy was drunk and way too dramatic. Anyway, the call got leaked to the newspaper. Jake and Pauline caught wind of it, thought it was hilarious, and decided I was perfect for KVA receptionist. They called me in, offered me the gig, and here I am.”
“That’s fascinating,” Emily said, sounding genuinely impressed. “Are they hiring?”
Barb snorted. “You got a pretty good gig at the firm, don’t you?”
“I do,” Emily admitted. “But being polite to the entitled people who call is a daily struggle. Some days I want to scream.”
“I feel that,” Barb said. “I’m here for the long haul, though. The job’s therapeutic. Nothing vents the spleen like telling a grown adult with a byline to go fuck themselves with their own press pass.”
Emily laughed again—still cute, still delighted.
Barb glanced at the phone board. Pauline’s line had just gone dark.
“Hey,” Barb said, “you working out of that fancy-ass building in Brentwood?”
“Wilshire and Bundy, yeah.”
“Where do you live?”
“Valley. Sherman Oaks.”
“Pasadena here,” Barb said. “Feel like getting a drink after work and talking shit about our employers? There’s a little piano bar on the west side—McCabe’s on Pico. Low-key, dark, decent whiskey, and the guy on the keys knows every Springsteen song ever written.”
Emily didn’t hesitate. “That sounds like fun.”
Barb grinned. “Good. Seven-thirty work?”
“Perfect.”
“McCabe’s. 3101 Pico Boulevard. I’ll be the one in the fuck-me boots looking like I just mugged a biker.”
Emily laughed one more time. “I’ll find you.”
Barb glanced at the board again. Pauline’s line stayed dark.
“All right, kid,” she said. “I’m putting you through to the boss now. Hold tight.”
“Thanks, Barb. See you tonight.”
Barb hit transfer. The line rang once in Pauline’s office.
She watched the light turn green as Pauline picked up.
Then she turned back to the queue—twenty-one callers now—and punched the next one without missing a beat.
“KVA Records. This is Barb. How may I direct your call?”
The voice on the other end started whining about an exclusive.
Barb’s smile returned—small, sharp, ready.
She let him finish.
Then she began.
Pauline picked up on the first ring, already reaching for the legal pad she kept on the right side of her desk.
“This is Pauline Kingsley.”
A young woman’s voice—crisp, practiced, polite—came through first.
“Good morning, Ms. Kingsley. This is Emily Whitaker, executive assistant to Mr. Sebastian Hollingsworth Aimsley-Crowe at Brackford, Redmond, and Jackson. May I place you on a brief hold for Mr. Aimsley-Crowe?”
Pauline exhaled once through her nose. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you. One moment.”
The line clicked to soft jazz. A saxophone floated in—smooth, tasteful, mid-tempo. Not one of Teach’s old cuts from the on-hold rotations she used to endure back in the day. A pity. Teach’s phrasing had always had teeth, even on the slow ones. This was just pleasant wallpaper.
She waited three minutes. Not long enough to be insulting, long enough to remind her who was supposed to feel grateful for the audience.
Then the line opened again.
“Ms. Kingsley.” The voice was deep, measured, East Coast polish layered over California money. “This is Sebastian Hollingsworth Aimsley-Crowe. Thank you for taking my call.”
Pauline leaned back in her chair, pen tapping once against the legal pad.
“Mr. Aimsley-Crowe. What can I do for you?”
“I represent the estate of Matthew Tisdale. I am the attorney who drafted and notarized his last will and testament. Upon learning of Mr. Tisdale’s passing, I opened and reviewed the instrument. Within it, he named you, Pauline Kingsley, as the executor.”
Pauline felt the annoyance bloom first—sharp, familiar—followed immediately by amusement, dry as desert wind.
Leave it to Matt.
She could see him now, slouched in some lawyer’s office chair, Chivas and coke in his hand, grinning that wolfish grin while he signed whatever stack of papers this pretentious bastard had slid across the desk.
She hadn’t been told. Of course she hadn’t.
Matt’s voice slid into her head, casual as if he were leaning in the doorway right now, cigarette dangling. If I’d of told you that shit, you might have said no.
Pauline closed her eyes for half a second, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Yeah, she thought back at him. I probably would have, Matt.
Pauline let the silence stretch just long enough to make the point. Then she spoke. “I’m listening, Mr. Aimsley-Crowe.”
The attorney cleared his throat—small, professional, the sound of someone adjusting his tie even though no one could see it.
“Before we proceed, Ms. Kingsley, I must ask: are you willing to accept the role of executor as named in the instrument?”
Pauline tapped the pen once more against the legal pad. Shaq, she thought. That’s what we’re calling this guy. SHAC. Sebastian Hollingsworth Aimsley-Crowe. Shaq.
She almost smiled.
“I am willing,” she told him.
“Very good,” Shaq said, voice measured, practiced, the way lawyers do when they’re used to talking to civilians. “As executor, you would be responsible for marshaling the assets, paying valid debts and taxes, satisfying any specific bequests, and ultimately distributing the residue according to Mr. Tisdale’s expressed wishes. There are fiduciary duties, potential personal liability if—”
“Mr. Aimsley-Crowe,” Pauline cut in, voice calm but edged. “I’m a member of the bar. I understand the responsibilities.”
A brief pause on his end. Not quite surprise—more like recalibration.
“I see,” he said. The tone shifted, just a fraction. Condescending still, but now with a hint of curiosity. “And where did you study law, if I may ask?”
“Stanford,” she said. “Class of ‘79.”
The shift was immediate. The polish became collegial, almost warm.
“Ah. Stanford. Excellent. I’m Loyola myself. Class of ‘82.”
Pauline let one eyebrow lift, even though he couldn’t see it.
“That’s just groovy,” she said, slipping into one of her mother’s old Woodstock-era phrases without missing a beat.
Shaq gave a small, appreciative chuckle—the sound of a man who’d decided they were now peers.
“Indeed. In that case, we should meet in person as soon as possible to begin the process. There are documents to review, signatures required, and several time-sensitive matters. I can clear my calendar for tomorrow morning if that suits.”
Pauline glanced at her own calendar—already a mess of calls, contracts, and the endless fallout from Matt’s death.
“Tomorrow works,” she said. “At the BR&J building in Brentwood?”
“Correct. I’ll have Emily let them know to expect you. Does nine o’clock work?”
“Fine,” she replied.
“There is one other item of note,” Shaq continued. “Mr. Tisdale requested burial in Ridge View Cemetery in Lemon Hill—that’s a suburb of Heritage, quite near where he grew up. He was quite specific about the location.”
Pauline felt something tighten in her chest. Lemon Hill. There was indeed a big ass cemetery there, more than one actually. Ridge View was the biggest of them. She remembered Matt telling her the tales of his high school days, when he and Coop and Darren used to get stoned in Ridge View Cemetery late at night. Matt even claimed to have ‘nailed some gash’ on a grave of some ‘old Jewish motherfucker’ who died in 1936.
“That makes sense,” she said quietly.
“He also specified a monument,” Shaq went on. “Befitting his legacy.”
Pauline paused. “Monument befitting his legacy?” she repeated. “Matt didn’t say something like that.”
Shaq cleared his throat again—this time with a trace of embarrassment.
“Ah. No. Mr. Tisdale’s actual words were...” He paused, as if consulting the document in front of him. “‘Give me a fuckin’ monument that’s badass. Angels playing Strats, a fuckin’ map of Iceland made to look like a bitch’s pussy, and an I love Ukraine heart on the motherfucker somewhere.’”
Pauline closed her eyes.
She could hear Matt saying it—grinning, half-drunk, half-serious, probably in the same breath he’d used to order another round.
A laugh escaped her—short, surprised, edged with something raw. It was followed by a tear running down her cheek. And then another.
“Of course he did,” she said, exhaling slowly through her nose. “Anything else in the will I should know before tomorrow?”
Shaq hesitated—just long enough for her to register it.
“There are several specific bequests,” he said carefully. “Some straightforward—monetary gifts to family members, charitable designations, various uh ... causes I guess we could say. Instruments. Memorabilia. A few items that may require coordination with Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Kowalski.”
Pauline felt the muscle in her jaw tighten. She knew exactly what “instrument” he meant.
“We can go over the full list at the meeting tomorrow,” Shaq continued. “It’s extensive, and I’d prefer to walk through it with the executor present.”
Pauline tapped the pen once against the legal pad—sharp, deliberate.
“Can you share some of the big ones now?” she asked. “Just the headline items.”
Shaq cleared his throat again, the sound of professional caution.
“I’m hesitant to summarize without the full context of the document in front of both of us—”
“Mr. Aimsley-Crowe,” Pauline cut in, voice flat. “I’m about two years behind on my own estate planning for Matt, and the asshole only died last week. Humor me.”
A brief silence. Then Shaq exhaled—a small, resigned sound.
“Very well,” he said. “The most significant personal bequest is the 1977 Fender Stratocaster—currently in Mr. Kingsley’s possession. It is bequeathed outright to Jake Kingsley, with the instruction: ‘Do the right thing with the motherfucker and don’t just sell my shit to some asshole.’”
Pauline felt the knot in her chest loosen—sudden, unexpected relief.
She almost laughed.
“That’s ... very Matt,” she said.
“Indeed,” Shaq replied, a trace of dry humor creeping into his tone. “The language leaves a considerable amount of room for levity. Or interpretation.”
Pauline leaned back in her chair, the corner of her mouth lifting.
The Strat was Jake’s now. Unquestionably. No probate fight, no label interference, no endless legal wrangling over ownership. Just Matt’s blunt, profane directive: Do the right thing with the motherfucker.
She could already hear Jake’s voice in her head—quiet, steady, probably saying the same thing she was thinking: I’ve got this.
The relief hit harder than she expected.
Shaq continued, voice steady again.
“Another substantial bequest: the residence in Cabo San Lucas, along with one million dollars in liquid assets, goes to James Ramos.”
Pauline’s eyebrows rose. “Jimbo,” she said softly.
“Mr. Tisdale’s exact words were...” Shaq paused, clearly reading from the document. “‘Jimbo always loved getting Mexican gash down there and I want him to be able to live the rest of his fuckin’ life there scoring hairy pussy and be able to live good and shit.’”
Pauline closed her eyes again.
She could see Matt saying it—grinning across a bar table, raising a glass to Jim, the two of them laughing like teenagers while the rest of the world pretended not to hear.
Shaq cleared his throat again—smaller this time, like he was bracing himself.
“An additional bequest worth noting,” he said. “Owen Olson was added to the instrument only three months prior to Mr. Tisdale’s death.”
Pauline opened her eyes.
“GM,” she said quietly.
“Correct. Mr. Tisdale bequeathed Mr. Olson one million dollars, though it will actually cost the estate considerably more than that. Here are Matt’s specific instructions: ‘That’s how much the motherfucker gets after taxes and shit.’ In addition, Matt bequeathed to him a ... a personal item referred to as his ‘map of the world fuck books.’”
Pauline felt her eyebrows climb.
Shaq continued, voice dropping slightly, as if the words themselves tasted bad.
“It is, according to the description in the codicil, a United States road atlas and a world atlas, both of which are embedded with Polaroid photographs depicting women performing oral sex on Mr. Tisdale in every state and country he visited during his career. Mr. Tisdale’s instruction to Mr. Olson regarding the item is to ‘add to the motherfucker wherever life takes you.’”
Pauline heard the distaste in Shaq’s tone before he even said it.
“It makes me ill just to think about it,” Shaq added, flat and honest.
She didn’t disagree. But she smiled anyway.
Shaq pressed on.
“Mr. Tisdale’s final words on the matter, verbatim: ‘GM is a badass breaker. Never back down, motherfucker.’”
Pauline let out a slow breath.
She could picture Matt dictating that part—probably laughing, probably already half in the bag, proud as hell of the kid he’d watched grow from coffee bitch to GM to something like family.
Owen. A million dollars free and clear. A disgusting photo album. And Matt’s version of a benediction.
She rubbed her temple once.
“That’s ... thorough,” she said.
Shaq made a small sound—agreement, maybe discomfort.
“Indeed. There are a multitude of other bequests,” he continued, “in similar amounts to various people and organizations. We’ll go over those at the meeting tomorrow. They are numerous, but none rise to the level of the ones we’ve already discussed.”
Pauline nodded to herself, pen still resting against the legal pad. “Okay. Fair enough.”
“And then there are Matt’s music rights,” Shaq went on. “Currently, most of them remain with National Records, but a number of those copyrights and master-use rights will begin to expire in the coming years. Their ultimate disposition has been directed by Mr. Tisdale himself.”
Pauline sat up a fraction straighter. “What’s the direction?”
Shaq paused—long enough to signal reluctance.
“It’s ... complicated,” he said. “There are reversion clauses, terminations, potential recapture rights under copyright law, and specific instructions regarding future exploitation. We’ll dig into it at the meeting. It’s best reviewed with the full documentation in front of us.”
Pauline exhaled through her nose. She wasn’t surprised. Matt had always hated the idea of his songs being locked up forever in some corporate vault.
“That makes sense,” she said, burying her curiosity—it went reluctantly.
Shaq shifted papers on his end.
“The other major bequeathment,” he said, “is to Kimberly Kowalski. After all other specific items and amounts are deducted, she receives the residue of the estate. That includes the residence in San Juan Capistrano, all current royalty income streams from both National Records and KVA Records—both of which, as I’m sure you’re aware, are undergoing a significant surge due to Mr. Tisdale’s passing—and all funds in his accounts, along with any remaining personal property not otherwise designated.”
Pauline felt the corner of her mouth lift—slow, quiet, real.
She pictured Kim in the OC house, the one Matt had bought on a whim after a particularly good royalty check, the one with the deck overlooking the Pacific where they’d sit and drink and argue and fuck and laugh until the sun came up.
“He really did love her,” she said softly.
Shaq’s reply was measured, almost gentle.
“It would seem so.”
Jake stood in his office for a moment after the call ended, phone still warm in his hand, his thoughts half a state away. Then he put it in his pocket and went back out into the house.
The family room greeted him with chaos in stasis.
Cap was on top of the entertainment center. Not climbing. Not wobbling. Just there, balanced with eerie confidence, one hand braced against the wall like he’d planned this position in advance. Situation normal.
Sean met Jake as he stepped fully into the room.
“We’ve got a problem,” Sean said.
Jake blinked. “We always do. What flavor is this one?”
“All of the doorstops in the house have been disappearing.”
Jake frowned. “You mean the little boingy things at the bottom of the doors?”
Sean stared at him. “Yes. The doorstops.”
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